"What do we do now, Sherlock?" John wondered at last, tapping his joint against the rim of the bathtub and blinking away his steadily approaching high.
"I think in either short term or long term. John, you'll have to clarify," Sherlock chuckled.
"I mean, what do we do about the house? What, do we just wait around for me to kill you both? Do we wait for you and Victor to marry? Or do we forget about the whole thing, and decide we're sick of falling into this same cycle?"
"I'm not sure we have the power to choose," Sherlock decided. "Especially if we were opting for the latter!"
"I'm too young to kill anyone."
"And I'm too young to marry," Sherlock agreed with a groan.
"Do you get the sense that we shouldn't be here yet? That...that the house made some mistake, and summoned us too quickly? All of the others were older, late twenties, early thirties. Why now? Why teenagers?" John demanded.
"Perhaps it just wanted to see what would happen. Throw some more hormones into the mix, ooh, perhaps the tables would turn," Sherlock suggested. John shook his head quickly, but held his tongue. "Or perhaps it was worried that things would happen again, that you'd come around married. Some grow up faster than others, after all."
"Or maybe it knows something that we don't. Something that could make up for this acceleration. As if it knows we have higher breaking points, but it has countered that with the wickedest attempt in its history," John suggested. Sherlock sighed, pulling his legs around the bathtub rim and wrapping them haphazardly. Certainly his point of balance was off, though for the sake of moving he seemed content with staying strained upon the rim, using the whole of his torso in an attempt to fight gravity. He managed to sigh, managed to make it dramatic.
"Or perhaps the end result is not its goal all along," Sherlock suggested quietly. "Perhaps it doesn't wish for this cycle to repeat itself, it would rather have something else."
"That seems unlikely," John decided, "Why would it allow so many generations to make the same mistakes, so many generations to die the same way?"
"Failsafe," Sherlock suggested, shrugging his shoulders before wobbling dangerously upon the edge, finally shooting out a hand upon the tile before rearranging his legs for a more stable base.
"As if there's a trigger in each of our minds, ready to be activated if we're heading the wrong way?" John clarified, beginning to follow despite his reluctance to swallow any ideas wholly.
"Perhaps the players in the game were beginning to approach the wrong side of the field. And so, to avoid certain defeat, the house would rather..." Sherlock ended his statement by snapping his fingers, a gesture that might be presumed innocent had it not been coupled with such a display of words.
"So you're suggesting we just...find out what the house wants?" John suggested.
"Or figure out how to avoid it entirely. I'm exhausted of being at people's mercy, and it seems worse if I've been controlled by a pile of brick and mortar for the past two hundred odd years."
"Thwart the plan?" John clarified. Sherlock chuckled, tapping his fingers against his joint before pulling the thing from his lips. He puffed a large cloud of smoke, staring deeply into the formation of the cloud as if his answer would be lying somewhere within the density.
"No idea," he admitted. "Because I admit...not all of history should be rewritten."
"You can't pick and choose which parts of your destiny you want to play out," John debated, tapping his joint against the rim of the bathtub as aggressively as he could, not only to display the urgency of his point, but also to attempt to sever the thing so he could abandon it without looking rude.
"Says you!" Sherlock chuckled. "As of now you seem to be the most boring reincarnation of John Watson."
"Because I won't sleep with you?" John presumed.
"You said it...not me," Sherlock sighed. John frowned, wondering what on earth there was to do in this situation. Was it possible to be polite; was it necessary to even consider manners? Was Victor's sake even worth it at this point?
"I'm not trying to insult you, if that's how you consider this," John offered quickly. Sherlock's eyes flashed, though he seemed intrigued. He seemed willing to admit that his feelings were hurt, if only for the gratification of discussing what had been lingering on his mind.
"John, I know you're a good man. Likewise I hope you understand that I am not. You've been on my mind lately, seemingly by default. What's better to spice up your love life than the foil of the boy you've been entertaining for four abysmally boring weeks?"
"You're too bold," John demanded, shunning his glance away and trying not to consider what he had been thinking of these past few days as well. The dreams he had been having, the descriptions he was able to see. Sherlock Holmes at his most vulnerable, Sherlock Holmes at his most beautiful. But those dreams were the property of other John Watsons; those were the experiences that were manufactured for some other reincarnation, a man of worse moral upbringing. Even if they shared the same name, the same DNA, and the same history, well certainly nurture would be the only thing to divide them! With nature so surely alike, it was all John could do but rely on what his parents had taught him about being good, about being responsible. It seemed as if lesson one should have been taught from the moment of birth: don't sleep with your friend's boyfriend. This lesson might have been missed in the most basic principles, though it was implied by the ones which were most important. Could John avoid the same vices as his predecessors?
