"John." Sherlock muttered, having peered inside of the wardrobe and been caught in something of a dead standstill. John hesitated, yet all the same he considered such a word to be a summoning, and he allowed himself to walk carefully inside of the room towards where Sherlock was standing. He had his hand on the door, holding it open so as to stare inside, at the wardrobe's contents. And yet the wardrobe was empty, save for one single garment hanging by a hangar inside. One single piece of fabric, left there with a purpose, left there with the intent of Sherlock finding it.
"My God, it's the robe." John whispered. Sherlock took a great breath, and with something of a deep blush he slammed the wardrobe door shut, so violently that it shook the entire floor. John jumped back in surprise, not having expected such a violent reaction out of the man. Yet it was as though that robe scared him, it was if none of this had been real until he had found that garment, hanging in wait for him to find it once more.
"John, what is going on here?" Sherlock whispered in a trembling voice, leaning up with his hands against the wardrobe. In such a stance it was difficult to determine whether he was holding himself up against the doors, or rather forcing them shut with all of his body weight, so as to keep something from escaping. It was as if he expected that robe to slip out through the cracks, and force itself onto his skin.
"I don't know." John admitted quietly. "I don't know."
"But why me? Why was I roped into all of this mess, this isn't my house! This isn't my house." Sherlock growled, shaking his head violently and turning on his heel, storming out into the hallway and leaving John alone in the room for a brief moment. He stared for a while at the wardrobe, tempted now to reach out and open it just a little bit, so as to see the robe hanging there where it was promised to be. Yet he refrained, he knew that it wasn't his to touch, and so just like Sherlock he turned on his heel, making something of a less dramatic exit. John of course had the manners to close his door on the way out. John found Sherlock in the sitting room, holding his head in his hands in something of a defensive manner. He dared not sit on the furniture, and so he was curled up against the wall of the fireplace, sitting on the floor with his knees to his chin. John might've thought he was crying, and yet he was shaking noiselessly. No, he didn't seem upset about anything. He merely seemed afraid. And fear was an emotion John currently knew a lot about. He lingered a little bit closer, yet he dared not speak a word, lest he interrupt Sherlock in his helpless state. And so John merely leaned against the doorway, taking a deep breath and watching in a pitiful sort of way, watching now as Sherlock cowered all the while knowing that he could do nothing to console him. He knew that this was all such a crippling burden; he knew that this was all such a puzzle that it split your brain clean in half. Oh, but was it selfish to finally appreciate that someone else understood his pain? Was it ghastly to feel something of a relief, to know now that this headache was not his alone to bear? There was someone else involved, someone else roped in without their consent. Finally, John was not on his own.
"I hope you don't think I'm a coward." Sherlock said quietly.
"I don't. In fact, I sort of wished I acted the same as you. Unfortunately I'm good at bottling up my emotions, and ignoring them completely. Ignoring the pain they bring." John admitted quietly.
"John this is something more than pain." Sherlock whispered quietly. "This is something more than just...ugh! What is it; I can't even put it into words! It's just a feeling, a feeling of devouring, like something is eating me up from the inside."
"It's the house." John said simply. "It's this place, it's the memories that are trapped here."
"But they're our memories, aren't they John? We lived here, this is our house." Sherlock whispered fearfully.
"It cannot be." John murmured. "No, we're alive now, Sherlock. Not a century ago."
"Who knows? Maybe someone brought us back, reincarnations, necromancy, take your pick!" Sherlock insisted with something of a growl, throwing his hands up into the air in exasperation. Once he picked up his head John noticed immediately that he really had been crying, for his eyes were red and watery, and his cheeks were stained with trails of moisture.
"I don't believe in any of that." John said quietly, feeling the need to look down at his wrists, feeling the need to clarify just to be sure. No, there was no such thing as reincarnation, or any sort of Black Magic. There was just...there was just coincidences. The mere coincidence that this was all falling into place, that they were bearing such recognizable traits as their ancestors, their faces, names, and freckles. It was mere coincidences that John had peculiar birth marks, stretched all the way down his forearms in a steady, solid line.
"I'm sorry, John, if this is going to be at all disappointing, or at all surprising. But I want nothing more to do with this house." Sherlock whispered quietly. "If there really is something going on here, well it's not my duty, nor yours, to have any part in it. If there's some plot behind all of this, well it can be foiled by simply walking away. Maybe there's a reason this house has been locked up for centuries. And maybe there's a good reason to lock it up for another century to come."
