Present Day: John spent what felt like weeks on his computer, researching names, dates, even addresses that didn't do anything to help him with his mission. This ghost was being really needy, and he was just done with it. He had typed in 'Victor and Sherlock' so many times into his computer that he was sure it was permanently burned into the screen. But still, nothing came up. Unfortunately he didn't have the last names, which would really help narrow down the playing field. But of course this ghost had to be vague, and whoever had written those letters really didn't want to add last names. Then again, John could definitely understand why he would try to keep it secret. According to the websites he's visited, way back when being gay could land you in jail or on some correctional medication or something. John thought that was beyond morbid, but then again, people back then just didn't know what was really happening in their world. But then again, people twenty years from now will look back on 2015 and laugh about society and whatever advancements we hadn't discovered yet. John only closed his computer for dinner, called down by his mother and joining Harry in the hallway. She made no notice of him and he didn't say any sort of hello. They were siblings, they took the same holiday photo, had the same house, parents, family, but they might have well been strangers themselves.
"Hello dears." Mrs. Watson said cheerfully, setting down a large steaming bowl of chili in the middle of the table. It smelled delicious, and the addition of corn bread only made things better.
"Hi." John muttered. Harry was silent; obviously she still hadn't gotten over the fight. Even though she had found her suitcase she still hadn't run off, which John knew would be the ultimate outcome of her little rebellion. Sure, Harry was a free spirit, but the Watsons were the ones feeding her, keeping her warm, and making sure she gets the scary leather clothes she was so proud of. Ultimately no one questioned how the suitcase had ended up on the roof; everyone kind of accepted it for an odd occurrence, except for John. It was no coincidence that he had been begging Harry not to go, and then her suitcase went missing, so that she couldn't leave. It was almost like the ghost had it out for Harry, or was just trying to look after John. Was it possible that his guardian angel was the ghost of a gay guy? That would be pretty funny though, he had to admit.
"So, how was school?" Mrs. Watson asked, passing around the butter for the cornbread as she talked.
"It was fine. Caught up with some stupid history homework though." John sighed.
"What kind?" Mr. Watson asked curiously, loading chili up to brim of his bowl. Maybe his parents would know who these people are, considering they have been around a lot longer than John had, and besides, they probably did a lot more research about the house than John had, possibly they had stumbled across some news article or something?
"Oh, well, the teacher gives you two names, not even last names, that are relative to this town's history. Of course it's totally no fair to me since I just moved here." John sighed.
"Well maybe we could help." His mom offered.
"Okay. I've got Sherlock and Victor." He insisted.
"What kind of name is Sherlock?" Harry asked with a cruel laugh.
"I don't know, that's why I need help." John insisted. His parents were obviously deep in though, trying to see if either of those names meant anything to them.
"Well, they don't really ring any bells, but I'm sure you could research." Mrs. Watson decided.
"I've done my research." John complained. "Loads of it, no one seems to know them!"
"It'll be alright dear, just ask your teacher for a little nudge in the right direction." Mrs. Watson assured. John laughed at the idea of asking his crumby old history teacher for advice. He was sure that if he had to use his voice any more than he had to he'd die of lack of oxygen.
"Alright, I guess so." John sighed, poking at his chili with his spoon, suddenly not hungry. When he was finally able to get up to his room, John decided to put the laptop away and try to go through the letters once more, look for even the slightest clue. He searched the wooden box twice, trying to look for initials, engravings, even a company that made it, all to no conclusion. It was exactly what it was, an unmarked, boring wooden box. He had trouble processing that this same box which he held was probably held by someone, maybe twenty, maybe even a hundred years prior, someone probably around his age, someone who was in so love but also so scared. It was almost holy, like John should get down and worship this pathetic little box, a piece of history that would never be remembered. He opened the lid once more and the smell of old paper and ink met his nose as he pulled out a letter. After scanning it once there was nothing but very poetic text, from this Victor kid going on once more about his heart and how Sherlock completed it and how they couldn't be together but they would be anyway. It was kind of heartwarming, but also extremely sad. John would bet a lot of money that their relationship, in the end, didn't work out. Whatever Victor had previously been looking forward to must've broken them apart someway, because there were only about three months' worth of letters. If their relationship had lasted, John was sure there should be boxes of them. John scanned through at least five more letters before he felt his eyelids drooping. With a quick glance at the clock John was shocked to see how time flew when he was scanning ancient love letters. He very gently tucked the letters back into their envelops, neatly placed them back into the box, and shut it, stuffing the box under his bed where he hoped no one could find them. And with that he shut of his lamp, feeling a lot safer now that he knew this ghost might not be out to get him at all. Quite the contrary actually, he was hoping this spirit would make some sort of special appearance in his dreams, pass on a little bit more useful information, like last names and all of that stuff. That would make John's life and the ghost's afterlife a lot less painful.                                                                                             

        When John woke up he really wished there was another box waiting for in front of his closet door, or possibly a message carved into the door, telling him last names, middle names, addresses, and year of death. But there was nothing, his room was exactly how he had left it when he had fallen asleep, which was a little bit disappointing actually.
"John, get up!" cried the mother alarm, knocking on the door.
"I'm up!" he cried, pulling on his jeans and a tee shirt before rushing out the door. The smell of homemade pancakes wafted through the house and John's stomach rumbled in anticipation as he leapt down the stairs.
