The mirror, for all its wit, was perfectly silent in response. Thankfully, John wasn't waiting for anything in return. In fact, everything had fit together so correctly in his mind that he no longer felt the need to discuss his plans. John's goal in life seemed to have changed; at least it had shifted from his born destiny of compliance into something much more legitimate. John had been born from the shell of a hundred different men, all bearing his face and name, all hoisting with them the glorious purpose of seducing a man for a single night and killing him within the week. They lived and died for the house, for making the house proud, for cooperating with its nefarious plots. John had the chance to be different, John was just that...an exception. His timeline was accelerated; his knowledge base was solid from the very beginning. He was born and raised to break this cycle, and break it he will. As the older Victor proved, there would be no end unless the end was initiated. If something went wrong with the order of events then the entire system could shut down, or at least stall to ensure the survivors a peaceful rest of their lives. The end would be triggered by John Watson, and without him, their lives would continue. Without John's cooperation Sherlock and Victor would be able to live, and without John Watson the house would have no choice but to accept that. The worst case scenario would be another generation born immediately after his death, though that would guarantee his friends at least fifteen or so years of peace, long enough to enjoy their lives after the house had attempted to taint them.
Without John's hand in the final event, there would be life. The cycle, as for now, would be broken. What better option was there, then, to kill himself? Not in the way the house wanted, not in the way he had done it before. Perhaps the next generation would be born without the marks of scars on their forearms; perhaps the next John Watson would awaken more peacefully. Once his mind had been made, John moved more quickly than ever before. He abandoned the corpse of the older Victor Trevor, a man who had made but one mistake of interfering. A meaningless man in the whole of it, only the first domino to fall in the house's anticipated cycle of events. Oh, but when had the house dealt with an unruly party? When had the house ever been told no? John understood that he had had to get outside before his previous soul could infest his body. It had happened twice before, once to kiss Sherlock and once to kill a man. Neither action was John's intended result, and thus the possession would be the one thing to interrupt his determined course of action.
The boy raced down the stairs, rushing through the foyer and slipping on bare feet in the puddle of blood which had finally pooled on the white marble. Victor Trevor must finally have drained, for the puddle was not advancing as quickly now. The foyer, in all its magnificence, was stained red. Perhaps that was exactly how the house intended, after all. Thankfully John made it through the front doors, bounding off of the porch and onto the gravel with his mind still perfectly intact. He would not choose the bathtub, though he would go out in a peaceful stream of bubbles. John had always loved ponds; he had always loved the ecosystem they harbored in their depths. He would have loved to go to school for biology, following in the footsteps of Rosie's father. What better way to study the pond than to be devoured by it? How better to understand the creatures who lived there than to feed them with his flesh? It was a morbid approach, though it was preferable to being absorbed into the foundations of that house. John knew that the bones of the rest of his species had gone missing; Rosie's father vanished where he lay. It wasn't just a suicide, it was a disappearance. Those who died in that house never had the chance to leave. He wouldn't settle himself in a warm bath; he wouldn't drag a knife through his forearms. No, John would breathe the water, he would fill his lungs, he would sink slowly to the bottom and render his murderous hands useless to anyone who wished to wield them.
The water was cold as he approached, his ankles splashing through the sudden resistance as John attempted to go deeper, deeper, into the inky abyss. The night was dark enough to hide the water, from this angle it appeared as if there was nothing but a void waiting for him after the shores of the pond, though as the water moved to accommodate him it began to morph into one solid unit, a helpful mass, a useful way to die. John's bare toes sunk deep into the mud, hitting upon sticks and rocks as he attempted to propel himself farther into the water, sinking knee deep, waist deep, chest deep. John intended to swim to where his feet could no longer touch, where he could not back out of his decision even if his irrational mind decided to save him. It was just as his neck was about to submerge when he felt resistance. It was as he was about to dunk his head when his wrists were caught by a noiseless predator, a ghostly image, and prevented from stepping any farther.
