Victor set his things onto the couch, determined to adhere to one of the only rules the Professor had set for him tonight. He was to sleep on the couch, not the bed, and not to go ruffling through any drawers. He was to lock the door and water the plants, and be back to the hospital by nine o'clock tomorrow or the old man would supposedly call the police for squatting. Victor had to hope he was not serious, and only setting such rules for his own peace of mind. It would be no issue, anyway. Victor did not intend to stay for long, though he could hardly promise not to enjoy himself while the time lasted.
The boy didn't want to be nosey, nor did he feel any obligation to snoop around, though he realized that the bathroom must have been hidden behind the only other door in the apartment. The door that led to the bedroom. Certainly he had no choice but to push the door open, the cheap door handle popping out of the wall without the need for twisting. Stepping gently in, Victor reached for a light switch on the wall but instead smacked against an open closet full of clothes, his hand coming away soft and smelling like dryer sheets. With a small curse the boy reached for the shape of a lamp, pushing his fingers around under the shade until he found the switch. Illuminating the room, Victor was met with a twin sized bed placed rather ridiculously in the middle of the room, as if the man had offered himself some dignity by not having his bed pushed against the wall like a teenager. It was made tightly, in military correctness, though once more Victor had to hesitate, his grief suddenly overwhelming him as he recognized yet another sign that Professor Holmes expected no company. How long had he lived here, Victor wondered, and did such predisposed loneliness move into the house along with him? Did he purchase this tiny bed with the understanding that he would never find a man to share it, or did he switch out a large one during his stay, distraught with the constant reminder of the empty side?
The only other thing of value was the Professor's mirror, one which was propped against the wall upon a dresser and leaned at such an angle that the reflection was faulty, widening Victor's image as he approached. It was empty but for a single photograph, one that Victor recognized before he was close enough to distinguish anything but shapes upon the paper. The lamplight displayed it well, the original photograph, the one where the creases were evident and the paper was yellowed. The one which had been folded in a jacket, in a wallet, in a hand, the one which had seen the carnage of war and the blood of the operating table. The one which had made it from the fields of Germany to the mirror in an old college town, with its two occupants staring happily some fifty years ago, their smiles permanently captured for the sad admiration of a man long forgotten.
Victor knew better than the touch the thing, recognizing Professor Holmes's most prized possession when he saw it. The paper was so old he wondered how on earth it was standing up to the test of time, how it had not crumbled into dust throughout the duration of its travels. The photocopy in Professor Holmes's office must have been scanned when the picture was still relatively new, at least new enough to not have been stained and yellowed to the extent it currently sported. John's handsome face was still visible, his smile still as proud and confused as ever, his wife looking sweetly and excitedly at the camera. They were looking forward to their life ahead, whether that be war, be children, be domesticity. Whether that life include another man or not...both were still unsure. Victor swallowed back his tears, forcing the thought of the old Professor staring at this picture once a day, staring at his love and dressing for the day in utmost pain. Hobbling around the bedroom alone and broken, with the smiles of happy youths constantly reminding him of a past he did not allow himself to have.
Shuttering, Victor moved back to the living room, agreeing with himself to not enter into the bedroom again lest he was in danger of wetting himself. He could hardly bear the smile of John Watson, knowing what he did of the old man's dedicated love for him. He could hardly bear the smile, presuming that such a carefree young man could be dooming his lover to an eternity of unknowingness, of unworthiness. Were those hands, which were so lovingly clutching the woman's arm in the photograph, now wrinkled and handing letters back to the postman? Were those hands in their own grave, unbeknownst to the man who wished only for them to pen a response? Was John Watson a villain, was he a victim, or was he dead? Victor hated that he didn't know, and he hated even more that Sherlock Holmes would go to his grave without the very answer. He would go to his grave not knowing if he would find his lover in Heaven, not knowing if he would even be recognized should they ever have the chance to reconnect again.

