"What the h*ll was that?" Sherlock demanded, looking towards Victor before turning around completely to face Rosie, who was still leaning her calves against the bottommost bench.
"What was what? What did you do, shock him?" Victor demanded, approaching in a step that was intended to be intimidating. Instead he wobbled forward like a toddler, his knees hardly bending to his will as he waddled straight legged towards his shocked companion.
"Where was I?" John demanded, his voice weak and struggling as he tried to gasp in the breath that had been stolen from him. In their excitement with Sherlock, no one had recognized that John's lungs had been compressed in his fall, thus knocking all of the available breath from his body. For now the boy gasped, gathering as many words as he could without making sure they made sense.
"I'm sick of this," Rosie decided. "Sherlock, if you've been lacing that weed with something hallucinogenic I swear, I'll report you."
"I'm not hallucinating. John saw it too!"
"Saw what?" Victor whined, nearly stomping his feet in the grass like a toddler in order to call the needed attention to his question.
"A house," John announced, his breath finally retuning to conform into his normal octave. The boy sat up, rubbing the back of his head before letting his fingers drop down to his side, massaging over the spot where Sherlock had made contact. He winced, as if the flesh was still burning. Victor pursed his lips, looking between the two of them to see who would be caught in the lie first.
"A house?" he confirmed at last.
"The house," Sherlock agreed, running his finger though his curls before ducking his hand into his jacket for another smoke. Perhaps he was too sober for this, even after smoking a joint down to a nub just minutes before.
"I was here...I was here. And then I wasn't," John explained lamely. "I was in a house, and you were there but you weren't...you."
Sherlock blinked in response. He didn't seem to have any protests against his jumbled personification, almost as if he had seen something equally confusing in his own vision.
"I don't think we should think about that house anymore," Rosie suggested, jumping up on the bleachers for a height advantage over all of the boys in her presence. "That thing has been creeping me out since the moment we stepped onto the porch. It's been what...months? And still, still I can't get over it."
"I don't think we have a choice now," Sherlock admitted. "I've seen it in my dreams."
"But that's...that's normal," Victor offered weakly, nervously. "I've seen it too. It's just a particularly good dreamscape, that's all."
"It would be better burnt to the ground. That's what my mother says," Rosie reminded them. "There's a reason people go missing from that place. There's a reason it's still standing."
"I should like to go there," John insisted, pulling himself to his feet and brushing off the excess grass that hung onto his clothes. Sherlock was silent, staring contemplatively at the newcomer as he wiggled a newly lit joint between his teeth. His body was poised, his knee bent, his weight shifting back and forth as if in a rhythmic dance. Victor watched guilty, feeling as if he was obligated to look away at one point or another, as if he was supposed to be equally interested in all of his friends. And though, for all of their qualities, neither Rosie nor John could hold his attention for so long.
"I was in a bedroom," John admitted. "I've seen it before."
"Stop with this...this mysticism! I'm sick of all of you! I don't know if you're just trying to see who can creep each other out the best, trying to see who's the most macho of the group, but it's exhausting!" Rosie whined.
"I'm not lying!" John defended.
"It's too much coincidence," Victor decided at last, trying to draw Sherlock's eyes to him yet proving unsuccessful. Sherlock seemed fascinated with John; his eyes were trained upon the boy's face, staring intently as if trying to notice any shifting details he might have first overlooked.
"I don't think there's such a thing as coincidence," Sherlock admitted at last. "I think Rosie's right. The house is haunted. The house is cursed."
"We should stay away!" Rosie demanded.
"We should go back," Sherlock corrected. Victor's jaw dropped, though whatever protests he might have uttered were lost within the back of his throat, gurgling uselessly until he couldn't even remember how to form a syllable. It felt as if someone had grabbed his tongue, rending it useless in forming any words. He forgot how to say no, he forgot how to question if one was really crazy. The only word he seemed to remember, in fact the very word that was beginning to form without his consent, began to twist upon his tongue and spit out through his lips. Before Victor permitted it, before he even understood what he was agreeing to, his own voice betrayed him.
"Yes," said Victor's voice, much without his consent. Yes. 

John POV: John only felt safe to pull the key from his pocket when his bedroom door was closed, hearing the sounds of Victor's video games seeping through the crack under the door. It was around eleven o'clock at night, ending the first week of his vacation spent in the recesses of the English countryside. For some time John imagined that they would spend every bit of time together, that he wouldn't leave Victor's side for the entirety of the three months he was prepared to stay. And yet tonight was a prime example of the falsehood of that claim. If this was America, they might have made it longer at each other's side. Though England's influence on Victor had made him different, more reserved, and it was yet another night that John felt better to stay inside of his room, hiding in the dark, and hiding secrets.
