John's eyes were blinded, though he could feel the steps he was taking. He felt the hardwood switch to tile, and from tile he felt the rickety stairs as he settled his feet upon the first of many. His hands were gripping the shoulders of the boy in front of him, and behind him he could feel the fingers of Greg Lestrade digging nervously into his collarbone. They knew not where they were going, or why, though they had to follow. They had to go where they were summoned. Each stair came as a jolt, for John wasn't sure when the solid ground would arrive. He could feel the dampness of the basement; he could hear the echoing of each individual breath as it bounced off the untreated concrete. There was a shuffling at the beginning of the line, each one of Sherlock's feet as they dragged against the dust. He was struggling, though he wouldn't show it. The tightness of John's blindfold was beginning to irritate him, though he dare not reposition his hands to take it off. He was given an order, a direct order, and was going to obey. Suddenly his feet hit solid ground, shocking him back into reality as he slowly followed along with the line, now beginning to bend. He was instructed somewhere, placed with careful hands in a particular spot in the basement. Something about it felt confining, as if he was pressed up close to one of the plaster walls that had been installed in an almost maze like fashion. The hands which directed him fell slowly away, as if they were cherishing the time spent upon his shoulders. Despite this, he could still hear heavy breathing immediately in front of him. Someone was close, close enough that if John reached out he would be able to touch him. There was no speaking, though the sniffs and huffs of each of the boys were perfectly audible from their specified corners of the basement. No one knew why they were here, only that they were handed a blindfold and given their directions. Sherlock's orders were no longer suggestions, not anymore. All humanity had been drained from his limbs, wasted on cyanide, and before long he saw no beauty in the world, nor any friendship in each of his companions. While the punishment never came, John had been ready for it all the while. Perhaps this was it, a punishment shared among the whole fraternity? More shuffling was heard, more breathing. Someone was crying, though John couldn't guess who would be so weak hearted. That was an embarrassment, above all things. To cry in front of the man who made you. Sherlock had been dead three days, and since then there had been a dark shadow upon the fraternity. No one laughed, no one smiled, no one talked. And above all, no one left. Perhaps it was a suggestion planted directly in their minds, for even though their President spent his time brooding in the master bedroom, no one felt brave enough to leave him. It felt as though it would be direct defiance to step out into the real world, to abandon your brothers at this time of need. The house was a funeral parlor, set to become a slaughterhouse.
"My brothers." came Sherlock's raspy voice, ruined from the acid which had singed his throat. "Do not look at your President. Do not look at your brothers. Stare at the darkness I have made for you, and think on this for a moment." The room was silent, each brother waiting for a reasonable explanation for this almost ritualistic proceeding. Sooner or later the basement had to be revealed to them, right? They had to take off their blindfolds one way or another.
"Imagine how it is to die." Sherlock began again, his voice struggling just to hit the octaves he needed to be heard throughout the large, echoing basement. "Imagine how it is to suffer, and to pass along into the void, by the hands of someone you thought you could love. You boys are all but humans, doomed to suffer death only once, but to feel its full force all the same. Each one of you will find themselves at the same fate, at the same time, in the same moment in reoccurring history."
There came the short shuffles of the boys, now growing increasingly uncomfortable with their hands clenched at their backs, unable to see their speaker, unable to tell what was going on. This was their punishment; they simply needed to adhere to it. They needed to accept their folly, and move on.
"My brothers, I would have done anything for you. Each one of you was welcome to my aid, welcome to my hand! I would have cherished you, loved you. And for what? What gain did your lowly President have, when improving the lives he adored? Why would I stretch out my assistance to you all, a bunch of sad fraternity brothers on a forgotten campus? Why, out of all the dominions in the world, would I choose to rule over you all?" Sherlock's voice faded away, though returned in full force. "For loyalty! For love! For charity, above all! I loved each and every one of you; I would have made you kings! And you would have made me dirt. Food for worms, a short column in an obituary! You would have killed me, without making a show of it! By God, death should be a celebration, not some silly toast at dinner! Death should be...should be fireworks."