The plants were along the windowsill, and in keeping with his promises Victor found the small plastic watering can and brought it along to the sink to fill. It would seem as though the plants were the man's only true company, as they were tended well and were arranged on tea saucers with lines of color which matched the flowers they were supposed to produce. It was an innocent enough pastime, and in trying not to be wildly depressed by everything he found in this house, Victor tried to take some joy in the carefully arranged plants balanced precariously on the windowsill. Filling each with water and watching it pool in the soil, the boy set down the watering can near the wall and crossed his arms with a sigh, wondering what time it had gotten to be. The sun had long since set, and his stomach was growling with the desperate want for food. Victor hadn't eaten a meal all day, having munched only on some of Professor Holmes's oyster crackers offered alongside of his tomato soup for lunch. There had been no strict rules against eating from his pantry, though Victor was almost nauseated by the thought of what he would find. At this point he was sure anything this man had left behind in his house would be a means for depression, and if he was met with a spoiled half gallon of milk and a single carton of eggs, Victor may all together perish. No, perhaps starvation was better than coming to grips with what was left in the old man's fridge.
Victor went to the kitchen table instead, finding a newspaper still folded in its plastic sleeve atop a pile of collected mail. Presumably the landlord had been kind enough to collect Professor Holmes's mail during his absence, as the newspaper was dated for today. Victor had grown bored of the novel he was reading, another hand-me-down from Reggie's old English classes, and instead decided he would keep up with the town's latest updates. When in the house of an elder he might as well act the part, and nothing felt more elderly than unfolding a newspaper instead of turning on the local news station. Grabbing the paper from the pile, Victor absentmindedly looked over the mail stacked underneath, spotting a couple of envelopes from the hospital, from the university, from various coupon books. And one...one that made him hesitate, one upon further inspection which turned the boy's stomach so drastically he almost vomited. One marked with that big red stamp, the same he had been introduced to before. Return to sender.
It was all too much, too much to see John Watson's name once again spelled out so lovingly, with the penmanship of that precise yet trembling hand. It was too much to see the stamp stuck crooked in the corner, a small scene of a National Park, now covered partially with the postmaster's ruthless mark of rejection. It was too much to see the address of Sherlock Holmes listed on the opposing corner, the address which now held Victor himself, the address that marked nothing more remarkable than a rundown apartment, struggling under the weight of the top floor, one which smelled like takeout food and dryer sheets and pain relieving creams. One which was musty and unkempt, one which held a single bed and a single chair, one which was retrofitted with a ramp so meager it may well crumble the next time its occupant tried his weight. A house which was supposed to be temporary, but was now holding the decaying body of a man who was abandoned. He could not handle it, at least not sober.
Victor wanted to be a good houseguest, and so when digging the shoebox out of his car he decided to take his rolled joint on the opposing side of the garage, sat between the shrubs and the decaying wood as he inhaled as much marijuana into his lungs as they could handle in a single breath. He tried to smoke the thing into a nub in record time, knowing he could not go back into that house without a screen over his eyes and a film collecting in his brain, something that could block out the depression that clung to the walls like an uninvited guest. He did not want to think about Sherlock Holmes any longer, in fact his stomach twisted just thinking about rejoining the man at his bedside. He had waded too deep, hadn't he? Victor had stuck his toes in the water when he stepped into the man's office for the first time, was sucked knee deep upon reading the letter, and had sunken to his waist with his own confession. But now? Now his chest was engulfed, and up before long his head would be submerged, and the knowledge of Sherlock Holmes's life would suddenly drown him, forcing its way up his nostrils and killing him. He would follow that old man to the grave if he dared get too attached to his livelihood, if he dared begin to blur the lines between himself and the Professor he had grown familiar with. It was a fate he could not share, a future he should not follow, and a warning sign if ever he had seen one. A prediction, if he did not change his ways before long. 

