What The House Forgot

The Realization of a Reflection

John POV: Even though John knew he wouldn't be interrupted, he still locked the door to his bedroom to prepare for his mental breakdown. He made sure the curtains were closed, the lights were dimmed, perhaps he should even light a candle for dramatic effect. He knew it was coming; in fact it had been coming for a long while now, the slow churning of his emotions, the slow and predictable crashing of multiple conflicts that were beginning to build with energy. They were pushing against his stomach, pushing against his skull...his eyes felt as if they were growing too compressed, he felt as if he had to push them back into their sockets at regular intervals. His legs were beginning to grow numb, his hands clenched in random intervals. Suddenly his body was not his own, though who could possibly own it? Who could be taking over at this time?
The boy sat shakily within his borrowed chair, pulling it out so that he could stoop over his vanity and hold his face in his hands. John was too afraid to look at his reflection, at the moment he wondered what sort of person he would find staring back. There was a crawling in his skin, as if each of his cells was beginning to move, to conform, to construct an older version in the younger body which now sat stooped. It was as if the past John Watsons were coming to reclaim what was once theirs, a body they could possess to do their bidding, to follow their whims and their sins. To embody and reconstruct all the mistakes of the past.
John knew in his heart that he was attracted to Sherlock. Of course it was an impossible thing to avoid, especially when the other boy was trying his hardest to seduce him. How could anyone keep a straight mind when those eyes could be felt on the back of your head? When his fingers were dancing along your arm or leg when no one was looking, tucked under a table, around the back of a sofa. He was manipulating John for no speculative reason, as if he was inviting his inevitable fate. Was Sherlock just curious as to what would happen? Or was he so determined to push them all forward in the timeline, to speed up their process of love and loss so that they could start over again, easier this time, and perhaps better off?
It was one thing to admit an attraction, and another thing to act on it. The biggest moral debate within John's conflicted head was now the question of what to do, or rather how to do it. He was more upstanding than a common homewrecker, he held himself and his friends to a higher standard than that. Could he so simply destroy his best friend's relationship, Victor's first relationship? One which the boy obviously cherished, despite the red flags that were constantly flying in all directions? It seemed irrelevant if all parties considered the relationships inevitable, John could not so easily fall to the excuse of fate. Though...could he? Should he? His heart was squirming inside of his chest, with a rhythm picked up by the rest of his body, an adopted motion that made the boy begin squirming within the chair, his entire body beating and pulsing to the rhythm. He heaved heavy breaths, gritting his teeth and trying to steady his mind and heart. And yet it seemed as if his entire nervous system was betraying him, as if each one of his internal organs had decided to work for themselves, rather than for him.
John clenched his face, he squeezed the first of his tears out through the corners of his eyes, miserable and conflicted, he watched them plop upon the hardwood that had been bought across the seas. Could this be how it all ends? Was their friendship doomed from the start, only ticking along in America by luck, before the boy who would introduce hatred appeared? Was it really so different in England based on geography alone? Or was it Sherlock Holmes, a catalyst for resentment? Could John abandon all that he had cherished before he crossed the ocean, all for the romantic escapade that was doomed by centuries to lead to disaster?
He was again tempted to bring his eyes up to the mirror, but John still kept his head pushed down, forcing his fingers over his hair as if to ensure his eyes never had the chance to glance. He was beginning to realize that even if his face had remained the same there would surely be a different look behind his eyes. Even if he managed to regain his youth, his facial structure, and his hair color...behind such normalcy would be something completely different. He had changed since he came to England. He had adopted the pressures of his destiny; he had allowed an external influence into his life. He had allowed the house to infect him, to push a syringe of horrible thoughts into his veins and fester into something more familiar than blood. He had absorbed the influence, he had embodied the temptations. And now...and now all he wanted to do was act on them. All he wanted to do was get up from this desk chair and take Sherlock Holmes for his own.