"You're a fool!" demanded a familiar voice, the same which emanated from his own mouth when he chose. And so it was not just mirrors, then, which could host his previous personas. Was it all reflections? John chose not to respond, instead he continued to forge forward, using the mere tips of his toes to dig into the mud and push determinedly forward. While the ghostly hands were strong, they only had the capabilities of being as forceful as their owner had grown to be. This John, this nineteenth century vagabond, certainly had no experience with exercise. He had no chance against the current generation, the soccer player, the athlete. John had trained nearly every day of his teenaged life, though he had never realized that he was training himself for the opportunity to end his own life.
John progressed forward at a glacial pace, ignoring the repeated protests from his previous self. The man had taken to wailing, screaming, thrashing his ghostly form throughout the water. He was doing whatever he might to prevent his only hope from being exterminated. Perhaps John really was the exception, or perhaps the old reflection didn't want to wait another twenty years to find out. The cycle had begun, the partners had been swapped, the cards had been dealt. But the end was not going to come. The end was not going to be at the hands of John Watson. The boy's head submerged after a mere minute of struggling, and John was able to open his eyes to the utter blackness. Perhaps it was a human urge to hold his breath, though John recognized the struggle he would have to go through in order to open his mouth and gasp the water as he originally intended. For the moment he kept his lungs full of oxygen, despite his ultimate goal. For a moment John merely stared into the darkness, blinking against the water pressure and recognizing the screaming reflection of his counterpart in the mirrored blackness before him. It was his very own face, distorted and ever fluid, protesting with all of his might. It was a ridiculous image, though an appreciated one. That man had no power over him, not anymore. John smiled. His lungs deflated slowly, his nose slowly released its stores. He wouldn't let himself stand, he wouldn't let himself swim. John opened his mouth, and despite his body's most basic instructions, he managed to take a gulp. 

Victor POV: There was a screaming in his head, something so loud and urgent that Victor had no choice but to change his course. The car had nearly been to town when the headache erupted, a pain that took the sound of music, a hammering within his skull that can only be accredited to ancient vocalization. It was a migraine beyond belief, the feeling of a head invaded and full to bursting. Victor didn't like it, but he knew exactly what he had to do. He knew how to stop this suffering; he knew he had to turn the car around.
Sherlock was taking a more vocal approach in the back seat of the car, having spread out there in his bedsheet toga when the screaming had grown loud enough to render him helpless. He was wriggling in the back seat, his hands spread across his face with his fingers bared into his temples, eyes closed and mouth agape, seemingly absorbing the pain in low and constant moans, kicking his feet every so often with enough force to rattle the car door on its metal hinges. Victor had no choice but to drive, despite his wish to follow Sherlock's same pattern, as that sort of rolling and crying would prove useless. They had to get closer to the house, for the house was certainly the cause of their pain. Something was happening at the house, something urgent. The moment the old man's body had fallen limp a cycle had begun, something that, once started, could not so easily be prevented. Evidentially the pair was a part of this process; undoubtedly the house was calling them back to complete it once and for all. Their fates, at the moment, did not bode well. Victor understood that the only thing left in their cards was death at the hands of John Watson. And yet, compared to this infernal screeching, perhaps being torn apart by a pair of fingers was preferable.
"The pond..." Sherlock muttered quickly, thrashing in the backseat as the car approached the driveway. Victor could see the mailbox from the driver's seat; the lights were penetrating the four o'clock darkness and displaying the mark for their final turn. "He's in the pond!" Sherlock shrieked, both of his feet kicking in unison against the backseat window and prompting a sickening shatter.
"What do you mean by that?" Victor snarled.
"Go faster!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly sitting up in urgency, his pain apparently forgotten as his desperation only heightened. "He can't breathe, Victor! Victor, FASTER!"