The air was freezing, though the external stimuli were most appreciated. It was good to feel something that was not imagined in his head, something that could be universal no matter whose driveway he was hiding within. He tried to think of it as the same chill he would feel with Reginald, the same he would feel when he stuck his face outside of their shared dorm window, long enough against the winter winds just to blow the lungful of smoke seamlessly into the night sky. He tried to imagine he was anywhere else but here, and in doing so wondered if he had really fallen so far. Was he so disgusted with where he sat? Was he so troubled by his current state of life that he would take steps to avoid it? Had he committed himself to a life of impossibility, cursed himself to watch his only true companion die within the week? Victor watched the ember at the end of the joint, hoping to find the answer as it glowed with his inhales. He watched the ember and wondered if his past self would be in anyway proud of himself, where he sat now. A part of Sherlock Holmes's life whether he wanted to be or not. A part of the worst times in the professor's life, overlapping it would seem with the worst times of his. 

Only after he had finished his joint and stared at the stars did Victor feel prepared to reenter the house, this time with the firm stipulation to himself that he could not overthink what he saw. He could not place exactly why the house depressed him; he could not find the reasoning as to why common household objects were draining so heavily on his soul. Was it because they suddenly had meaning, meaning so much to a man who had so little? Or perhaps it was the reminders that Sherlock Holmes was lonely, old, and dying. Did his possessions tick like an internal clock, did the metal pans know the date of his death, did the door prepare to lock when at last the master had breathed his final breath? Was it the disarray of the household, or was it the manner in which it was left, the untidy aspect of a man shuffled from his house before he had the time to clean? The very idea of the man was bringing tears to his eyes, the very idea of his wrinkled skin, his greying hair, his wounded leg limping pathetically at his side. Was it that Victor saw reflected in that pitiful shell a part of himself, a future for himself? Was it that Sherlock Holmes's joys were so fleeting in life and so...so purposeless, that Victor could hardly imagine how the world was truly good? The boy clutched at his heart as he locked his shoebox back into his car, the lights blinking once to alert that the doors had clicked safely, undoubtedly alerting neighbors who were not used to seeing any motion from the lower neighbor any time past six o'clock.
Stepping back into the house, Victor was content to force himself to sleep. He could no know for sure where his next night of sleep would come from, whether it was the back of his cold car, the uncomfortable armchairs in the hospital rooms, or even the floor of library for lack of a better option. He must make use of this couch, however, uncomfortable, and try to figure out how to rest himself and his woes before the sun rose and reminded him of the real world, the real problems at hand. In the darkness every trifling detail could be counted as a tragedy. In the darkness you were limited to caring for what you could perceive, and at night your own home became an island of the deepest feelings, a secluded area where your worries were not shared nor were your problems addressed by those you loved. You were alone, and Victor was alone...it would seem as if loneliness was this house's most common state.
Already the boy had the common sense to place the couch cushions on the floor, having sat down for only a minute before he began to feel the wooden frame through the thin, struggling cushions. They blew plumes of dust when piled onto the carpet, making Victor wonder if the tasteless orange color had not been the fabric's original color. Perhaps they had begun a wonderful shade of brown, only to be darkened and spoiled by the test of time and the carelessness of a forever bachelor. Victor had his own pillow, and for warmth made do with a woolen blanket he found tucked near the end of the tv stand. The blanket was folded on the floor, without anything to separate it from the unimaginable vermin crawling through the shag carpeting. It begged the question of if Professor Holmes was dirt broke, terribly cheap, plain stupid, or just careless about his own health and wellbeing. Certainly there was a chance the answer was a combination of the three, which did nothing to ease Victor's mind as he switched off the lamp on the bedside table, plunging the room into a thick and unfamiliar darkness.
Easing himself into the makeshift bed he had prepared, Victor shuffled uncomfortably on the floor, feeling his weight sinking unevenly through the gaps in the cushions or into the vast holes that decades of body weight could impose upon the cushion inside. His head was wrenched one way, his hips were pulled to the carpet, and his feet were long enough that his ankles swung uncomfortably off the end of the arrangement, his toes weighted by the awkward angle and digging disturbingly deep into the threads of the old, worn carpet. It was miserable to say the least, though Victor was happy to trade his comfortable bed in a Reggie infested dorm for the meager accommodations offered by his calculus professor. He would rather sleep peacefully knowing there were not two eyes focused on him all hours of the night, eyes behind thick spectacles, eyes unwavering and unyielding, eyes which were currently rewriting all of their shared memories to accommodate one new and unappreciated detail. Oh, Reginald. That beautiful, stupid boy. That unappreciative and unaccepting boy. Victor could imagine his eyes again, his eyes as the realization had dawned upon them, the sharp drop of his jaw, the paleness of his complexion. He might have said something, something Victor had not heard because of his panic, he might have screamed. And he left; he left with the intentions of never returning. He left with the sheer intention of breaking Victor's heart. Because he knew, did he not? He had to have known.
