What The House Forgot

The Master of The House Returns

"We can take my parents' car," Victor offered, forcing himself to flee from the bed and drape himself in whichever sweatshirt he could grab first. His feet were still bare as he forced the bedroom door open, scrambling down the darkened hallway into what could only be described as a silent house. It would seem as if the entire world had frozen, as if something had suspended the rest of the world in a tame and passive standstill. So long as the Trevor parents slept, there could be as many backwoods elders creeping along through their clean carpets. So long as their door remained shut, their ears unresponsive, Victor could take their car from the garage without fear of interception. There were forces at play here, forces beyond Victor's control, beyond Victor's consent. Was this night more serious than he had first imagined? Was the house's extended hand reaching to put dreams in his head, men his bedroom, and binders over his parents' eyes?
The two Victors raced into the garage, the younger taking the wheel while the older moved with a surprising dexterity, moving throughout the halls as if he was equally familiar with them. As if he, too, had spent the last year within their maze. Victor backed quickly out of the driveway, not caring who responded to a revving engine, or to the high beams shining into their windows at one in the morning. Oh, but who knows what time it really was? The clock on the dashboard did not change for the duration of the ride, and it would seem as if the entire world was devoid of that steady, synchronized ticking.
The ride was silent, though the younger Victor began to shiver, his hands shaking as they tried to grip the wheel, his muscles suddenly flexing and releasing, suddenly grotesquely aware that they were confined within a small metal space. For a strange moment victor had the desire to abandon the car all together, jumping from his driver's seat into the asphalt and running the rest of the way. For no logical reason he assumed his legs would be able to take him there much faster than the wheels of the car ever could.
"Victor...how long does the process take?" Victor asked at last, his breath catching in his throat as he moved to turn down the window, wishing for a breath of fresh air. The car was becoming hot, with the scents of every diminished air freshener leaking through their respective fabrics.
"Of sex?" the old man clarified.
"No...no! I meant the timeline. If this really is the second step, the one...the one that we've been afraid of...how long until the third?"
"Until you die?" the old man clarified. Victor swallowed hard, staring determinedly out the dark windshield in an attempt to ignore the very clarification. Of course this was what he wished to know, but hearing the words out loud made it sound entirely too real. How could one so casually talk about their death, in the way one might be counting down to Christmas on a calendar?
"It varies," the old man admitted at last, realizing that his younger counterpart did not wish to repeat the question. "In my time, they died of their illnesses. It took years. John was too weak to kill me in the end, although he might have tried. The last generation...it was weeks."
"Has it ever been days?"
"I don't know," Victor admitted quietly. "I've not seen them all."
"Is there no chance we could survive?" Victor asked, pounding his fist against the wheel to mark his frustration. "Just because we're all going against each other, well it doesn't mean that anyone has murderous intentions!"
"It's not your intentions that determine the situation," the old man reminded him. "It's what John feels. How far he'll go to defend what...what he may now consider to be his own."
"Sherlock's not his."
"Sherlock's nobody's property. I think that's the very concept that we've failed to grasp for these years. Sherlock's his own man." The old man's voice descended into a bleak octave, not so much for the subject matter, but instead for the turn that was approaching. The mailbox could be seen in the high beams, silhouetted through the fog in a blurred and indistinct shape, the sort that could old true to its intended form, though could also be the crouching figure of a man or beast, waiting to pounce upon the minivan approaching rapidly. Some part of Victor wanted to keep driving, to pass by the driveway and ignore this situation for some time longer. Though the more realistic side realized that this was a situation meant to be stopped, meant to be approached. If he had the chance to catch the lovers in the act, well then he would not be playing the fool any longer. Sherlock would not be able to lie to him, to convince him that nothing was happening, if Victor was able to see it with his own eyes. Sherlock, for all of his good qualities, had the tendency to lie. And worse, he had the tendency to do it successfully. There had to be no room for doubt in this situation. It was either happening or it wasn't. Sherlock Holmes was either loyal or he wasn't. This was the house's singular chance to prove its everlasting power. This was the chance to prove its power of repetition.
