The Mad House

The Loss Of Lone Emotions

As John expected, he hadn't gotten a word out of Sherlock all night, expect for that goodnight that was almost mandatory. He had taken it upon himself to sleep on the floor, yet even after the last night they had spent, it seemed as though everything had changed. It seemed as though they could sleep on top of each other and nothing would happen, not now that Sherlock was stuck thinking about Victor twenty four seven. That electric spark had faded, or at least it had passed onto someone else. Sherlock didn't care about John anymore, he didn't find him attractive, or seductive, or even tempting in the least. Well of course that made sense, who would pick a stuff old professor, one who was married even, over a smoking French bad boy? Oh Victor had it all, didn't he? An artist, a smooth talker, the body of an Olympian and the face of a God. He looked almost as beautiful as the art he created, and to top it all off he gave the promise of treating everyone he loved like crap. Well it was perfect, wasn't it? The perfect bad boy, the type who had a motorcycle in high school. John felt as though he had lost whatever connection he had with Sherlock, in attempting to make their duo into a trio, they had severed the line completely and lost all contact with each other. John was on the other side of a large wall, so far from Sherlock now that it was as if they had never met, never kissed, at all. Oh it was impossible to think that not even twenty four hours ago, John had kissed that stupid boy. Not even twenty four hours they had woken in a hot sweat, their hearts racing and their minds going even faster. They had been hopelessly in love, both of them fighting against all odds just so that they might lust after each other for a bit longer. And now John was certain that Sherlock wouldn't look twice in his direction. Sherlock was seeing nothing but Victor, even with his eyes open John was sure his mind was constantly running his interactions with that dreamy boy over and over again in his mind. In the end John realized that there was no sense in feeling relieved when Victor was gone, there was no point to rejoice. His memory was enough to keep Sherlock distant; it was enough to keep Sherlock's heart beating a much different rhythm than John would appreciate. And so it wasn't too much of an annoyance when Victor materialized once more, standing on the curb and waving away the cab that had brought him, with a suitcase in one hand and a large frame wrapped in brown paper under his other arm. He was looking dapper, and ready for a travel. He was wearing a brown suit jacket, with a white tee shirt and a rather hideous patterned tie. He had sunglasses on his face and a cigarette was smoldering between his teeth, and on this crowded airport street even John had to admit that he looked dashing. Oh it was tragic, wasn't it? If John tried to wear such a hideous outfit he'd undoubtedly end up looking like a sad clown, whereas Victor looked as if he was runway ready. It was just his stature, his shape, and that determination that glowed from his very skin. He was so beautiful that he could do and wear just about anything; he was just...well it was difficult to find any physical imperfections. Now on the other hand, it was equally challenging to find any positive personality traits. That idea alone was enough to keep John from getting too excited, whereas Sherlock seemed to avoid such an obvious flaw. He seemed only too excited, radiant even, with the idea of Victor's reappearance. He seemed just about ready to run over and throw his arms around the man's neck, and yet he was laden down with so many of his bags that it was all he could do but quiver excitedly, lest he have to drop his makeup bag in the street.
"Looks as though you're ready to fly." John commented. Victor donned a great big smile, nodding his head excitedly and rolling his suitcase over to where the two of them were standing, next to the large doors that would admit them into the airport. Their flight left in just an hour and a half, yet still they were loitering around and saying their hellos.
"Yes well, I didn't know how long we'd be so I brought most all of it." Victor admitted, giving his suitcase a kick and chuckling a bit nervously. John didn't want to comment on how even his own bag was fuller, which perhaps gave them an idea of just how profitable the artist business was these days. If most all of Victor's things were in that little suitcase, well let's just say his standard of living had dropped drastically between lifetimes.
"I've got a present for you, John. I thought it was a nice token of my appreciation." Victor added, wiggling the frame under his arm.
"Oh well, that's very nice of you Victor." John muttered. "But this wasn't a single man operation."
"Don't worry, I've got a present for Sherlock too." Victor chuckled, nodding at Sherlock who turned an interesting shade of magenta, all in the span of a millisecond.
"Oh dear." Sherlock whispered, just loud enough that John was able to hear him over all the bustle of the crowds and busses that were unloading onto the sidewalk.
"We better get going then." John decided, looking a bit apprehensively towards the crowds and wondering how badly the security lines would be clogged.
"Good idea, John, take this would you?" Victor suggested, to which John sighed heavily and took the frame from under his arm.
"Should I open it now?" John wondered, not bothering to say thank you just yet.
"I've got no objections to that." Victor chuckled, now leaning both hands onto his suitcase and looking over at Sherlock with a grin. "Good morning." He added, to which Sherlock smiled a bit forcefully.
"Good morning Victor. Sleep well?" Sherlock asked anxiously.