Victor's brain was a fog, his exhales still stinging with the earthy taste of his last rolled joint. He flexed his fingers just to make sure they remained intact, he blinked once or twice to ensure the darkness was not moving. He thought of Reggie again, rolling over onto his stomach, thinking what the evening might have amounted to if his roommate had only stayed put. If he had asked questions, if he had clarified, if he had...if he had reciprocated. Victor swallowed hard. Was there any accumulation of events that would have led to Reggie's staying? Was there anything Victor could have done to prepare him for the news, to pad the blow, to reference it in less than words before he had strung them together in a final confession? Could there have been a version where Reggie didn't leave...where Reggie moved towards the door only to lock it, where he stepped closer to Victor instead of away? It would have been so sweet, so sweet to have confessed without reason to worry. Without reason to doubt. So sweet to have fallen asleep in a different bed, yes, but just on the other side of the dorm room. Not on the other side of the campus. In some other reality Victor was curled with his roommate's head in his chest, his legs trapped and tangled, his lips permanently planted within the soft scent of Reginald's grey hair. He might have fallen asleep to the sound of the boy's heartbeat, only to wake and remember with some urgency that reality was better than anything he could dream. He would wake and stay awake, embracing the situation with every cell in his body until he could take no more. He would forsake his roommate's sleep and wake him with his passion, too impatient to rely on the change of his heart's rhythm to alert Reginald that he had stirred. And he would watch Reggie's eyes open from the viewpoint of a kiss, and they would twist again, they would grasp again, they would wonder when, when life had gotten so sweet.
Victor let his head droop off the edge of his makeshift mattress, he let his chin extend to the ceiling, let his eyes watch through the darkness in anticipation of something. Of someone. Anyone. He wanted Reginald to guess, he wanted that stupid boy to know, to put it together, to come when he had been called. He wanted Reginald to knock fiercely on this door, having traced Victor's ultimate flight, he wanted to accept love into the apartment that had so obviously received none in the decades it had hosted the poor, lonely Professor. He wanted to invite Reginald onto the cushions that sunk low, he wanted to pull his fingernails across the shag carpeting, he wanted to feel this rough woolen blanket against his bare skin. How could he sleep, how could he rest, how...when there was this underlying feeling? Yes, the darkness held loneliness, yes, the darkness held terror. But in this apartment there was more than just solitude, in this apartment the feelings radiated off of the walls like flavoring, like a gobstopper. One could get to the next if they persisted, one could lick the lies from the paint. Darkness held solitude, and in this house that solitude could be taken two ways. It could be lonely, it could be depressing...but it could also be passionate. It could also be...selfish.
What were the words the old Professor had penned, those which were sent through the mail and received by Victor's hands? I should like to feel your breath on my neck again, your morphine needle in my arm, and your knife tearing open my trousers so as to push hard upon the wound. Was that what love was, in this household? Were those words written at an hour similar to this, where the silence hung so heavily it felt as if only one man truly existed, and that one man had the power to do anything he wanted so long as the curtains were drawn? Had Sherlock Holmes taken it upon himself to write that letter only after feeling, as he claimed, his fierce love and worse longing? Could it be that after dark the loneliness fled from this household and aching desire filled its place? Were they so alike after all, so alike that they could hardly handle a night alone without being chastised with the consequences of their impossible attractions?
