What The House Forgot

A Still Surface of Water

The mirror, for all its wit, was perfectly silent in response. Thankfully, John wasn't waiting for anything in return. In fact, everything had fit together so correctly in his mind that he no longer felt the need to discuss his plans. John's goal in life seemed to have changed; at least it had shifted from his born destiny of compliance into something much more legitimate. John had been born from the shell of a hundred different men, all bearing his face and name, all hoisting with them the glorious purpose of seducing a man for a single night and killing him within the week. They lived and died for the house, for making the house proud, for cooperating with its nefarious plots. John had the chance to be different, John was just that...an exception. His timeline was accelerated; his knowledge base was solid from the very beginning. He was born and raised to break this cycle, and break it he will. As the older Victor proved, there would be no end unless the end was initiated. If something went wrong with the order of events then the entire system could shut down, or at least stall to ensure the survivors a peaceful rest of their lives. The end would be triggered by John Watson, and without him, their lives would continue. Without John's cooperation Sherlock and Victor would be able to live, and without John Watson the house would have no choice but to accept that. The worst case scenario would be another generation born immediately after his death, though that would guarantee his friends at least fifteen or so years of peace, long enough to enjoy their lives after the house had attempted to taint them.
Without John's hand in the final event, there would be life. The cycle, as for now, would be broken. What better option was there, then, to kill himself? Not in the way the house wanted, not in the way he had done it before. Perhaps the next generation would be born without the marks of scars on their forearms; perhaps the next John Watson would awaken more peacefully. Once his mind had been made, John moved more quickly than ever before. He abandoned the corpse of the older Victor Trevor, a man who had made but one mistake of interfering. A meaningless man in the whole of it, only the first domino to fall in the house's anticipated cycle of events. Oh, but when had the house dealt with an unruly party? When had the house ever been told no? John understood that he had had to get outside before his previous soul could infest his body. It had happened twice before, once to kiss Sherlock and once to kill a man. Neither action was John's intended result, and thus the possession would be the one thing to interrupt his determined course of action.
The boy raced down the stairs, rushing through the foyer and slipping on bare feet in the puddle of blood which had finally pooled on the white marble. Victor Trevor must finally have drained, for the puddle was not advancing as quickly now. The foyer, in all its magnificence, was stained red. Perhaps that was exactly how the house intended, after all. Thankfully John made it through the front doors, bounding off of the porch and onto the gravel with his mind still perfectly intact. He would not choose the bathtub, though he would go out in a peaceful stream of bubbles. John had always loved ponds; he had always loved the ecosystem they harbored in their depths. He would have loved to go to school for biology, following in the footsteps of Rosie's father. What better way to study the pond than to be devoured by it? How better to understand the creatures who lived there than to feed them with his flesh? It was a morbid approach, though it was preferable to being absorbed into the foundations of that house. John knew that the bones of the rest of his species had gone missing; Rosie's father vanished where he lay. It wasn't just a suicide, it was a disappearance. Those who died in that house never had the chance to leave. He wouldn't settle himself in a warm bath; he wouldn't drag a knife through his forearms. No, John would breathe the water, he would fill his lungs, he would sink slowly to the bottom and render his murderous hands useless to anyone who wished to wield them.
The water was cold as he approached, his ankles splashing through the sudden resistance as John attempted to go deeper, deeper, into the inky abyss. The night was dark enough to hide the water, from this angle it appeared as if there was nothing but a void waiting for him after the shores of the pond, though as the water moved to accommodate him it began to morph into one solid unit, a helpful mass, a useful way to die. John's bare toes sunk deep into the mud, hitting upon sticks and rocks as he attempted to propel himself farther into the water, sinking knee deep, waist deep, chest deep. John intended to swim to where his feet could no longer touch, where he could not back out of his decision even if his irrational mind decided to save him. It was just as his neck was about to submerge when he felt resistance. It was as he was about to dunk his head when his wrists were caught by a noiseless predator, a ghostly image, and prevented from stepping any farther.
"You're a fool!" demanded a familiar voice, the same which emanated from his own mouth when he chose. And so it was not just mirrors, then, which could host his previous personas. Was it all reflections? John chose not to respond, instead he continued to forge forward, using the mere tips of his toes to dig into the mud and push determinedly forward. While the ghostly hands were strong, they only had the capabilities of being as forceful as their owner had grown to be. This John, this nineteenth century vagabond, certainly had no experience with exercise. He had no chance against the current generation, the soccer player, the athlete. John had trained nearly every day of his teenaged life, though he had never realized that he was training himself for the opportunity to end his own life.
John progressed forward at a glacial pace, ignoring the repeated protests from his previous self. The man had taken to wailing, screaming, thrashing his ghostly form throughout the water. He was doing whatever he might to prevent his only hope from being exterminated. Perhaps John really was the exception, or perhaps the old reflection didn't want to wait another twenty years to find out. The cycle had begun, the partners had been swapped, the cards had been dealt. But the end was not going to come. The end was not going to be at the hands of John Watson. The boy's head submerged after a mere minute of struggling, and John was able to open his eyes to the utter blackness. Perhaps it was a human urge to hold his breath, though John recognized the struggle he would have to go through in order to open his mouth and gasp the water as he originally intended. For the moment he kept his lungs full of oxygen, despite his ultimate goal. For a moment John merely stared into the darkness, blinking against the water pressure and recognizing the screaming reflection of his counterpart in the mirrored blackness before him. It was his very own face, distorted and ever fluid, protesting with all of his might. It was a ridiculous image, though an appreciated one. That man had no power over him, not anymore. John smiled. His lungs deflated slowly, his nose slowly released its stores. He wouldn't let himself stand, he wouldn't let himself swim. John opened his mouth, and despite his body's most basic instructions, he managed to take a gulp.