"I slept wonderfully, and had wonderful dreams." Victor assured. John sighed heavily, looking between the two of them and wondering why they felt the need to do this now. And so he decided the best way to get them to stop flirting was to turn the attention to himself, and so he ripped open the brown paper and unearthed one of Victor's own paintings. Just as soon as John opened it he took one look and had enough decency to gasp, pushing some of the paper over top of the painting as a group of families passed by behind him. He didn't make out much of the details, but the positions the people depicted were in, coupled by the unnerving amount of flesh color depicted, was enough to confirm that this picture was certainly not appropriate for all eyes.
"Victor what the h*ll?" John growled. Victor merely began to laugh, looking over at John as it he had pulled the best prank imaginable.
"Oh come on now, it's one of my best works! Painted right after the house let me see that little encounter between Sherlock and you. I thought it might look great above your mantle at home...or even in your office! Didn't you say you were a professor?" Victor burst out into more laughter, clapping his hands together and looking about ready to cry.
"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked a bit nervously.
"Not for your eyes, obviously." John growled.
"Well if I'm in it I have every right to..."
"I'm not quite sure you'll still be a virgin afterwards." John warned, to which Sherlock gave a little noise of humiliation. Victor raised his eyebrows in interest, leaning heavier over his suitcase as his smile faded down a bit more.
"John, I didn't want him to know that." Sherlock protested in a tiny little voice, a whisper so soft that John could barely hear it himself.
"I'm sure he'll find out eventually, won't he? You won't have to say a word." John grumbled, trying to stick the paper back over top of the painting only to find that it wouldn't stay, there was no tape. He had torn that stupid paper to shreds, and now there was nothing to cover up the painting as he carried it through the airport. That must have been part two of Victor's little plan, wasn't it? Leave John with no choice but to carry this through the airport, at the risk of being looked at as some sort of pervert. As much as he'd love to throw it out surely that would be looked at as rude, and while John had no hesitations of looking rude to Victor, well of course Sherlock might take it as a personal insult. And so John had no choice but to clutch the thing to his hip, rearranging it so that all of the most obscene details were covered with his body, and he followed Victor and Sherlock on their way through the doors and to get their tickets.
"Victor, can't you take this back for a little while?" John complained as they approached the security checkpoint, where John just knew that this painting would be inspected. Victor merely chuckled, shrugging his shoulders as if that was impossible.
"Sorry John, no re-gifting." He warned. John groaned, looking towards Sherlock who only shook his head and gestured to all of the other things he was carrying. Oh John wished that he had the audacity to throw this thing away, and yet even though he was humiliated to be carrying it, he was also sort of protective of the thing already. Well of course it was horrible, and gifted only as a joke, and yet it still depicted a better time, it depicted John's only moment of happiness throughout the whole of his two lives. Perhaps it was an obscene thing, painted by the world's most detested hands, and yet it still held the magic that would fade away, if not captured on canvas. It held the passion between John and Sherlock, and that alone was not meant for the bins. Perhaps that was Victor's intentions all along, to trick John into throwing it out, almost as if he hoped that would send a message to Sherlock, as if John was trashing their love all together. Well that alone was enough for him to clutch onto the painting even tighter, and hold his head high as he made his way towards the security gates. Well as expected, just as soon as John forfeited his painting to the conveyer belt it was instead picked up and inspected, as it was too big to fit in one of the bins. The man who had picked it up gave a great gasp, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing, and looking over to John.
"Is this thing yours?" he asked in horror, looking towards the painting and looking back at John with his jaw positively dropped.
"He painted it." John whined in innocence, pointing over at Victor with a weak little finger.
"Pervert." The man muttered, poking apprehensively at the painting yet looking all together much too afraid to touch it much, as if some sort of disease would be passed from the paint and into his finger. With hesitation he pushed the painting aside, looking over at Sherlock as his eyes widened, evidently recognizing him, yet turning away with a shiver and trying to forget all that he had just seen. John recollected his luggage (and his hideous present) and before long found himself seated on a great big plane that would take them back home to England. Unfortunately he was sitting next to Victor and the window, and so he was forced to sit helplessly as he was left out of their most enthusiastic conversation about the house, and how beautiful it was. The way Victor talked, John might've thought he'd been the house before. The man knew every detail, almost more descriptively than John did. Victor could hold a conversation about any room in the house, which almost made John wonder if he had been granted visions, or if he simply contained all of his memories from his previous life. Well certainly the house didn't show him the rooms where nothing happened, the unimportant rooms like the basement, or the upstairs bathroom? Why was it that he could comment on the ancient boilers downstairs, and the sort of dark wood that was used on the frames on the third floor? It was interesting how knowledgeable he was, which when you remember he had once owned the house himself, wasn't as suspicious as it ought to be. Victor's arrival just reminded John that he was inferior in every way; he no longer had a claim over anything. He was merely holding onto these things until Victor returned, he had been trusted enough to care for such things as Sherlock and the house itself, but in the end he was nothing more than a steward, looking over a mighty kingdom until the true king returned. And oh, here he was now. This