There was a soft creaking, metal on metal, as if a gear was being turned, or a handle forced. The room began to smell, faintly at first but then more strongly, that pungent, pale odor of gas. John sniffed the room, at first thinking it was candle smoke, though his fate was beginning to dawn on him the more his mind wandered. Suddenly he found the strength to defy, he found the mental power to tear his hands away from his side and rip off his blindfold. The room was dark, hardly lit but for a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. It was not the only thing hanging, for a body could be seen in the corner of the basement, illuminated just faintly by the light coming through from the outside world. A corpse, dancing with its own rigidity, its neck bent back on a rope and supporting the whole of its dangling weight. John could hardly restrain his gasp, though he forced his attention away. Sherlock could be seen quite visibly, standing in the middle of a circle he had created. Lined almost shoulder to shoulder were the boys of Sigma Eta, each blindfolded, standing like toy soldiers waiting for instruction. They were motionless, undoubtedly afraid...painstakingly loyal. And there was Sherlock, hunched over with the struggle of his own body weight, limbs barely supporting his clothing which seemed to have doubled in its size. His fingers were skeletal, his skin stretched so tight upon his face that his eyes were protruding widely from their sockets. His hair was disheveled, missing in clumps, his jaw hanging open as if broken. He truly had been through Hell and back, taking some of it with him along the way. John had sent that boy to his fate, John had secured his disintegration. Noticing his observer, Sherlock turned with a smile. John felt immobilized, though with a very different emotion. Sherlock's eyes no longer sparked excitement, nor mystery. They looked empty inside, perfectly expressionless. They caused fear, uncontrollable fear, and for a moment John felt as though he should put that blindfold back on, just to shield his eyes away from the monster he had created.
"I might've loved you, John." the boy croaked, his fingers still trembling upon the blue release valve of the furnace.
"I might've loved you, too." John managed in painful response.
"I might've managed." John said again. Sherlock just chuckled, a wheezing sound issuing from the back of his throat and sending him into a fit of coughs. He stumbled backwards, nearly falling over as his bent weight struggled to set, his lips stretched into a cracking, pitiful smile.
"Death should be a parade." He whispered at last. "How I wish I could go along."
"What do you mean?" John managed, looking at each one of the tame boys around him, each taking their position, each standing their ground. Sherlock said nothing; he merely retrieved a package of cigarettes from his pocket, pulling one of the sticks with one of his long, thin fingers. Almost spiderlike in his movements, he held the cigarette to his lips, sticking it between the gaps in his smile. He laughed again, shaking his head in regret.  Finally he pulled for his box of matches, twirling them within his fingers for a moment and shaking his head in regret. It wasn't long before John realized what was about to happen, it wasn't long before the smell of gas began to choke him, began to send his head buzzing. Though the effects of carbon monoxide were long term, and they didn't have time to die like that. It was much more abrupt, a chuckle, a spark...
"Sherlock!" was John's last struggling word, begging for mercy, begging for the lives of his friends. It was consumed, unheard, by a blinding white light.