As Victor pulled the car into the driveway he had the opportunity to park the car right next to his own. It must have been sitting in the driveway for some time, as the fog had collected upon the windows and, considering his dearest best friend had neglected to roll them all the way up, had seemed to collect a fair amount of moisture on the interior leather seats. The fact that, after all this time, there was only one other car in the driveway gave some spark of hope. Powers or no powers, this house probably didn't have the ability to transport a boy half way across town. Sherlock's absent car was the first glimmer of hope that Victor needed as he ascended upon the porch. Perhaps this would turn out to be a misunderstanding after all, and John had only scampered away to spend time with that strange diary, or to play with the handgun that was promised to him when the time became right.
"Would you rather I stayed outside?" the old man wondered, the snap of his car door announcing his presence in the moment. It was embarrassingly a good reminder, as Victor had become so obsessed with the house that he had neglected to even acknowledge his confidant in the matter.
"Two is better than one, I imagine. Besides...you've gone through this before. You know how to handle it."
"I didn't handle it well," the old man reminded him. Victor's eyebrows creased, though after trying and failing to remember any notable story he instead turned his attention back to the porch, admiring the rotting wood as it collected the dark evening fog. The entire house ought to have been invisible in this deep of night, even the white paint was so pale and peeling that the frame seemed to vanish into the darkest shadows, the shade of the tree canopy enveloping the structure as if the leaves knew to protect its secrets. Tonight, however, Victor was able to make out every corner of the frame with needed precision. A candle had been lit in each of the window sills, small flames flickering upon their elegant wicks, some dangerously close to flittering curtains, one which would undoubtedly catch, had a certain presence willed them not to. This house, after all, was impossible to begin with. Hundreds of years of decay had not taken its due toll, why should a small flame be the very thing to take it down? Certainly there was a presence, an underlying consciousness in the house Victor now stood to obey. Something was controlling not only the men it brought back to life, but the very laws of nature themselves.
Victor pushed the door open, admiring the secrecy that was allowed as the ancient hinges refused to creak. All sound waves stopped short of his ears, as if they attempted their flight but were stopped midway by an impenetrable silence. There was a void, a black hole if you will, which had begun to cling to the walls and the tile floors. The stone statues stood witness was Victor stepped noiselessly onto the marble, his presence cueing what could only be described as a deep breath within the very foundations of the house. He knew his were not the first feet to ascend the staircase tonight. It was as if he could see the outlines of the sneakers, the footfalls that had scuffed against the elegant carpeting. Oh, but it couldn't be quiet. It couldn't be so simple as quiet. In a manner similar to the ringing of ears, Victor's head began to hum with a slow yet constant hum, the sort of octave uttered and held by a set of deep, capable vocal chords. The way that voice shuddered was like music to his ears, and yet it seemed to be coming from nowhere, infesting his head as if telepathically. It was Sherlock's voice, the sort of noise he made when he was deeply contemplative, taken as if from a soundtrack and stretched to fill this moment in time. This moment which might have been minutes, seconds, or even a hallucination in its own right. It was worse than silence, for it seemed to be a becoming. An unintentional call to the room where it would happen, has happened, and would happen again. Victor swallowed what fear he had, turning his nervous head to meet the gaze of his older companion, and continued across the landing of the staircase to the second, smaller set of steps. Within a moment he ascended to the second level, respectfully alone as the old man had waited his turn in the foyer. While Victor would have appreciated company, he also saw why this moment may best be started alone. It would not be a time for rationality; it would not be fit for a calm and informative voice. Hmmmm, Sherlock's lone and monotonous octave still rang clear in his ear, as if allowing Victor the advantage of his own contemplative techniques. It was perhaps Sherlock's form of forcing Victor to reconsider his decision of investigation. It forced him to wonder if it was worth it to barge in at all. Where there some things better left alone?