"No, that's not a surprise." John admitted quietly, although he had to admit that the idea never crossed his mind. Never once in this entire ordeal did he have the mind to just walk away from it all. Never once did he even consider it as an option. The house wouldn't allow that, would it? The house wouldn't allow all of this to just come to an end? After it had tried so hard to bring them together, would it actually allow John to lock the door and tuck the key away, somewhere no one would find it? Well no, not if this house had powers it wouldn't. And yet, maybe this was a good way to prove the power of coincidence. Maybe this was a good way to guarantee that there was nothing more in his life than just science. Maybe, by just turning his back to this structure, he could prove that it was just a house after all. And that it could do nothing more than sit here and rot, waiting for its prey to return to it, even after they had decided to say their goodbyes.

For the first two days it was just madness, and for the first two nights it was only nightmares. John didn't know what was assailing him, if it was the house itself or merely his conscience coming back to get him. Yes, he felt bad for leaving the house in such a way, yet he still felt as though there was something more at play, something much eviler. He was seeing the house now in everything that he did, he was feeling the house now...in everything he touched. Every side glance he could swear he saw Sherlock's smiling face, and in every footstep he could hear those aged wooden floors creaking underneath him. And yet he stayed away. He stayed away from the house, from its walls, and from its deceits. He wanted nothing to do with its past, nor its present, nor its future. He wanted just to stay in his own life, with his wife and daughter, and focus on things that were real, things that made sense! He had no time for magic, and for games, and he most certainly did not intend to be the plaything of an ancient structure. And so John waited for the madness to pass, and he waited for the nightmares to fade. He waited until he dreams were not plagued with the house, the house burning, and crumbling, taking all of its memories with it. He waited until his head could return to normal, and pain didn't pound against his temples, until his stomach stopped twisting, and strength returned to his legs. It wasn't easy work, sitting out the house's despair. It was something of withdrawal, something of a physical illness from having left something behind. But just like alcohol, and just like any other drug on the market, this house was dangerous. This house was worse for you overtime than its withdrawal ever could be, and so in John's stubbornness, he persisted. Perhaps he didn't know what else to do, perhaps he didn't think he had any other option but to show the house who was in control of his own life.

"Are you feeling any better honey?" Mary asked sweetly, hovering by the counter as John leaned over his breakfast, still unable to eat. The eggs and bacon which usually made his stomach growl in urgency were instead making him feel as though he was going to be sick.
"Not really." John admitted finally.
"Why don't you stay home from school today? We can all go for a walk in the fresh air; it'll be good for us." Mary suggested with a little smile, pulling John's plate out from under him with the understanding that it would go uneaten. John groaned, rubbing his dark, hallowed eyes and forcing a grin onto his face.
"Staying home from school makes me sound like a first grader, not a professor. That's what my mother would say to me when I was running a fever." John taunted.
"Perhaps the women in your life just know what's best for you, then." Mary suggested with her all-knowing little grin.
"Perhaps." John admitted with a sigh. "But I haven't got a fever."
"No, you've got something worse. Something mental, I'm afraid." Mary muttered with a frown.
"Do you really think so?" John asked apprehensively, for he hadn't told Mary of his abandoning the house. In fact, Mary knew nothing of the house except that John now owned it. She didn't know about Sherlock, or the photograph (which still sat in John's school bag, for he couldn't bear to part with it just yet), or even the idea of immortality. Life continued on in the same way as it always had, for Mary at least. And so how she could know that John was suffering from the mental strain of having left the house behind, well he could only guess.
"Well of course. I know it's a busy time of the year, and we haven't been sleeping much because of Rosie, and with all that running around you do for your job...well you've just been run down. And that exhaustion is catching up to you, that's all." Mary said with a sweet little look of concern. John nodded his head apprehensively, not sure whether he should be thankful or upset that Mary hadn't been able to diagnose his true issue.  That issue which was standing right on the edge of his peripheral vision, in the form of a shadowy figure, a figure which bore every physical resemblance to Sherlock Holmes that it could manage. John looked away, yet it followed anyway. As if it wasn't just a vision, as if it was seared onto his eyeball, as a reminder for him to pay attention to it.
"Yes, I suppose you're right. I am pretty exhausted." John admitted finally.
"You've been having nightmares, haven't you honey?" Mary asked quietly, leaning up against the counter with that everlasting look of concern on her face. The microwave hummed as it spun around that little bottle of milk, for Rosie when she finally woke up.
"Why do you say that?" John questioned quietly.
"Because you were screaming last night, and thrashing all about. I thought it best not to wake you, and it stopped after a minute or so. Yet you looked scared, John. Really scared." Mary murmured nervously, as if she was very afraid to ask just what it was that was haunting John in his dreams. It was the house, of course...last night he had dreamt that he returned to the house, and that the statues had come to life. That as John moved up towards his room, the statues followed, walking with quiet, hallow footsteps, tracing his every step and creeping just out of his sight. Yes, it had been terrifying. John could understand why he might have been screaming.