John couldn't look at his reflection. He didn't want to acknowledge what he had allowed himself to become. He didn't want to realize that by now there was no turning back. His hazel eyes would never grow dormant again. The shadows in his complexion would never fade. He had allowed evil into his life. And evil, once invited in, never bothered to turn away. Not until it was satisfied, and even then it may never leave. The visible evil may just sink deeper, more permanently, until even the host may forget that it was there. They might forget until it resurfaces in a moment, in an instant, and that capability to do what is wrong resurfaces like a tidal wave against the modern morality. Could this infidelity be the beginning? Could this temptation be the last straw, leading not only to Victor's heartbreak, but also his murder?
John was about to look up, he was going to allow himself that small sense of relief that might come with recognizing himself all along. Perhaps it would be better to get it over with, to either confirm or deny that he recognized himself even after all this time. He might have tried it, had it not been for the footsteps in the hallway.
At first they were minimal, the slight treading of feet that could have belonged to any member of the Trevor family. The parents were always quiet and respectful, though their room was on the other side of the house, away from the opposing doors which held what ought to be their two sons. The only reason they would have any businesses on this side of the house would be to consult Victor, or to ask John if he needed anything before they went to bed. Even after all these weeks they were still determined to play host. And yet tonight it was past their usual hour of departure, the clock shown ten o'clock and surely the two parents were already fast asleep. Victor, then? Victor off to get a glass of water, or a snack to accompany him in his evening video games? It seemed a likely scenario. That is, until a voice accompanied the footfalls.
"Victor?" that hushed octave wondered, tapping ever so slightly upon the door across the hall. John's heart froze for a moment, staring down at his desk as his eyes widened, his heart swelled, and his body went perfectly numb. Why wouldn't it be Sherlock? Why shouldn't it be him?
The soft creaking of door hinges accompanied the response, the softest click of a door knob as it was yanked open by its single occupant, soon to be joined. "Come in, quietly," Victor insisted.
"Need we be so quiet?" Sherlock teased. "Are you hiding me again? Your parents are asleep."
"John's probably awake," Victor warned, dropping his voice so low that it was presumed impossible to overhear. And perhaps it was impossible. Perhaps that whisper wasn't making it through the walls without assistance, without the lingering hands of the house circling the syllables in its hands and pushing them through the plaster. John could hear as if his friend was speaking into a microphone, he could hear every tremble of his nervous voice.
"So afraid of him, are you?"
"He tried to kill me!" Victor defended.
"At least he didn't succeed," Sherlock reminded him.
"Oh...oh get inside. Come on," Victor snarled. There was the sharp scuff of a dragging foot, as if Sherlock had been caught by his collar and dragged viciously into the room. There was a scuffle, and a giggle from both parties. It was flirtatious. It was suggestive. John ground his teeth, miserable. Anxious. Jealous would be a more accurate term. The door across the hall snapped shut, loudly enough that even the parents downstairs might have heard. Everything else, thankfully, was silent. Either the walls had become thicker or the house's influence had faded. Either way, John was unable to hear what happened after the lovers vanished into their bedroom. And it was then that he finally worked up the nerve to look at himself in the mirror.
As expected, it wasn't him. Though, thankfully the mangled old man did not pretend to be him. Instead of forcing a mirror image, going through the motions to mimic, or to copy, the reflection in the mirror made its own motions, allowed itself to speak for itself. It didn't attempt to scare John by a crisis of identity, which in some strange way was a relief. Even if John had been this way before, and even if he was destined to turn into such a shriveled old thing, well at least he wasn't like that in the present. At least no one was pretending that they had merged in this moment.
The man who stared back at him was old, though perhaps not old enough to be one of the earliest incarnates. He seemed to have aged naturally, though whether he was alive for the process or not was still up for debate. His skin was pale and sickly, his eyes sunken into his skull as if pushed with someone else's thumb. His hair was thinning and bald on the top, and when he stretched his lips to speak his teeth were revealed to be blackened and unkempt, as if he had been rotting in a grave for the duration of his death. Despite his deathly expression, still he moved. He moved like a puppet learning to dance, as if each contraction of his muscles was a foreign concept, as if he had forgotten how to control the fine motor skills he possessed in life.