Victor had never been into the locked room, though he knew where it stood, and he knew what was supposed to be housed inside. It served a nefarious purpose, an ancient purpose, standing guard against the house's most precious possession. It kept Sherlock behind its locked doors, no merely the man, but the concept. The remnants of the soul. There was more than a bed inside, more than a mere history to serve the ages. It was a man, a treasure, a thing to be loved and admired, a force so strong and so passionate that it would take centuries to fully satisfy his time on earth. If this house was powered by a sentient being, and if that force really had chosen a thing to cherish, a thing to deliberately repeat, it would be the moments within this room. It would be the first touches between the master of the house and his esteemed guest, the first affairs of their wandering traveler. It would be the passion sparked by madness, the infatuation that seemed to multiply out of the very thing no one could ever have. It was an impossible ownership, the sort of desired possession that made every touch, every glance, and every mutual feeling a thing of treasured impossibility. It all had to count, behind that door. It all had to mean something, lest it be abandoned for a sinking sense of loss.
Victor mustered his courage. The room, his head, even Sherlock's long humming had fallen silent. He placed his hands upon the wood, allowing his palms to feel the vibrations against the stiff wood, feeling for anything which might be moving on the other side. The door itself was still, though Victor was not so gullible as to take that as a good sign. He knew better than to hope, especially when the evidence his senses were collecting was tainted at best. The house had a say in everything that occurred within these walls, Victor's heart wasn't allowed to beat without its saying so, even beams of light had to ask permission before passing through its murky windows.
The boy's fingers felt for the door handle, wrapping around the stinking brass, pressing his fingernails into the metal and whispering a silent prayer to himself, one which begged the house to keep his heart intact at the end of the night. Whatever he was about to see behind that door, he had to tell himself he was prepared for it. Whoever was there, whether it be his best friend, his boyfriend, or both...he had to expect the worst. Victor swallowed hard, allowing his exhausted eyes a blink of a break, and finally pushed forward. His wrist twisted, his toe kicked against the wooden frame, and in a single stride Victor walked into his worst nightmare.
He might have been expecting something more obvious, some neon sign that would announce the figures upon the bed before he forced his eyes to strain through the darkness, identifying which head belonged to which and where their bodies belonged in the tangle. It was one thing to witness it in a dream, or in a ghastly hallucination sparked by his own paranoia, though it was an entirely different experience to walk over top of John Watson's favorite tee shirt, followed by Sherlock's familiar ripped jeans, and stare down upon the couple who were strewn messily across the white sheets. It was an almost familiar sight, made all the more ghastly by how realistic it had become compared to what his brain had originally envisioned. In this scene, the one seemingly frozen in time, Victor was hardly able to determine which one of his friends was laying on top of the other. If he had not spent so much time huddled underneath Sherlock's bare bones he may not have recognized them for another split second or two, not at least until he could determine with some certainty that the matted, sweaty hair that decorated the skull of the closest boy was dark in color, hardly curled as it stuck through the fingers of the anxious, clenching palm of the other.
The two were locked into a position that was not entirely sexual. Indeed the two forms were naked, and yet they had taken the liberty of covering themselves with the white sheets, the very fabrics which had been left with such privacy in mind. In this snapshot in time, the pair seemed more fascinated, more intimate, than anything else. It was not an aggressive attraction, it was not the sort of frantic and animalistic love making that Victor had expected to witness behind this door. Instead they lingered with a sort of fascination, an intimacy marked with relief, with faces pressed together and noses squished against the other's skin. In this moment their eyes were open, locked in the most intense glance, as if they wished to see past the apparent cornea and straight into the soul of their lover. Their lips did not meet; instead their foreheads were the ones to collide, joining the rest of their bodies in a most permanent fusion. Their limbs were tangled, though in a beautiful sense. Only one of John's legs made it out of the sheets, bent around their bodies to frame their bodies' disturbances in the silk. His hands were wrapped around the head of his lover, drawing their skulls together with a gentle urgency, one which was not marked with lust, but instead with infatuation. They embraced as school children might, those who did not yet know how to love, those who instead chose to admire, as if they had been fitted with a prize.
In this singular moment, this frozen second of time which had been stilled for Victor's advantage, the boy felt nothing but stark jealousy. Though it was not a rotten feeling, not an aggressive one in the least. It was more of an aching feeling, the sort of realization that came with growing exhausted of fighting against fate. There was a sort of defeat that came with that picture, a realization that no matter how deeply he hoped, he passionately he fought, Victor would never surpass the love that had been waiting for Sherlock and John down the line. This moment, suspended in time, was the reason they were back. This moment of admiration...this was the very thing that gave the three the opportunity for eternal life.
