What The House Forgot

The Master of the House

The boy turned himself away, folding his legs carefully to his chest and sneering at the opposing ground. He didn't like the thought of John Watson right now. He didn't like the interest Sherlock took in him.
Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning along the couch so that his back could rest against the arm rest, his legs dangling to the floor in a noticeably uncomfortable angle. He seemed to want to have a better look at Victor, allowing himself the advantage of staring without turning his head.
"Victor, do you know what the rumors are with this house? Do you know why it immediately sparked my interest?" Sherlock wondered, his voice calm and careful, as if he didn't wish to alarm Victor any more than he had to.
"The disappearances?" Victor guessed. Sherlock shook his head carefully, chuckling as if he wished that were the case.
"No, it was the freedom. The history of it, hidden within these very walls."
"Freedom?" Victor muttered, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "Like what, religious freedom?"
"No no, something more taboo. Something unspoken of for the longest time. But for the majority of this house's existence, it's been able to hold what other structures couldn't."
Victor was quiet, watching as Sherlock's faced pulled into a regretful smile before dropping back down to his thoughtful stare. His eyes were towards the fireplace now, allowing his sharp jawbone to protrude from his skin, illuminated by the firelight.
"There have been rumors of a prostitute here, a man living unorthodoxly. The papers I found proved such a fact. In the fifties there was an arrest warrant for the very thing. But he wasn't the first. The rumors stretch back to the house's creator, a man who...who died violently. He built this house in the woods, back far enough not to attract attention from passerby. It was a mansion for his lover...a mansion for a man with the same intentions."
"The original creator?" Victor muttered, remembering the ancient deed that had once borne his name.
"Someone quite familiar," Sherlock chuckled. Victor blinked, realizing the connection to his name had been made earlier within his companion's head. But what did that mean? Were his ancestors wrapped up in some unholy scandal? Was this house built to hide secrets of the most volatile sort?
"They were free, you're saying? Free to...to live as they wanted to."
"More importantly, to love as they wanted to," Sherlock corrected. Victor's face plummeted into a deep shade of red, each one of his blood vessels straining to keep the horror from showing too obviously within his face. He tried to look away, figuring this was some trap set by Sherlock to get him to admit something. To react to something. Victor couldn't allow himself to move, lest he seem too obvious. Too suspicious.
"That's...that's very nice," Victor whispered.
"We both know I'm a man with similar needs," Sherlock muttered in response. "Hiding myself here would be much easier than hiding in plain sight."
"There's no need for you to hide," Victor insisted. "It's...it's quite legal now."
"Oh, but look how you turn away," Sherlock pointed out with a drawing whine. "Better that you never knew, so you might look me in the eyes again."
"I don't..." Victor caught himself, biting powerfully upon his tongue so that he couldn't spill the secrets he had been holding so suddenly. What sort of game was Sherlock playing? Was he trying to manipulate, trying to force out a confession that was terribly premature?
"You don't what?" Sherlock insisted.
"I don't find you...threatening," Victor admitted finally, allowing his head to drop towards the ground. Sherlock was right; he didn't dare look him in the eyes.
"That's a relief," Sherlock chuckled. Victor grimaced, knowing in his heart that this was the time to speak. The time to confess. When else would the opportunity present itself, when else would he get the chance to speak his mind? The confession would fit so properly within these lines of dialogue, the words felt so natural after such banter. His throat felt tight, as if the syllables were jostling for a spot within his throat. They were queued up, they were due. Nothing would pass through until they were in the air. No other words could be formed until Victor's true intentions were admitted.
"I actually...I actually think you're quite wonderful," Victor admitted quietly, biting down on his tongue as his face burned hotter than the fireplace. Sherlock's eyes widened, and though he smiled he dared not chuckle.
"That's a relief," Sherlock admitted. "I find you quite wonderful as well."
"Not in the same way," Victor protested. "You couldn't."
"What? What makes your definition so different from mine?" Sherlock challenged.
"Mine is not so easy as fascination," Victor admitted, nearly spiting the words now as they continued to push themselves out of his lips. "It's attraction."
"Well then," Sherlock chuckled, leaning even farther back upon the arm rest so as to stare at the ceiling and crack his spine gently against the firm base. "At least we have that in common."
"What?" Victor shot out immediately.
"Attraction," Sherlock chuckled, regaining his position and pulling himself closer to Victor along the couch, shamelessly breaking the distance between them as if he felt entitled to it. "Easier to entertain one's desires when they are shared."
"What sort of desires?" Victor whispered, partially terrified but equally excited. His breath had long since left him, all that was left was a feeling of empty shock.
"A desire for freedom, I should think. The same that has been leaking through these walls for years before. A master of house and his criminal lover. I should like to take my place in those roles, if you would be so brave to join me." Sherlock extended a hand, letting his hang gently where Victor's hand might join it, it he was so willing. The boy hesitated, staring for some time at the man he had been dreaming of for weeks now, staring and wondering if this was not some hallucination better left ignored. Was he going to wake up from this dream, the same one he had been living for some time now? Was he going to jolt awake in his bed, heavy with that same disappointment?
Victor clenched his lips around his teeth, straining as he allowed his hand to wander towards its proper place, falling gently within the curling fingers of its counterpart. So gently they fit together, so softly they collided. Sherlock smiled gently, though his teeth flashed like a wolf's bared fangs. As careful as he chose to be, he still appeared predatory.
It was Victor who leaned forward, foolishly thinking that all love confessions ended the same way. It was Victor who went in for the kiss, realizing only as the gap distanced that he didn't know the first thing about such a gesture. Thankfully, the boy was caught halfway. Sherlock's hand only clenched his harder, though his other hand cupped at Victor's jaw, keeping his head steady as their lips met in a quick yet passionate collision. Victor took to inhaling; he did not know any better method of showing his affection. He opened his mouth against Sherlock's sucking in air from the gaps between their skin, panicking as he attempted to steady himself against the slow rhythm of his counterpart.
Sherlock had experience, but he knew better than to use it. Instead of deepening the kiss, instead of launching Victor into a romance induced anxiety attack, instead he pulled away. He forfeited, no matter how far he was willing to go. The boy smiled gently, stroking his fingers across Victor's face for some time longer, allowing their skin to spark against each other until they had both gotten their fill. Victor smiled awkwardly, averting his eyes once again as if he couldn't stand to stare at the face that had previously been against him. Though he was satisfied. There were no words that could so easily describe how he felt. It was a dull fulfillment, as if he realized he had suddenly taken his proper place in the world. As if he realized, after all this time, that such things were unnecessarily stressed about. Destiny, it would seem, had played its proper part.