retched, all knowing, beautiful man. The one who was puffing on a cigarette in the middle of a flight, all the while the stewardesses ignored him because they were too afraid to remind him of the proper rules. Regardless of how much John hated this man, he had to be nice enough to coexist. Not only were their fates intertwined, but Victor had vital information about the ending of their original encounter, information John needed to know if he wanted to understand the whole of his many lives. That picture had left a very deep concern in his heart, for if they really were stuck in a never ending loop, well then one of his ends would be all of them. If his original demise had been met by his own hand, self-inflicted in that bathtub, well certainly that was why John was back? He wasn't meant to die that way, he wasn't meant to take his own life and fall prey to his own misery. Yet things were beginning to make sense, weren't they? Things were beginning to unfold just about the same way they had been all of those years ago, with the love and the loss, and the unescapable grip of a superior, coming to steal away his true love after all of these wasted attempts to reclaim him. There was that familiar agony, rooted deep into his chest, that sort of guilt that went along with allowing himself to love someone who would never love him back, sacrificing his marriage and his family on behalf of someone who might not even realize the calamity of it all. And yet, well John had lost nothing but his pride. Nothing but Sherlock. For his wife never found out, and his daughter would have a father for the rest of her life, no John's previous life had not fallen apart with his own change of interest and Victor's arrival, and yet his new one had fallen to shambles. He found himself aching with that guilt, along with that love, and that almost painful fire of hate. That despair that came from Victor's being here, that hatred for the man who had ruined it all. And perhaps the lack of punishment made it all hurt worse than it did. For what never was could never be mourned, not properly at least. How to you get over someone you were never with? This wasn't a breakup; it was simply a lost opportunity, and a flaming desire within his heart that was snuffed out before it could engulf anyone else. He wasn't able to share his feelings, he wasn't able to use them, they were just shoved away so meaninglessly. But he felt they were here for a reason, he felt that it would be even more painful than a rejection to just watch his own fire die away, to watch his own enthusiasm be replaced with jealously, and a sickening feeling of hopelessness. John felt the need to share his fire, if not with Sherlock then with someone, someone who would understand. No, surely not Victor. He wanted to tell someone who might...who might love him all the same. John sighed heavily, shaking his head in exasperation as he struggled with all of these meaningless emotions, all coming at him in waves only to be pulled out to sea. No love to act upon, no anger to be justified, and no resolution for them all. It was like being zapped by loose wires, only to go back to your day as if nothing had happened. Oh it was a hopeless situation, was it not? And as John looked over at his companions, Victor with his cigarette in his mouth and his hand on Sherlock's, Sherlock with his face as bright red as an apple and a smile trying to poke its way through his stiff embarrassed lips...well it was just jealousy that made him hate the scene. He knew that in the end his relationship with Sherlock would've gone nowhere, not when he had a child and a wife. If Victor was what made Sherlock happy, then why would John try to ruin that for him? Love wasn't supposed to be selfish, love was supposed to understand. Love was, among so many other things, the ability to put someone's needs before yours...even if they didn't need you anymore.  

When the plane landed John was able to wrestle that accursed picture from under his seat, nestling it under his arm and starting out of the airport to go and fetch his suitcase from the baggage claim. Sherlock and Victor tottered along behind, and John was quite sure they were holding hands from what he saw when he glanced behind his shoulder. He told himself not to be mad, he told himself that it was fine, this was what they wanted and he should just get over it. Over a decade ago Sherlock had chosen Victor over John, and it would seem as though nothing had changed too drastically since then. And so John had no choice but to push on, going through customs a bit sluggishly and finally arriving to pick up his bag. And yet when he left the security checkpoints, he found himself in a very sticky situation. In fact he doubted his luck could get any worse, considering the position he found himself in. Standing here with the two love birds behind him, this painting under his arm...and his wife and daughter standing before him.
"Oh god." John muttered just as soon as he noticed that telltale blonde hair, standing over near the doors with a great big sign which read Welcome Home John! in great big letters. John's stomach dropped, and yet part of him was relieved. Part of him was so glad to see his wife, someone who loved him, someone who would never stop loving him, even if she met a fancy French artist.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock wondered, tapping John on the shoulder as if to hurry him up through the baggage claim. He seemed especially eager to get to the house, and as soon as John started to drag his feet in hesitation he seemed to take that as a great inconvenience.
"It's um...it's my wife." John muttered, nodding over to where Mary was standing near the doors, with Rosie in a little stroller next to her.
"You told your wife to come get you?" Sherlock asked with a little chuckle.
"You're married?" Victor asked with some sort of chuckle, some sort of irony playing across his voice. Even though he had noticed the ring beforehand, perhaps he didn't dare make any assumptions.
"I told her I'd be back on Friday, I didn't...Victor take this stupid painting." John growled, shoving the portrait into Victor's hands (to which the man could not do anything but accept, considering he didn't want to drop his own masterpiece) and walking a bit swiftly over to where his wife was standing. To his regret, Sherlock and Victor followed, almost as if they didn't know what else to do with themselves. As if they felt obliged to bother John throughout even his private moments.