"I'm driving as fast as I can!" Victor stuck his tongue back into his mouth, afraid as he hit the potholes at top speed that his lower jaw would sever the thing in half. The car rocked and jumped, its tires struggling in the depths of the puddles to yank the vehicle back onto the road. With every tire spin Sherlock grew more anxious, and by the time the house was within sight he was already trying to unlock his door, trying to flee into the night before the car had even stopped.
"What are you doing? What's the rush?" Victor exclaimed, screaming his own words just to be heard above the shouting within his head. Despite their proximity the yelling only intensified, making Sherlock's mad scramble all the more anxiety inducing. What had the house so upset? Why was their being here not enough?
"He's in...he's in the pond!" Sherlock cried again, finally yanking open his door and falling upon the driveway at top speed. This didn't seem to faze him, as the boy scrambled back to his feet and began dashing towards the water, the very pond that seemed to be the topic of interest. Victor hardly had time to stop the car before he watched the naked body of Sherlock Holmes dive head first into the water, disregarding the muddy banks or the water snakes that undoubtedly harbored within its depths.
"Sherlock!" Victor called in protest, scrambling through the driveway while the engine still ran, grabbing upon his head as he ran in an attempt to steady the constant beating of the house's demonic shrieks. It felt silly to join the boy in the water, though Victor felt he had no choice but to join in the endeavor. Sherlock moved like a man possessed, the ripples left by his ferocity were making waves upon the shore, and indeed the only evidence of his being in the pond at all were the quick emergence of either feet or his mouth, gaping air or signaling that he was diving much deeper than expected. Victor waded until his knees began to chill, the fabric of his pants beginning to cling to his cold skin as he hesitantly stood at the shore, wincing every time the mud began to move around his toes, seemingly with the claws of a crayfish or the slithering of a snake. The water, as beautiful as it was, was beginning to still. Sherlock had not emerged, nor any sign of him, for a suspiciously long time. As Victor hesitated upon the shore he began to wonder if he had just lost his lover to the depths, if Sherlock had decided to dive deeper than he could reasonably surface. A pang of fear erupted in Victor's heart, he quickly began to wade deeper, eventually abandoning the effort of walking for a quick and urgent swim.
While it was no use to call out Victor still tried, understanding that his words would not be heard by ears which were submerged in the depths. Once he dove under the surface, trying to keep his eyes open against the darkness to see if a floating boy could be discerned against the water. When nothing appeared Victor had no choice but to emerge, routinely gasping for breaths at a rate so frequent he began to worry ever more. Sherlock had been gone a long while, long enough for Victor to require at least four breaths. Had Sherlock reached his lung's capacity? Had he sunk to the bottom in a rescue mission for another, for an idea rather than a victim? Victor noticed then that the screaming in his head was gone. Whatever the urgent matter, it was being resolved. That, or it was too late.
It took thirty more seconds before the water began to writhe. A sickening time period before the boy finally emerged, alive but struggling as his lungs hastened to fill with surface air. Sherlock was hardly staying afloat, in fact only his head seemed to be able to surface, bobbling up and down in the water as if something was dragging him back to the bottom.
"Victor...help..." Sherlock's voice was weak and struggling, as if each syllable was yet another breath that he direly needed. It was only then that Victor understood what had happened. It was only when another head emerged, seemingly floating on its own accord, that Victor realized the exact direness of the situation. John.
Victor swam with all of his might, spitting water from his mouth and gasping for the necessary breaths as his limbs flailed upon the water, propelling him forward with such speed that he seemed to glide above the very surface. Victor approached the pair and grabbed for John's head, pulling it up and out of the water only to be met with a sickening stillness. The head was cold, lifeless, and motionless. Even as he yanked John's nose and mouth from the water the boy did not take a breath. His lips were blue and cold, his eyes open against the waterlogged night sky. There appeared to be no difference to John's body whether he was in the air or in the water, and even as his lips were exposed to the cold night air, his lungs did not inflate to feel it. He was stone still and motionless. Someone with less optimism would assume that he was dead.