Victor rushed from his office, chasing the fleeting glimpses of the girls as they danced down the stairwells and into the outside world. They were laughing those high pitched laughs, as if they were rejoicing in a joke only they understood, baiting him to come along in their adventures. They were leading towards the house, floating undisturbed through the rain as Victor slipped and slid throughout the mud, drenching himself and stumbling multiple times upon the marshy grass. From his lips he could hear screaming, though the campus was empty save for him and his accomplices, each one of those joyful girls as they seemed to multiply into a great horde, all making their way to the front door of Sigma Eta. Victor could hear his voice yelling in protest, trying to warn the girls of what awaited them within the walls. He knew their fates, each one of them sharing in the same state of madness. But they didn't listen, they never listened. The rain was coming down hard, in sheets upon the Professor's head, drenching his hair and sending waves of water down his eyebrows. He struggled on, running as if within a dream, fearing to miss it, fearing to see it, fearing that the day had finally come. He could hear voices urging him on, some with the voices of the girls, others with more gruff voices, deep and boyish as if from the fraternity brothers themselves. What they were pleading he could not determine, though he knew that he was not going to offer them the help they needed. It was a lost cause, utterly hopeless. It was destined to happen, today, yesterday, and the day after! It was destined to happen year, after year, after year. Who was he, if not each one of the centuries? Which Victor Trevor crawled through the mud of Stoke Moran, and which one was doomed to follow? Sigma Eta rose like a spire out of the ground, taller than a mountain, a monument not only to what had happened but what was about to happen. A building that should have been demolished, a building that would always stand. He found his strength to stand, stumbling up each one of the cement stairways as they led him to a closed door. Each one of the girls rushed through, laughing and singing as they passed straight through the wood without impact. Slowly their numbers diminished, until Victor was standing alone on the porch outside. He clutched to the handrail, thunder rolling over head, cars passing unseen, unheard....white light. He saw it as if a lightning bolt, though it was coming from the house, from each window was a great illuminance. Victor had to shield his eyes, wincing at the vibrancy, feeling it stinging within his pupils. Following immediately afterwards, a boom. Loud enough to shatter each one of the window panes, loud enough to send Victor tumbling onto the handrail and clutching for support, clutching for the stability he needed to stay standing. He couldn't scream, though he wanted to. He felt it now, as if a part of himself had been hacked away, as if a portion of his very soul had been consumed in the flames. He knew what had happened without the need of an explanation, he knew what was waiting for him on the other side. The house shook itself back to normal, the foundations settling, the windows breathing, the light fading. The rain washed away his fears, and as Victor forced his head back up to the world he saw that the door was swinging open, ajar, wishing for his entry. His feet moved without his consent, trekking him through the puddles and the shards of glass. He crunched his way to the doorway, settling his hand upon the golden knob which had always been locked. He had the power now, to push it aside. He had the power to return home.

"Sherlock?" Victor whispered upon stepping onto the soiled welcome mat. The house was cold, exactly how he had left it when he had last explored. Each detail was the same, untouched, with no mention of the activity which had been taking place just moments before. All the lights had been on; the house had been alive with motion, with people!  Where had they gone, all those years ago?
"Sherlock!" he called out again, this time scanning the room and expecting to see the boy materialize from the shadows. But no, the house was empty. Only his weight shifted the floorboards, and only his breathing disrupted the dead. Victor rushed to the basement stairs, flying down and chasing the light which was sputtering from within. The explosion had already happened; he was too late to stop it. The dust was still settling, the ash clearing, the sound echoing off the cement for seventy years and forty five seconds. There was the imprint of John Watson, stretched out in panic, and those of each one of his shadowy brothers. The rubble was just the same, the memories just as potent. Victor stepped through the ash, walking through where the bodies should be, stubbing the smoldering end of a cigarette with the toe of his wet shoe. It was then that he noticed a black shape, the only moving thing in the whole of Sigma Eta save for himself. Someone was floating...no, hanging, in the back of the basement. In the shadows where the light could not touch there was a body, a human silhouette supported by a thick rope. Victor stayed his ground, not bold enough to investigate. He knew what he would find; he knew what color eyes were staring lifelessly at the ground. A pang of regret nearly split his heart in half, though somehow he was able to remain standing.
"He wasn't supposed to be here." explained a soft voice, coming from near the end staircase. Victor knew the voice well, better than to turn around. He just continued to stare, feeling the need to step forward and help ease the struggling body of Reginald Musgrave from his taught, makeshift noose.
"In fact, he could have ruined everything. I don't like sharing, what's mine is mine, and mine alone. How difficult it was for me to watch the two of you, so excited on my living room couch." Sherlock added, strolling carefully to join Victor in the middle of the circle, the very place the furnace used to stand. All around them appeared the bodies, each one of the boys who were charred and burned, coupled now with the airborne corpse of Victor's long lost lover. He didn't want to pay attention to the boys; he didn't want to try to determine any details upon their charred faces. Though he knew who waited for him, one who had begged for his help on multiple occasions, never having received it.