"And you, I suppose, are simply too stubborn." Sherlock rose to his feet, as if he had finally realized that his conversation was not enough to bring down John's stern defenses. The boy seemed admittedly disheartened, though he moved to the sink and ran the end of his joint under the steady stream of cold water, extinguishing the flame enough to be hidden in the depths of the trashcan where Mrs. Trevor would not find it. Perhaps he considered this battle lost, which indeed it was. For now. For today. For this very hour, until John could sort out what his brain was considering.
"Are you leaving?" John presumed.
"I think I should."
"Not a long visit."
"Not the best hospitality," Sherlock snapped back. Such hostility in his voice made John snap into attention, his chin rising as if pulled by marionette strings, his eyes narrowing in instinct. He rose to his feet, suddenly overwhelmed not just with the need to defend himself, but also to shoot back the same attitude that his guest seemed to insist upon.
"If this is how you treat everyone who tells you 'no' then you're worse than me, the supposed monster," John snarled. He stood as tall as he could, though the top of his head failed to compare to the stature of his opponent. The boy was seemingly offended, though John was only able to stare into his eyes through the reflection in the bathroom mirror. Sherlock had settled his hands upon the edge of the sink, his fingers curling to allow the nails to cut into the false marble.
"How can you blame me, with the temperament of a common whore?" Sherlock snarled.
"You're not a whore."
"Any more than you're not a killer."
"Perhaps I was, in the past. And perhaps you were just the same. But the difference between us is the acceptance of roles. I decided I didn't want to kill, and look! I haven't killed anyone yet! Though it seems you allowed the past to infect you, and you're waltzing around looking for sex as if that's the only thing that's ever mattered to you, when I know it's not," John snapped.
"How do you know it's not?"
"Because we've known each other a long time, Sherlock." John pursed his lips, though he mustered courage enough to settle his hand very carefully upon the shoulder of his counterpart. The boy trembled, seemingly madly, as if he had forgotten what an innocent touch felt like.
"I wish that were true," Sherlock grumbled, finally pushing himself off of the sink and shaking John's hand off of his shoulder. He turned towards the door, deliberately keeping his face shielded. Perhaps he was humiliated, in his own way. Embarrassed of what he'd tried to do, or perhaps of what he's become in the end. Either way, his dissatisfaction was enough to force him out, and so Sherlock gripped the handle, twisted the lock, and flung the door open in his dramatic, disappointed demeanor. How was he to know that his dramatic exit would have an audience? Worse still, how could he know it would have a consequence? Perhaps John really should have kissed the boy, if not to distract him for the next couple of minutes, any interruption of the timeline that would prevent John's eyes from meeting Victor's eyes, straight through the disheveled and hidden form of their mutual love interest.  

Victor POV: It was the childish hope that preyed upon him, the quick burst of excitement that made the disappointment all the sharper. When Sherlock Holmes appeared uninvited in his house, Victor had initially considered it the most delightful surprise. So he had been waiting for Victor to return, waiting as any good boyfriend should. It was this show of commitment that made Victor's heart soar, imagining Sherlock's dedication to their relationship, imagining how many hours he had to withstand the nag of his impatience all for the meeting, conversation, or cuddle that he had been waiting to have.
Though as with most initial impressions, this too had been wrong. It didn't seem appropriate to applaud the boy's patience, as it would seem he found other means of entertaining himself. For a moment Victor had forgotten that Sherlock couldn't stand a five minute car ride, much less a couple of hours alone in a house that was not his own. For a moment Victor had forgotten that there were other occupants of this house, some that would prove entertaining enough to wait with. Never had Victor been so disappointed to see his best friend. Never had he so detested those hazel eyes he now focused on, those eyes and their obvious display of fear.
"Victor! I thought you were out," Sherlock muttered, speaking with a coolness that only served to heighten Victor's suspicion more. How could he be so collected in a moment like this? For a moment Victor stammered for words, each one of them passing through his mind before falling flat. Nothing could describe what he felt; nothing could come close to serving as an appropriate response. How dare Sherlock attempt small talk, here when he was caught red handed?
"What were you doing with John?" Victor demanded, his words catching in his throat as his face paled to a sickly, concerning shade. For the moment he couldn't allow the blood for a proper blush, instead his veins were swelling with the preparation of a fight, his fists were clenching, his body was preparing. It would seem as if Victor was drawing all of his energy from his opponent, for the stronger he felt, the weaker John began to look. The boy was gaping like a lost fish, glancing erratically between each of his friends as his limbs trembled and his words failed him.