Victor did the heavy lifting, as Sherlock was exhausted from his time at the bottom of the pond. The latter's hands were coated in muck and seaweed, his fingernails torn and his lungs wheezing with the effort of expelling the water he had inhaled. Despite this, he was alive, and Sherlock was allowed to sit back against the surface of the water, floating dismally as Victor hauled the body of their friend to the shoreline, swimming with all his might while dragging John Watson in his arms. The feat was more impressive than he immediately imagined, as he was unable to use his arms to propel himself forward, occupied only with clinging to the cold shoulder blades of his friend, seeking for handholds along the jutting bone structure which could be used to drag him farther through the water. Victor's legs ached with the effort of keeping them both afloat, yet one way or another John's body was hauled onto the mud. He was pitiful, lying there motionless with a pale color in his skin. Not a muscle twitched, and indeed his limbs looked swollen, as if he had ingested the water so rapidly that it burst through his lungs, flooding his internal workings and inflating him like a balloon. The blood of Victor Trevor which had previously been painted upon him had all but vanished from his body, save for the occasional speck under his fingernails or in the indents of his joints. If the water had done anything, it had cleansed him. It was an act of selfishness, or at least Victor could hope. John looked like an innocent boy as he lay sprawled, lifeless, upon the shore. He looked like something worth saving. And so Victor crouched in the water, kneeling deep into the mud as the waves caused by their desperation lapped against his legs. He arranged John against the shoreline and began his own version of CPR, the botched and desperate attempt at saving the life of his best friend.
Victor's fingers jammed hard against John's chest, pushing down with all of his might and heaving against the boy's rib cage. Once, twice, suddenly thirty pumps had passed without any cooperation from the body. John's lungs did not yet give way, his limbs showed no sign of motion. Victor plugged John's nose, diving upon the boy's face and pulling his mouth open for the breath of life. It was not a romantic moment, though Victor did have the quick and almost upsetting realization that their lips were meeting in such desperate circumstances. He encircled John's mouth with his own, heaving as much air as he could fit within his own lungs deep into the boy's body, attempting to supply the broken thing with enough oxygen to get itself working again. Enough to save the boy and his brain function. Yet there was no response.
The cycle repeated again, chest compressions, rescue breaths, the entire cycle as Victor had been taught somewhere within his life. Somewhere in an American classroom, undoubtedly with John by his side. Oh that fool, did he not understand that lesson? Did John not know that by now he should have woken up?
"Victor, is he alright?" Sherlock's voice was weak, but it was approaching. Victor didn't bother to answer, he merely repeated the process. Compressions, breaths, compressions, breaths. Motionless. Lifeless. Hopeless. By now Sherlock was at his side, the boy having waded up to his waist before collapsing into the mud, holding himself above the water with his elbows and slowly crawling towards the shoreline. His energy was drained, his own life force nearly faded. Victor had driven himself to desperation, he had forgotten his form, instead of hard compressions he had instead taken to pounding at John's chest, making a fist and slamming it repeatedly along his rib cage, now with the hope that he could break through and drain his lungs manually.
"John..." Sherlock whispered in an unfamiliar tone, his arms extending from the water and reaching for the hand which lay limp and lifeless upon the shore. "This isn't the time for destiny."
"Sherlock, do you know CPR?" Victor wondered anxiously, looking back at the decrepit form and lamenting that his knowledge was the only thing that may yet save John's life. Sherlock was in no state to bring life to another boy, he looked dangerously close to dying himself.

"John, you idiot!" Sherlock growled, lunging upon the hand and squeezing it between both of his own, squeezing with such a force that Victor heard knuckles cracking and shifting within. For a moment, he was terrified to recognize the urgency of love. After it passed, however, he was thankful to see that he would not be the only one mourning for his friend's loss. "Wake up, John!" Sherlock wailed. "WAKE UP!"