"He was my friend. You might have let him live." Victor debated in a soft, nervous voice.
"We lose friends in the end, dearest." Sherlock reminded him, trailing his finger along Victor's shoulder and catching onto his jawbone with a firm, controlling grasp. Victor did nothing to stop him; he continued to stare; now focusing his attention to the floor immediately at his feet. He could feel the pressure of Sherlock's grip, though he didn't yield to it. All of the carnage around him was beginning to frighten him, though he felt safe within the grasp of the very artist. So long as Sherlock loved him, he would not come to harm.
"You've passed John Watson, I imagine? As per our original deal?" Sherlock presumed quietly.
"He's not going to receive his grade." Victor reminded him, figuring that John Watson and his algebra grade were both sinking into the cement as they spoke.
"No, no. But it's my word that counts, does it not?" Sherlock chuckled. Victor sighed, feeling as Sherlock's fingers began to trace the outline of his bottom lip. His skin tasted of smoke and nicotine, the leftovers from his gruesome act not decades before.
"Let's make another deal, Sherlock." Victor offered at last, turning to face the boy and bore his glance into the returning eyes. Sherlock was just as cheerful as ever, his youth unfading, his enthusiasm ever present. 
"What is it you wish for now?" Sherlock wondered in a chuckle.
"Another chance." Victor grumbled, shaking his head in agony. "Another chance to save them."
"So many chances, I'm starting to grow tired of it." Sherlock complained, shaking his head in some despair. Nevertheless, he seemed interested in what Victor had to offer in return.
"Play it again, try it again." Victor begged, allowing his eyes to melt within Sherlock's gaze. "One more time, certainly I'll get here quick enough."
"You say that every year, love. But you can't alter history, you can watch it over and over again, go with your role and say your lines...but what has happened will always be. Not even I can change that." Sherlock protested, wearing that cute little pout.
"And if I said please?" Victor wondered, as if that might turn the tides in his favor. That boy did love a helpless subject, he revealed in begging. A smile broke out onto Sherlock's beautiful face, his fingers caressing the sides of Victor's cheeks as if his attitude had suddenly shifted. He seemed more interested in the man between his fingers, as if the stubbornness of human beings never ceased to amaze him.
"Again, then, Professor." He agreed at last, leaning forward to press their lips together, leaning forward to punch the clock, to hit reset. A kiss was all it took, and Victor Trevor looked upon Stoke Moran for the first time. A kiss was all it took, and John Watson stepped within Sigma Eta, full of potential, full of life. Perhaps this time, the decades could collapse in the correct order. Perhaps this time it would be Victor Trevor who saved the lives, rather than Sherlock Holmes who wasted them. For they had all the time in the world, and all the patience in the world...and all the madness left to display. Time wore on, of course, for the rest of the world. Time continued in quite a linear fashion, for those not invested in salvation.

A/N: I'll just say that this is one of my favorite stories, hands down. Time loops and whacked timelines are just my favorite things to write! Every day I walked down past the abandoned frat house on my college campus, looking up and wondering, wondering, wondering what had happened there. It was abandoned, creepy, and empty, and I loved it. When the answer was actually super boring I decided to make up a past, and I actually modeled the entire college of Stoke Moran around my own. Hopefully I can start spreading rumors around my college that there was actually a psycho cult for an immortal minor god... I loved this story, I loved writing it, and I can't wait to write something similar in the future. Also shoutout to the Last Shadow Puppets for their song Miracle Aligner, the one song that helped my ideas click together and begin rolling. I'm going to attach a picture of the frat house on my campus, trusting of course that no one will go stalking hehe. Up next we have a teenlock fanfiction with a twist! Some humor and fluff to make up for all the confusion and angst I gave ya'll with this :) thanks so much for reading!