"Smoking," Sherlock admitted quickly, thoughtlessly, in such time that a lie could not have been generated so seamlessly. Victor's anger faltered for a moment, he allowed his nose to clarify Sherlock's story immediately. The strong scent of marijuana infected the hallway, streaming out from the bathroom like a cloud of steam from the running hot water.
"John doesn't smoke," Victor challenged.
"Not usually," John defended from behind, waving a weak little finger in his own defense. "Though we were bored. Sherlock doesn't play video games, so we figured..."
"I figured we ought to do something I was good at," Sherlock chuckled.
"And that is...?" Victor stammered, growing ever more reluctant to challenge. Ever more afraid of beginning an argument which was futile. They were together behind a locked door, though in such a situation there seemed to be two criminal possibilities, two things they might want to hide. One was weed, which seemed to be a common vice. The second was a supposed affair, which, without the marijuana defense, seemed only too likely.
"Getting high," Sherlock finished proudly. Victor's snarl turned into more of a concerned frown, though he glanced once more at John, who was nodded so quickly his head might very soon fall off.
"If you need, you can check John's eyes. The poor thing looks like he poured hot water into them," Sherlock chuckled. Victor didn't move, he felt rather ridiculous trying to verify away from the initial stance he had taken. He opened his mouth to speak, though in his anxiety nothing came out. Only a few stammered sounds, ones that might sound like noises of relief to anyone who was not accustomed to growing suspicion.
"What else did you suspect?" Sherlock wondered, leaning rather beautifully upon the door frame and folding his limbs loosely across his chest. Victor bit down on his tongue, trying to stifle the immediate response of 'cheating'.
"I...I was just surprised," Victor stammered rather helplessly.
"Don't be surprised to see me here, Victor. Don't be surprised that I wanted to see you," Sherlock insisted, his voice dropping into a most meaningful octave as he pushed himself off of the doorframe, closing the gap between them in an instant. Victor could do nothing but stammer as he felt a pair of hands capture his face, holding it steady as Sherlock pressed up close, intertwining their lips in a long, passionate, and public kiss.
It felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him, or perhaps sucked would be a better word for it. His mouth was completely engulfed by that of Sherlock Holmes, and it seemed all Victor could do but grasp upon the wrists of his boyfriend and try to play along. In an instant the euphoria would fade, certainly the reality of the situation would dawn upon him once more. And yet, for this moment, Victor chose to ignore where he was and who was watching. He chose to feel this kiss, feel Sherlock's love, and accept it as gospel. What other proof did he need, what other proof was there to have? He had a faithful companion, a boy who loved him. Certainly this kiss was the equivalent of such a promise. Certainly this was Sherlock's way of pledging himself, and erasing all doubt from their past and future.  

That night, Victor sat alone. He knew better than to knock on John's door, he knew better than to speak with him after such an embarrassing sequence of events the previous afternoon. Though, as eventful as his return home had been, his trip to the house seemed to be even more thought provoking. Even with the lingering taste of Sherlock's lips, Victor couldn't get his mind off of his conversation from the day. He had learned secrets that he dare not share, occurrences from the past which would very likely rip this small group of friends apart.
Victor carried with him the burden of the truth. He knew not only why he was here, but he knew how he ended up reborn in the first place, more specifically which events lead him to be seated here today, on the other side of the world from where he started. Reincarnation itself was a complicated process, something that shouldn't have been possible before it happened personally. Though the drama behind the kills, the juxtaposition between love affairs and moral breakdowns...such was the unfolding events of their predecessors. Such was the outcome they dare not have again.
It would seem as though the past held interesting arrangements, such relationships that could very well be stamped within a regenerated consciousness. Well of course, of course Victor would grow suspicious when he noticed Sherlock and John locked behind a room together. He had spent the morning listening to stories of their various affairs, listening to how the Sherlocks of the bygone age had decided to forsake their previous commitments and turn their attention to someone who, in their mind, was more entertaining. Was it possible that such betrayal could seep into their reality, that Sherlock could turn his back against the boy he chose, for better or for worse?
It was the old man's theory that the house had not only favored John Watson, but it was working actively to ensure that it had its way. In fact, this entire scheme, this reincarnation, this everlasting hamster wheel of life, had been set up entirely with the intentions of forcing Sherlock to pick John between the two of them. Well of course Victor could not swear that was a bad thing, for their two hundred year run perhaps meant that Sherlock had never been definitively sworn towards John Watson before. Though the house was a complicated enemy to have opposing him, a complicated bias that would undoubtedly skew more than just the laws of nature against him. Victor dared not believe that Sherlock Holmes, no matter how strange or flirtatious, would ever betray him in such a fashion. Perhaps his history betrayed him, perhaps he had been unfaithful in past lives, though who could say that was definitive proof of what his future looked like as well? Who could swear that Sherlock Holmes, as Victor knew him now, was not as dedicated to their relationship as he was?