John, the younger John, was still able to see himself in the mirror. Around the back of the monster he could see his own expression, his bewilderment, but not an ounce of fear. He had been expecting this display, after all. The older man stared for a moment, his parched lips moving up and down as if he was relearning how to speak in a language that was understandable to the living. The watery eyes that were hidden away beneath rotting eyelids were fixated upon his new prey, though he was not aggressive, merely fascinated. Perhaps this was his first time speaking to another version of himself, a younger version.
"How is my daughter?" the mirror asked immediately, his voice wracking behind his teeth as if he was spitting out words which had been kept inside for all of these years. Perhaps the house had sent him with another goal in mind, though it would seem as if he was acting upon his own agenda.
"She's fine," John assured. "She's grown." Evidentially this version of John Watson was not so far away. If he was speaking of a daughter it could only be Rosie, and thus his death was only predating this conversation by seventeen years.
"Does she know?" The strange John wondered, whispering to himself as if he was too afraid to suggest all of the secrets that had the possibility of spilling. Whether the truth be about the house, or the affair, or even reincarnation, well the answer was always the same.
"Yes," John assured. The mirror contorted in agony, his face screwing up in concern.
"Does she hate me?"
"I don't know," John answered truthfully. "If she had...I'm sure she would have admitted it."
"That's...well that's better than nothing," the mirror breathed. When his breath exhaled the glass fogged, as if from the other side, as if he was actually trapped from behind the vanity, looking through a two way pane of glass. It was an eerie detail, a simple blur upon the picture that made their conversation ever so realistic.
"Did the house send you?" John wondered, staring into the strange reflection and watching as the man twitched and suffered on the other end, as if his body was contorting against him and trying to escape.
"Yes of course," the old man agreed. "It's your time for realization."
"I don't need to realize anything, I know..."
"No you don't." It was a shrewd interruption, the sort that someone would use with a child, the shutting down of any answer other than the one they were about to suggest. The tone was like a locked box, and every inkling of self-assurance John had beforehand was trapped inside, locked with the key that presumably hung around his neck.
"I'm sorry, but I don't like your attitude," John debated, pushing his lips into a frown to show his discontent in the matter. The older man laughed, shaking his head back and forth with an audible squeak from his neck, as if his skull wasn't fitted right onto his spine, creaking and rubbing every time the two tried to move in unison.
"There's things you can't read in those journals, John. Things that the house has to deliver by word of mouth," the old man reminded him. "You're caught, like a spider in a web, and you need a little push to untangle you. That, or the spider eats you early. If you prove to be no fun."
"Fine, then humor me," John grumbled, figuring there was no choice but to listen to this conversation. Listen, learn, and perhaps ignore when those shriveled lips were finally done flapping.
"You need to end this cycle once and for all. You need to end it neatly, cleanly. I don't want us to die again," the old man pointed out.
"Well it doesn't look like I have a choice, does it? It seems that one wrong step in any direction makes the house kill you. As if it didn't have a choice," John reminded him. "I've read the journal. I've seen that we've done everything right before."
"It's not about right and wrong. It's about Sherlock."
"Oh great, here we go. I suppose I'm supposed to seduce him, and then all the sudden the house will just crumble to dust? Its curses along with it?"
"More or less, yes," the old man agreed, his head nodding with a sound like the squeaking of a metal water pump, rusted and shrieking as it drew water from the depths.
"That's ridiculous," John spat.
"It's the truth! Why do you think we've died so often? Why do you think we're still here, playing the same ridiculous game? It's because we've never won. Not once, not ever!"
"Well then don't you think it's not our business? Just because some stupid old house thinks it's our destiny to have Sherlock, perhaps literal destiny has proved us wrong?" as John suggested the words his throat began to burn, the very syllables scraping across his lips as if his body was refusing to say them. The words weren't wrong, per say, for he was able to speak them with a considerable amount of dedication. It was the mere truth of the matter that depressed him, the idea that he never had a chance with the boy he was growing to love, so why bother in the first place? In the end, despite what the house might decide, Victor was bound to win.