John had taken to keeping the silver key on its own separate chain, one which could be draped around his neck if he ever felt excessively protective of it. He twisted it around the metal, observing and admiring the disproportionate weight allowed the key to spin with some momentum on its own accord. The rest of John's keys had been left in America; the keys to his car and his house were rendered useless by the ocean which now separated them. And yet this strange silver key, the one which very well may be to a child's lost jewelry box or something equally unimportant, seemed to be vital to the trip. John knew as soon as he planned to travel that he had to keep the small, silly thing on his person at all times. Perhaps there was a lock in England that required something so small, so invaluable.
For some reason, John felt that the key was his secret to keep. He knew that he was being kept out of things, he knew that Victor was keeping secrets with the direct intent to keep John removed from this strange conspiracy that he and his English friends were obsessed with. Something about this house, this strange house, which continually came up in conversation and sometimes in John's own mind. He had seen the house, that day when Sherlock first touched him, somehow the rugby fields had been transformed into a withering bedroom, one with red painted walls and an inviting mattress. Somehow Sherlock Holmes had shriveled into a bony, older version of himself, somewhere in his mid-thirties with a robe pulled over top of his exposed and sickly looking skin. It was a mirage, a strange promise of something that had already happened, or perhaps was still yet to come. John knew not to take it seriously. And yet the bedroom reminded him of the same dream which had delivered the silver key to his bedside table. That bedroom hosted a doorway he had stood in before. And ultimately, John recognized Sherlock Holmes from the original narrative.
The English boy bore a strange resemblance to what John's childhood nightmares created as the bleeding man. Sherlock Holmes seemed to fit into the correct mold of man, with a teenaged body that seemed destined to grow into something spectacular, something recognizable. His hair was quite the same, though the dying man in John's nightmares always had his forehead matted with blood, fingerprints across his skin as if someone had been there in his hour of death, caressing the sharp bone structures while they were still warm. Sherlock Holmes had the same face shape, he had the same lips. John didn't dare to examine him any farther, though he was sure that if Sherlock Holmes were to strip naked the rest of his body would fit to the character assigned in some of John's most terrifying nighttime ordeals. Not just the bleeding man, but the loving man. His spine may be of the same proportions, jutting out of a hunched back, his legs may be just as pale, his knees knobby, clenched across the waist of lover. It was a strange coincidence that Sherlock Holmes fit the profile. Or rather, it was a strange happening that Sherlock Holmes had infiltrated his dreams.
John didn't know what to make of either of Victor's friends. To be quite honest, he didn't know what to make of Victor anymore, either. Both Sherlock and Rosie fell into a category that would make them off limits to anyone in America. Sherlock's drug habits alone would force Mr. Watson to shoo him away from the house with the backend of a broom, swearing to shove it down his throat if he ever breathed a foul plume on his property. Rosie, similarly, radiated an air of rebellion that would be unacceptable to the traditional American home. They were outcasts in the colonies, though were they to be trusted here in England?
Personally, John held a strange regard for Rosie Watson. Perhaps her last name struck a chord within his heart, forcing him to accept her in whatever form she chose to take. Perhaps he felt some strange familiar tie to the girl, forcing him not only to appreciate her, but also to protect her. He wasn't sure what danger the four of them were in, though he had a strong inclination to back out for Rosie's sake alone. He didn't want her anywhere near the house again. He didn't want her meddling with the boys who may already live there. It would be impossible to exclude the ambitious girl from the narrative at this point, though with all of his strength John would dedicate himself to making sure she was not harmed in the process. He felt as if the four of them were standing upon a precipice, and there was only one harness to be had. Only one lifeline, which he would so greatly sacrifice to save a girl he had only just met. A girl who should mean nothing to him, by all logical standards.

But that was just it, wasn't it? There was no logic in this little town. It was as if John's plane had flown him not only across the ocean, but also upside down, landing upon a runway suspended in mystery and bedazzled with the unexplainable. This little college town seemed to be a cesspool for irregularities, where childhood nightmares took hold, where boys turned into men of dubious morals, and where John Watson found himself capable of appreciating a girl without wishing to marry her. A place where Victor Trevor sat alone in his room, instead of bothering what should be his best friend.  

John received a personal invitation from Rosie the following morning, a short little text which summoned him to her address without any specifications. Sitting at the breakfast table across from a very sleep deprived Victor; John ducked his phone under the table cloth to respond with some secrecy, pledging his arrival time without first consulting with his hosts about their plans for the day.
Victor's eyes were wide and rather wild, staring upon his American breakfast of bacon and eggs as if he hardly remembered what proper food was supposed to look like. He looked lost, lost as if he had expected to wake up in America.
"What were you up to last night?" John wondered, prodding at his eggs without eating them, just to keep on pace with Victor's neglect. He didn't want to rush the poor kid, especially when he looked as if he had just crawled from his own grave.
"I played Call of Duty," Victor admitted with a particular spite, as if even his tongue wished not to lie. John nodded, remembering hearing Victor's voice talking rather loudly across the hallway well into the early hours of morning. The sort of conversations that were fluid, not the snippets of commands that would be offered over a gaming headset.
