What The House Forgot

Ignited In Angst

 The door opened when Rosie's voice called out, and John turned rather pathetically to face his due punishment. The girl was staring at him in some disgust, staring upon the ghost of her father with the withered shell of her mother curled across his feet. It was a condemning situation to be in, a reunion for only the most twisted of familial narratives.
"What did you do to her?" Rosie demanded, swooping in with great stomping, her boots slamming against the hardwood floors and shaking all the little glass trinkets which sat upon the dressers.
"Nothing!" John insisted, stepping aside as the girl pushed through, collecting her moaning mother from the ground so she could reposition her properly in the bed. "I swear she just...just jumped."
"He doesn't believe me, Rosie," Mary complained, clinging to her daughter in a strange reversal of roles. The hand that was so strong across his wrist now sat weakly upon Rosie's shoulder, with fingers that didn't appear to have the strength to even flex.
"No one believes you, mom," Rosie complained.
"I'm not crazy," Mary whispered. Rosie hummed a silent agreement, though the pitch allowed for a margin of doubt. Perhaps Rosie was immune to her mother's ramblings after all, perhaps in these eighteen years she was determined enough to keep her common sense.
"I think you should go, John," Rosie declared, turning back to where her terrified new friend was standing. John swallowed hard, glancing past the girl's shoulder to catch her mother's eye again. This time Mary was grinning, a horrible smile pulled itself over her exposed teeth and sneered from behind the protection of her daughter. Was it a friendly gesture, distorted by her crippled state? Or was this a threat of some sort, a promise of things to come? John retreated a couple of steps towards the door, suddenly finding the room suffocating to stand in. It was as if he was suddenly competing for space, as if a hundred other people had appeared within another layer of reality, breathing his oxygen and jostling up to his chest.
"Yes, I think so," John agreed forcefully, choking on his words as his heels finally made it back into the hallway. The John Watson memorial hallway, which he only just realized was decorated in photos of a man who looked remarkably similar to his reflection in the mirror. Was this his house? Did he feel some spark of recognition while striding through the halls, some pang of guilt for abandoning his family after all? John knew the house, he knew where Rosie's crib would be, he knew where his own bedroom ought to be. He knew what his house was supposed to look like, and thus he knew exactly how to escape it in his moment of greatest need.
John didn't bother saying his farewells to his hosts, especially since he felt that he was leaving on bad terms once again. When was the last time he had escaped through this door with the intention of never coming back? 

Victor POV: Victor had noticed John's absence just as soon as the door had shut. He watched from his bedroom window as the boy snuck out quietly, easing the knob carefully within its latch so as to ensure the snap was not deafening to the occupants of the house. He was sneaking off somewhere, somewhere he knew he wasn't supposed to be. Meeting someone, perhaps? Meeting him?
The strain was too much for Victor to bear. He attempted to sit on his bed, though his thoughts descended into madness as he stared at the empty spot on his wall, the spot deprived of posters that might have at least struck a positive chord within his brain. Instead, the boy was plagued with nightmarish visions. He was reminded of the intensity that John spoke with these past couple of days, speaking of love as if it was something they had both begun to experiment with in these past couple of months. Was John not telling him something? Was he engaging in some sort of secret affair, one that he was too afraid to admit to? Was it with Rosie? With Sherlock? Victor's teeth clenched at the latter conclusion, and as soon as it came to mind so too did the vivid hallucinations. The visions behind his eyes, so clear that he was beginning to wonder if he had indeed seen such a scene, if somehow he had witness their affair in another life. Older bodies, more distinguished, wrapped aggressively around each other. The familiar form of his best friend, the writhing figure that he would love to see properly... Victor hesitated to admit that he had fallen in love. Though he was perfectly willing to admit that he was jealous. Fiercely jealous. So much so that he needed to take his mind off of it. So much so, that he just grabbed his car keys and began to drive.
For a while Victor had no destination in mind, at first he roamed the neighborhoods, passing by Sherlock's house once, then twice, just to make sure none of the windows were questionably foggy. He didn't allow himself to stop, nor to knock, on the off chance that his paranoia was beginning to get the best of him. He was trying to convince himself that he passed by twice merely by coincidence. That he took that U turn because that was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Eventually, Victor allowed his steering wheel to direct; he allowed his arms to make movements without his brain's surest intentions, following where his mind decided it wanted to go deep, deep in his unconsciousness. He sat back, zoned out, and followed muscle memory. He allowed his car to take him back home, even if this particular vehicle had never learned the way.
The jolting of the tires against the potholes suddenly shook Victor awake, his thoughts reclaiming the forefront of his mind as he woke within himself. He knew this driveway, he knew the trees, the distant stillness that rendered his body practically immobile. Victor's teeth began to clench, watching as the leaves on the trees hung perfectly still, and he began to wonder why his unconscious mind would lead him here. To this house, of all places. This mystery that was waiting to be solved. Was it easier to hide here, to go where no one would follow? What was he now, some sort of recluse, afraid to show his face to the world? A boy who liked boys. A boy who liked the idea of boys. A boy lost, lost within the world.