It was not entirely anger; it was more a sad farewell to an emotion he had carried for a long while. It had been an eternal passenger within his chest, this unconditional love for a boy he must have made within his head. A love for someone who was not on that bed, nor had ever been in his arms. It would appear that Victor had been fooling himself this whole time, even after he discovered that the house, the world, and apparently the very function of time itself was also on the opposing team. Oh, what was a boy to do except regret? Love, as powerful a thing as it was, could dissipate in a sheer moment. A quick second of realization, in which reality takes over, common sense if finally flooded in, and what hope you thought you could hold onto for the rest of existence just slides...slides away.
Victor shuttered to see it, though he felt comfortable enough to linger a little longer. It would appear as if the two had been frozen, though the length of his wicked trick was not apparent. It could be seconds before John's eyes finally notice a figure lingering behind the head of his lover, any moment now the boy would be forced to scramble for cover, trying to think of any excuse to rationalize this whole affair. Could he get out of it? Could he deny it? If Victor had been any less distraught he may have happily accepted a lie. He would have liked to believe anything, though the truth, in its awful finality, had leaked into each pour of his skin. He could hardly breathe with the weight of it all, and yet in some strange sense it felt freeing. As if he was suddenly relieved of a large weight upon his shoulders, and finally....finally, he could lift his head once again. As wonderful as love was, doubt was an entirely different beast. Certainty, even in this terrible sense, seemed to be preferable to the constant guessing.
Victor leaned his hand against the bedpost, wrapping his fingers around the curved wood and deciding to stay just a little while longer. As awful as it may seem, there was some joy to be found in seeing his best friend so happy. Was that twisted in its own right? Was that perverted in a sense he did not recognize? Or was it just the culmination of many years sitting next to each other in class, sharing secrets that never seemed to suffice? Victor had lived to witness many of John Watson's romantic escapades, though tonight there was a look in his eyes that was virtually unparalleled. They had spoken a lot about destiny these past couple of months, though this seemed to be the first obvious display. This, this ghastly affair...it was meant to be. It was meant for someone else, yet it was lovely.
As Victor heaved a deep sigh he was surprised to hear it returned. A soft sigh, breathed as if into the lips of another. The first sign of motion, and the first move of life. A sudden fear penetrated deep within Victor's spine, as if someone had kicked him at the base of his back, nearly crippling him in the effort to go unnoticed. He didn't have time to dash for the door, nor did he want to degrade himself by crawling underneath the bed. Nevertheless, from the first word out of John Watson's mouth it would appear that Victor was not the one who felt he should hide. In this moment of mourning the boy had almost forgotten that he was not the criminal here, no instead he was acting as the force of the law.
"F*ck!" was John's word of choice, a loud and audible swear that was followed immediately by a desperate attempt to pull one of the bed's pillows overtop of his face. Perhaps he imagined he was not recognizable just by the leg that was hanging out from under the blankets, the short and stubby foot that was marked with the blisters and black toenails that came with being a lifelong soccer player. Victor straightened up, trying to ease his weight back upon his own two feet as he stared rather emptily upon the two boys. Sherlock, as classy as he was, still hadn't seemed to notice. Or perhaps he didn't seem to care. His lanky limbs were still spread across John's body, his fingers clinging to the face as it hid underneath the fresh white linens.
"Victor, you've grown better at sneaking," Sherlock muttered at last, folding himself off of John's chest and hanging his head backwards upon his neck, catching the most strained glimpse of eye contact before chuckling and straightening back into a human posture.
"And it seems you've gotten worse," Victor whispered, his voice strained with emotion yet strangely content, a hard baritone that was peppered with the voice cracks of hidden sobs.
"John's grown to be a champion. Would you ever know he was here?" Sherlock laughed again, grabbing at the pillow that was covering John's face and snatching it off of the boy's red, embarrassed face. For a moment John kept his eyes closed, as if forgetting about the scene would allow it to go away.