"Smells awesome, as usual." He decided. His mother was at the stove, flipping pancakes with a sleepy morning smile.
"Don't get your hopes up too much." She insisted, tipping pancakes onto his plate and putting out the syrup and butter on the table.
"I'm starving, I'll eat just about anything right now." He insisted.
"Even after all that dinner you ate?" she asked.
"It got digested, so I've got more room for more food." John assured.
"That's good, because I've got a lot of batter here." Mrs. Watson said with a smile. John ate a grand total of ten pancakes before he felt like he was going to explode, and when the time for him to leave was slowly approaching. Since he felt really full and miserable he decided to walk to school, adding another five minutes onto his arrival time really wouldn't kill him. So John set off down the road, feeling like he was dragging around a bowling ball in his stomach.By the time he got to the school John felt considerably better, but he was definitely done with the lack of scenery around here. In the city where he had grown up, there were so many things to look at you felt overwhelmed. So many different types of people, so many creepy hobos to try to ignore, stores and buildings advertising new merchandise. Here the only thing that changed was the weather. The corn fields remained the same, the orchards remained the same, the one hundred or so people all looked exactly like they had the previous day, and John was bored with them already. When he arrived at school there was the usual mob of people, all trying to get through the doors at once. John joined the crowd and was able to wiggle his way into the school, going to his locker feeling like he wanted to smash his head through the metal. Overall his morning was okay, but so started another miserable day wishing he were anywhere but trapped in this academic factory.
"John, hey!" Greg said. John's mood slightly lifted.
"Hi. Any luck on the names?" John asked.
"No, no luck on the names, but I've got something even better!" Greg insisted.
"Really? A picture?" John asked hopefully.
"No, a way to communicate with the ghost." He said excitedly.
"What do you mean?" John asked, expecting him to pull a Ouija board out of his backpack or some stupid ghost microphone. Instead, Greg simply stepped aside, where a small, pudgy boy with large, thick glasses was standing. His face was splashed with freckles, his brown hair slicked into an unattractive blob on top of his head, and two of his front teeth poked out from underneath his cracked lips.
"Hello." He said enthusiastically; spit flying through gaps in his multicolored braces.
"Hi..." John muttered, glancing to Greg to see if this was some type of joke.
"John, this is Henry, the school's ghost expert." Greg said, obviously trying to hold in his laughter as Henry extended a small, fat hand for a shake. John shook it very lightly, not wanting to touch this weird boy's sweaty palms more than he had to.
"I know all about the spirit world, how to communicate with them, how to see them, how to let them talk to you and even how to repel evil spirits!" he said excitedly, practically hopping up and down with his anticipation.
"That's great..." John muttered. A snort of laughter escaped Greg's mouth, but he turned it into a hasty cough. Henry didn't seem to notice however, he was kind of staring googly eyed at John, making him feel really uncomfortable.
"Well, um, I've got to go. We'll talk later I suppose." John decided, looking at his watch and realizing this silly boy was going to make him late for class.
"Come sit with us today in lunch, we'll talk things over." Greg decided.
"I certainly will!" he agreed, sounding thrilled to have the opportunity to sit with other people at lunch.
"You've got to be kidding me." John laughed as soon as they were out of earshot.
"I know, it's hilarious, I literally can't look at him without wanting to laugh, but he's the best shot we've got. If we want to actually communicate with this ghost, we're going to need someone who knows what they're doing." Greg insisted.
"So we're going to hire this little kid to talk to the ghost?" John asked.
"Pretty much." Greg agreed.
"How?" John asked.
"What do you mean how?" Greg asked.
"I mean, how are we going to get him to my house without telling the real story. And we'll probably have to operate in the darkness or something, that'll be complicated." John decided.
"We'll have a sleep over or something." Greg insisted.
"I'm not asking my parents if that raisin can sleep over." John decided.
"What are you going to do, sneak him through a window?" Greg asked.
"If it means avoiding Harry's taunts, then yes." John agreed.
"Come on John, this might be our only opportunity to actually see what this ghost is up to, what it wants." Greg insisted.
"We know what it wants, it wants it's dear old boyfriend back." John insisted. The two of them walked into the back of the classroom, having to momentarily cut off their conversation as to not look too much like they were following Henry's path of madness. Their conversation was permanently cut off though, when the teacher started talking, and god knows not to interrupt an old guy when he's trying to talk about history. John couldn't help consider what his parents had said about coming to his teacher for help, since that's what they were there for, right? Maybe this old man might even know who Victor and Sherlock were, possibly these were both big names that everyone over sixty in the town knew. But then again, as his teacher droned on and on, John decided that maybe he should consult Greg on the matter, so not as to make a complete fool out of himself. The worst thing that could possibly happen is the teacher to laugh in his face, or possibly ask him why he was so obsessed with two old janitors the school had years ago. That would just be great; these two people just dying of old age, sent to haunt teenage boys into wasting their lives on a pointless mystery. Then again, John had to admit, it was quite entertaining, feeling like he was on some mission sent from God or something. What if this Sherlock wasn't a ghost, but an angle, John's guardian angel, sent to him to give him more fun at this new town. When the class finally let out, Greg and John went their separate ways, each going to their own classes, John to English and Greg to science or something like that, John had never really bothered to find out. Mike joined him in the hallway and they made their ascent up to the classroom, books in hand, ready for more pointless discussions on symbolism and themes that simply weren't there.