"It's not about destiny, it's about dying," the old man declared. "It's about dying for good, and letting our souls finally rest! Can't you feel that exhaustion, that deep seated, festering exhaustion? Your very soul is aching to stop, to retire from piloting the same body for the last two hundred years!"
"Well perhaps my soul can take it up with that da*n house instead! Victor is my best friend, I can't just..."
"He's insufferable!" the older John insisted, his face growing visibly red despite the supposed lack of blood in his veins. "How dare you call that swine a friend?"
"Mistake in the algorithm, perhaps," John suggest with a snap. "But he's my best friend, and I won't just break his heart!"
"You can and you will. You know as well as I, it's a necessary loss. You love Sherlock Holmes. I know your soul better than anyone; I've lived with the very emotions you're now feeling! I tried to deny it, too. But it's interwoven into your very DNA; a love for Sherlock Holmes is more infectious than any disease we could have been infected with."
"I don't care what I feel, it's what Victor feels!"
"That's a ridiculous sentiment!"
"What's got you so convinced that hooking up with Sherlock will end this cycle? You did, didn't you? And yet you're here all the same, trapped in my bedroom mirror and looking as if you've been festering in your own misery for the past seventeen years."
"I...I had extreme circumstances," the man muttered. His brow tightened, his eyebrows knitting together in a ghastly pattern of concern. He was reminiscing about his own death, the one which remained unsolved, undiscovered, and unjustified. The man's body was missing, his story long untold. As far as the police knew his death was an unsolved murder, or perhaps even a disappearance. Though John knew the truth, as did Mary Watson. She was, after all, the one responsible for so thoroughly hiding the evidence of crime.
"How is your extreme circumstance any different from the other hundred or so that came before us? What made their situation so strange? It's patterns, isn't it? Patterns and repetitions. Victor loves Sherlock, I steal Sherlock, then we all die. Why do you insist that completing step two will prevent step three from happening?"
"Because it was never done right," the old man pointed out, though his voice admittedly wavered. He seemed unconfident in his own answer, as if he was just beginning to recollect his own thoughts, scanning them for what may or may not be the truth.
"And so you think stealing Sherlock out from under my best friend will be the right way to go about it?"
"You must try!"
"I don't think I'm going to count on the morality of a man who abandoned his family for a graduate student," John decided, pursing his lips and leaning back in his chair, suddenly realizing that he had the power to get up and walk away. If this conversation got any more ridiculous perhaps he would have to exercise that right, as a way of muting the man who thought his opinion was God's truth.
"I would do it again," the old man admitted. His voice rang with truth, as if he was so delighted to admit to his infidelity. As if he was so ready to discard his child and his wife for what would prove to be a one night stand followed by a double murder suicide. "He's worth it, John. And perhaps that's what you don't understand. You must be ignoring the love that you foster, as it becomes crippling as time goes on. It becomes unbearable. Undeniable. You feel the need to push it down until finally it fills the cavity you attempted to hide it in, it overflows into your heart, into your brain, into your soul. And with such passion, when that first touch finally presses upon you, when that first brush against his lips allows you to feel...to feel anything...it's worth it in the end. It's why we've died for the past two hundred years, and it's the reason we're willing to die again. For him."
"You're...you're mistaken," John insisted, biting upon his lip as he tried to force himself too think upon his response, rather than the comments being offered. He didn't want to listen too closely to the older man's words, lest he begin to recognize some of the characteristics emerging within himself.
"I'm not. There comes a moment, a moment when you can't think about anything but the man next to you. The man close to you. The man within arm's reach, just a fingertip away. And the only thing...the only thing standing in your way is who you now call your best friend."
"This is your life, John!" John exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at the reflection which now dared to laugh. "Your life, and your excuses! Your rationalization for abandoning your family, and everyone who loved you!"
"You don't need anyone else!" the reflection laughed again, this time with such a strained humor that his entire chest hunched inwards, "That's what you don't understand! He's your lover, your family, your best friend...anything he needs to be, he can be! He's worth casting them all away, he can fill the void in your life, he can be your life, if you allow it."
"You're insane," John whispered, ducking his head so that he stared again at the table, hiding his eyes from the reflection which grew ever more wild.