"That's all?"
"That's all," Victor snapped. Still, he refused to eat. John began his own breakfast, now worried about his appointment with Rosie. Still an hour away, he figured if he didn't start to nibble at the corners of his toast he would never be able to walk out the door.
"You weren't talking to anyone?" John pressed, wishing that Victor would stop skirting around the truth. He didn't like to be lied to, especially when there seemed to be no logical reason for keeping secrets. Was this about that house, again?
"Just Sherlock," Victor admitted. "I called him. That's all."
"What did he have to say?" John wondered, to which Victor shuttered a bit deeper, retreating into his chair as he looked left and right across the table, wondering if his conversation might be overheard by his parents.
"John, you said that...you said that it didn't matter what...who... anyone took a liking to, right?" Victor whispered, his voice now so low that the steam rising from his breakfast was hardly disturbed by his words. John felt his entire body clench, his muscles restricting around the wooden chair so that he could fuse upon the frame, unmovable and unwilling to support his own bodyweight. He had expected a confession of this caliber, though he hadn't expected it so soon.
"Yes of course," John agreed rather heavily. Victor nodded quickly, averting his eyes and glowing as red as the bottle of ketchup perched beside him.
"Well...last night we were just talking, you know, and he mentioned that he was...well that he liked boys. His words, not mine. He said that he looks for certain qualities in his men, it was just a joke, you know, a joke that he's probably used around Rosie a million times but with me he's never...well he's never admitted to anything like that around me," Victor was hardly breathing at this point, it was as if the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving both boys starved of oxygen and helpless to do anything but gape.
"Alright," John muttered, finding this to be no surprise but still feeling the full effect of Victor's disbelief. Together they seemed to represent a certain subsection of amazement, a convoluted mix between shock, expectation, and hopefulness. Sherlock Holmes, in all of his beauty, would not be tempted by a woman. There would be no competition from the female race...
"Alright," Victor repeated, shell shocked and aghast. John blinked.
"What, that's it?" he insisted. Victor nodded his head, trembling from head to foot and still looking to be in the thick of a hefty confession. Despite his insistence, the boy remained quiet.
"That's it," Victor agreed at last. "I just wanted to make sure that you were okay with being around him if...if that's what he's into."
"That's not it, Victor don't just leave it there!" John growled, finally shoveling his mouthful of eggs in an attempt to force himself to quiet. He needed Victor time to contemplate the demand, time to recognize that it was the time for a full confession. The boy had drained of all color, his humiliation having shifted into something which more closely resembled fear.
"I'm not...what do you mean? That's...that's the whole of it," Victor persisted.
"You are white as a sheet, Victor, come on!"
"I don't know what you want me to say!" Victor whined, beating his hands against the dining room table so that all of the silverware began to rattle upon their plates. John was getting exasperated now, and for no good reason. All of the sudden he was enraged, angry about what he knew, angry about what he didn't know, and most of all, angry about what Victor continually tried to hide.
"Just admit it! You're in love with him!"
"John!" Victor wailed, clenching his hands against his ears and falling across his chair in protest. John jabbed a finger of accusation, noticing now how Victor's fear had given way to the sort of blushing school girl denial. He looked more capable of giggling with relief than crying of a false accusation, and by now Victor could hardly raise his eyes to meet his friend's gaze. Instead he took to wiggling in his chair, cradling himself within his own grasp as if to mimic the protective arms of his love interest.
"It's not a bad thing! It's not! I'm just sick of you pretending like it's not happening!"
"Nothing's happening!" Victor whined.
"Nothing yet!" John agreed.
"John you're being so pushy." Victor wailed, slapping his feet against the tile floor like a child throwing a tantrum. John sat back in his chair, classifying this morning as an early success. So it was true, wasn't it? There was no denial in his voice, no flat out condemning of the idea of love. The more Victor whined the more obvious he became, and in that moment John was perhaps more set upon the idea than if he had used any alternative of discovery. Even if he had caught Victor and Sherlock tangled in one of his childhood nightmare scenarios, John would still harbor doubts that this moment could not entertain. Victor had the chance to speak for himself; he had the chance to defend his stance. He kept his mouth shut; he chose to stare at his breakfast instead of his friend. He chose silence.
"It had to happen," John decided, finally finding his appetite restored as he set himself to attack a much more passive enemy, the bacon that sat untouched upon his plate. All the while Victor sat blubbering, still not a word from his mouth. Perhaps it was better this way, better to leave the conversation hanging in midair. Without a proper closure there could be time for Victor to ponder the situation, and if in a couple of minute's time he chose to defend himself then he would. If, however, he wished to leave the assumed truth as it was, then he would have to do nothing but keep silent about it for the rest of their trip. And that, in this scenario, was the much easier way to go about it. John did the heavy lifting for him. All Victor had to do was sit back, relax, and admire the weight which had been carried off of his shoulders by his much braver friend.