"It's fine now." John assured quietly. "It's just a dream." How he wished that he could have heeded his own words, and ignored his dreams like Mary had. How he wished that all of this could just subside, and slide into his past like a forgotten puzzle, left unfinished on the coffee table while papers piled up on top of it. Yet it would seem that it was not so easy to leave the house behind, and in John's efforts to prove the house was nothing but a structure, he found that he had never been more wrong about anything in his life. He took such a short hiatus, and yet with every passing day the house's anger grew stronger, and it collected its power to bring its people together once more. It didn't like to be alone. And so that night, just as soon as their eyes settled in for sleep, the house screamed. It screamed like an echoing banshee, in their heads so loudly that they sat up with a shriek of the own, clutching onto their heads in an effort to silence the noise. And yet it was everlasting, it was pounding against their temples, their skulls, their eardrums...the scream that left three heads ringing indefinitely, until one of them finally gave the house the attention it wanted so dearly.

Entry Five: I don't know if I have been cursed, I don't know what sort of cruel joke is being played. I don't know if what I've witnessed is true, nor do I know quite what it is I saw. It is on account of my wandering, I know that to be sure! I know that I had set myself up to know things I never wanted to, and to see things that my eyes have been cursed to witness. Yet all the same, I had to know it, and I had to see it, in order to finally understand what it is that's going on inside this house. I understand its occupants, however much they do disgust me, now more than I ever thought possible. It was on my venture through the unexplored hallway that I found the billiard room, on one of the first days that I arrived here. And in my hour of boredom, now when I found myself curiously yet unmistakably alone, that I figured I might try my luck with shooting some of the balls. Perhaps I'll interrupt Mr. Trevor's business tonight, I reckoned, and challenge him to a game. Oh the thought sends shivers down my spine, yet I am still not positive that they are shivers of fear. I'm not sure whether or not the idea of that room scares me, or if its occupants in that moment scared me, or if I am rather just afraid of myself. Yet there is something, there is an emotion which bubbles up in my chest with the mere idea of the billiard room and the sins it occupied that afternoon. Before I even rounded the corner I heard the sounds of what appeared to be a struggle, as if there were people fighting each other from the open door. It was afraid of what I might find; whether it be an intruder or a phantom, yet all the same I persisted. How I do despise my curiosity. And so I crept down the hallway, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet, and I peered into the room to find what I at first mistook to be one man with many limbs. It was a hellish sight before I at first realized what I was seeing, and I almost let out a scream had my vision not cleared. No, it was not a single man, it was two. They were just so entangled that it was hard to determine which legs belonged to which, and which arms. Yet I recognized them, both my host and his guest of honor. I recognized the back of Victor Trevor, his waist coat and hat abandoned on the ground next to him. He stood in his shirt and vest, with the phantom limbs wrapped around him from Sherlock Holmes. The man was sitting on top of the table, with his legs wrapped so tightly around Victor's waist that I had easily mistaken them as some mutation. His arms were bare, draped across Victor's shoulders helplessly. I don't know what else he was wearing, if anything at all. Now that I recall again, his legs were bare as well. No, it was not a struggle as I had once presumed. They were not fighting, they were...loving. My breath got caught in my throat, and my stomach gave a great writhe of surprise. The sort of powerful shock that makes one feel sick, yet unable to do anything about it. I stared then, stared long enough for Sherlock to lose interest in the man he was kissing, and bring his head up to stare me right in the eyes. He didn't seem at all surprised to see me; he didn't seem to think my witnessing his faithlessness was an issue. On the contrary there was a smile on his face, God I can see it now, that grin of pleasure. That grin which changed into something of a low moan as Victor dropped his lips to Sherlock's neck, kissing him in the crevices that only a mouth can discover. All the while Sherlock stared at me, as his face began to melt in ecstasy, and his limbs began to tremble. He kept those multicolored eyes on me as long as he possibly could, knowing that I would stare back as long as he allowed me to. Yet finally Victor pushed him back onto the table, and his eyes began to droop shut. And that was when I turned and ran. I didn't want to see anything more, and yet I had seen everything I possibly could. It hurts me now, to know that while I sit here and write this they're down there still. It took me all of five minutes to decide to immortalize my experiences, considering I don't know how much longer these memories would stay fresh. I don't know why it's so essential for me to record this, for these aren't my secrets to share. Maybe I'm hoping that by writing them down I will forget them. Or maybe, by keeping them here in this page, I'm ensuring that I will never forget. I don't know which option is preferable, now that I sit here and read it back. I rather like the image, now that I think about it. Or no, perhaps I just like knowing. Perhaps I just like the fact that they're not hiding anything from me, not anymore. I feel a sort of power over them, now that I know their sins. Now that I know what they do in the night.