And perhaps there was something there, something there in a bullet wound, in a morphine needle, in a spool of thread. Victor could almost feel it if he tried, he could almost feel pain erupting from his hip, pain he could only imagine without the proper context of metal shattering through bone. The man had enjoyed it, he had taken something from it...lying on a riverbank, his uniform soaked but his skin unfeeling, his helmet askew and his black curls, longer those days, caked over his eyes with rainwater. A wound opening and his veins leaking, the sounds of warfare silencing as his ears heard naught but static. This was how it happened, was it not? This was how Sherlock Holmes found his first love, he found it wearing a body much younger, much thinner, much more mobile. He found it while looking towards the European skies, looking towards the rain clouds that were so similar to those back home. Looking until he was interrupted, until a man braved the gunfire to be by his side...no, to be on top of him. To come down hard upon his legs, to grab at his hips, to grab at his wound, to press a palm against the dark pooling blood and ease his weight upon it.
Oh, Victor could see how it was exhilarating. Words were being shouted in his ear, words of affirmation, of hope, of God. He could feel the touch, the touch he had been waiting for, the touch of another man. After traveling with them, sleeping by their sides, hearing their breath, hearing their laughter, hearing their heartbeats. Was it really this easy to have one of them touch him, was it as easy as getting shot? The skin around his wound was still alive, the nerve endings aflame around the wound but receptive close by. He was able to feel pain, yes, but he was able to feel that skin. He was able to feel John Watson. He was able to open his mouth not to scream, but to breathe, to stare, to see the face of God as he could now perceive him. A beautiful man, a blonde man, a mud streaked man who wore his emotions in his eyes, who perceived care and empathy as deeply as any man might perceive love. How lucky was he, how lucky?
His jacket's top buttons were undone, the fabric pulled down to reveal his pale shoulder, flesh enough to receive the morphine needle. John Watson kept one hand on the wound, pressurizing the veins to slow their release, and as such he uncapped the morphine with his teeth. Victor could feel as the thing plunged into his arm, an entry, a penetration. He reveled at the feel of it, he reveled at the drugs, at the weightlessness. He almost pitied that he would be blocking more receptors, more nerve endings. He wanted to feel as much as he could, he wanted to appreciate while John Watson's weight was still upon him. Victor's feet flexed, his fingers clenched at the man now leaning over him, shouting in his ear, shouting words still misunderstood. Savior's remarks, undoubtedly. Heroic remarks.
There was a blade now, a blade in his hand, a blade which flicked open at the press of a button. He was leaning hard, now, with most of his body weight fixed upon Victor's knees and the rest of him easing forward upon his quads, upon his hips. The man took his blade to Victor's trousers, he cut them like an animal, like an untrained seamstress. He cut deep to expose the flesh, to expose everything, to search for the wound and to give ample room for guesswork. He brought his hand down hard, his palm fixing upon the bullet wound but the rest of his wrist straying. And Victor could hardly keep his focus, Victor could hardly prioritize his own health but for this moment, oh for this moment! How long he had waited for a man to find him like this, how long he had waited to have a moment of such intense intimacy. And the man was still yelling, still yelling with his face level with Victor's navel, his breath warm against the cold rain and his words of affirmation so deeply appreciated.
Victor could feel the mud, but he could feel hardly anything else save for his body's own reaction. He could feel the pain, but it was lessening in the absence...in the absence of any true wound. Suddenly the darkness was clearer than the clouds, suddenly the apartment had been thrown back into his consciousness. He wanted to go back, he wanted to keep John Watson's hand level with himself, he wanted to keep John Watson's weight upon his legs, upon his body. He saw now, he saw now how wonderful that wound could be, and how worthwhile the remarkable paralysis seemed to be. He saw now how a man could be so tempted for so long, and find satisfaction long after many men would pass out from the pain. He saw...he felt...he enjoyed. Victor heaved a breath, he clutched at his own leg to mimic the feeling, he barred his teeth and he closed his eyes. Oh the silence of a lonely home. Oh the comfort of an empty house. Oh the tenderness of the darkness. How lovely it could be, once you found passion within the sadness. How lovely it could be when you found pleasure through the pain.