The issue wasn't whether or not he knew how to process this information; in fact it was the opposite. It was the issue of sharing this information. The issue of revealing the truth to his friends, who so far seem to have been treating this house like a game, like a grand coincidence. Could they handle the truth about the house, about their past, if Victor was to burden them with it? Or worse...would they take it too seriously? Victor hung his chin in his fist, his eyes squinting into the dark mirror which hung above his dresser, staring into his reflection as if to read the moves behind his eyes, watching the way his pupils dilated so that he could gauge his next move, his next intention. Perhaps he would be doing John and Sherlock a favor by offering them the truth, it would certainly help them to understand why they were here and with what significance. Though it had to be considered, perhaps they shouldn't know? Perhaps they would decide that their pasts had to completely reflect their futures, and instead of trying to discredit their history of romance, they would try to solidify it? They would try to reinstate it?
There was danger in allowing the past to leak into the present, and on purely selfish terms Victor wondered if it would not be in his best interest to keep his mouth shut permanently. It might be better to let the boys live in the world of fairytales and coincidences, speaking on disappearances and strange happenings around that haunted house rather than their own connection to the impossible. Was it a terrible thing to do, a terrible secret to keep? No, certainly it was better they were left oblivious. Already Victor felt the truth gnawing at him, he felt as if he was carrying a ton of bricks upon his back, a load of secrets that were impossible for anyone else to comprehend. He had the advantage of a past, the advantage of a slip up, the advantage of a confidant. Victor now knew everything that was due to happen between him and Sherlock. He knew everything that was supposed to happen between Sherlock and John. And, perhaps most tragically, he knew what would happen between him and John. He knew how it ended. How it always ended. How it likely will end in the future.
At the moment, John didn't seem violent. Certainly he had a rough side to him, as all stocky kids do when they try to make their mark upon their high school. He was an athlete, an aggressive alpha male, the sort that liked to talk big game and beat up on smaller things, like milk cartons at the cafeteria and soccer balls on the field. He certainly wasn't the sort to take a gun to his best friend's head, no matter what the circumstances. Or at least...he hadn't been that sort.
Victor would be blind to deny the changes that had undergone them both since they arrived in England. The pair of friends they had been in the United States seemed to have shifted drastically, perhaps even for the worst. Perhaps it was something that came with change, a large change that had thrown them both out of what they were accustomed to and what they could handle. In America they only had each other, in America it felt as if it was the two of them against the rest of the world. And yet in England there were others. In England there seemed to be something larger than them, something more imposing. It was as if a dark cloud had settled over their youthful joy, some sort of deep seriousness had possessed them far more than any casual stage of puberty could manage. Victor couldn't remember laughing, not as hard as he had when they were in America. He couldn't remember the video games, the way they could get lost in deep conversations while their characters unloaded their shotguns into the bodies of the opposing team. He couldn't remember feeling comfortable around John Watson any longer. As if their gift of silence had been diminished between them, exhausted and replaced by a deep, unseated uncomfortableness.
Was this because of Sherlock? Was this because of the house? Was it because of their sudden knowledge, their sudden unsettled understanding of a larger destiny? Was Victor unable to trust his best friend now that he knew John had shot off his head in their last life time? Certainly there was some more rationale part of his mind, some part of him that was beginning to inch away from the boy who had proved troublesome in the past. This must have been his evolutionary leanings, his realization that for these two hundred years he had never gotten along with who was now his counterpart. Was that the house's first step? Breaking them up? With the survival of Victor Trevor from forty years ago it was now obvious that the house, however impressive, was able to make a mistake. What if their lifelong friendships was one of those exact mistakes? Was it supposed to be Victor here in England, and Sherlock growing up alongside John Watson in America? Had their love story been written from the beginning, but bungled at the very moment of execution? More importantly, was this a good omen or a curse? Was it a sign for better cooperation, or the promise of an even steeper downfall yet to come?
Victor knew John Watson. Or rather he had known him. The question now wasn't whether or not he should share information, it was whether or not he was confident with the information he had. With the trust he was supposed to be harboring in both of his century counterparts. Did he know Sherlock Holmes? Did he know John Watson? Enough to put his heart in one pair of hands and his life in the other?