Victor POV: It felt as if the floorboards were absorbing him, as if the basement of the withering structure was beginning to open up and take him as its next occupant. As Victor tread across the living room floor, anxious and unnerved, he continually yanked his feet from the wood, as if expecting the next footfall to hesitate a moment to long and thus be lost to the foundations of the mansion.
The fire was roaring in the hearth, though Victor did not accredit this one to the magic of homemaking. Instead there was a pile of crumbled up newspapers upon the wood stack, kindling that would ignite when sparked by the lighter sitting upon the mantle. It was a human fire, signs of occupancy. Signs of this house becoming a home.
"Tea," was the rather emotionless shout from the doorway, proceeding the lumbering figure of the elder Victor Trevor. The old man was walking slowly these days, as if settling within the house was beginning to wear upon his health. Perhaps it was the comfort of a home that was allowing his muscles to diminish, or his bones to degrade. Perhaps his body was finally beginning to realize it did not need to resist the elements anymore, and thus allowed both the outside world and age to creep steadily inside of the man's body. Nevertheless, the bony hand was still able to balance a tray on top of it, a tray laden with the fancy china that had been set upon the table since the trio first arrived. The previous occupants had taken advantage of the house's furnishings; they had left the dinner table ready for the next guest.
"Very English of you," Victor commented, watching as the old man settled the tray carefully upon the coffee table. Victor lingered where he stood, ensuring that his elder was able to prepare his own cup first, as he seemed to have very particular standards. Only after three spoonful's of sugar had been added was the man satisfied, and with a large groan he sat back with his tea cup, nearly absorbed into the cushions of the old couch.
"Well, I am English, after all. Though we are a breed of men from all over the planet. Your predecessor was French, you know? An artist of a particular sort," the old man chuckled, shaking his head as if he remembered very clearly the style of paintings that had passed through these walls.
"Perhaps the house is making it more difficult for us to get here. Maybe it wants to break the cycle, to hide us from it," Victor suggested, his heart leaping with what might be too fanciful a theory.
"Or it wants to test itself, test the three of you. How far is too far? How much is too much? How many miles will you all travel, on pure coincidence, to end up in each other's arms?" the old man sipped at his tea with a smack of his lips, as if speaking of destiny put a bad taste in his mouth. It was a destiny, unbreakable for all, except of course for him. The suffering man, alone since his mistakes, alone and forgotten by those who were supposed to die with him.
"Victor, how long does it take for John and Sherlock to be together?" the boy asked, lingering near the fire without making a motion towards the tea set. In fact he was not yet ready to drink, or to eat. His stomach was twisting, having a hard time digesting the mere spoonful's of breakfast he was able to put down. It was not so much the shock of the night previous, it was not the excitement of having finally been with his boyfriend. It was the lingering doubt. The hollowness of the love that he felt. It was the separation that was beginning to grow between himself and Sherlock Holmes, one that only seemed to extend from the moment they curled within each other's arms. No matter how close their bodies were pressed, something was pushing their souls away.
"I'm not sure there's a specific time frame," the old man admitted. "Mine were almost instantaneous. The last, of course, had taken their dear old time."
"I've been with Sherlock or over a month now," Victor muttered, scuffing his shoe upon the carpet he now took refuge on, figuring the carpet would not be able to open a gaping jaw and swallow him whole. The carpet, however bloodstained it was on the underside, appeared to be a friend.
"It may take years. You said your John was particularly hesitant, did you not?"
"I'm worried the house had accounted for that by making Sherlock extremely...keen," Victor whispered. He pinched the bridge of his nose, finally collapsing into the armchair opposite of his death throne, determined to stay out of the seat that once held his headless torso.
"Have you noticed anything different with him?" the old man wondered. His voice cracked as he spoke, as if he remembered the very moment he had lost his Sherlock.
"With Sherlock?"
"With John," Victor corrected, tapping his tea cup once against his saucer to draw the boy's attention towards him. It felt more comfortable to stare into space, or into the fire, for neither had the ability to look back. To stare with those big, sorrowful eyes, and watch the progression of fate slowly take over. There was a pain in the back of the old man's crazy eyes, a pain that Victor did not want to replicate in his own expression.
"He's...angrier."
"That's not a good sign," the old man chuckled, his eyes glancing towards the opposing armchair so as to remind his counterpart why an angry John could be the worst sign. Victor shook his head quickly. He knew well enough not swear upon John's personality, though he did understand that this shift was probably the first of many. This foretold the step towards romance, whereas the last may lead to his predicted death.
"Not in a murderous way. In a frustrated way," Victor corrected, "As if something is eating him up inside."
"That's not a good sign either," the man pointed out. "Any shift in his behavior is telling, especially when the house gets a say in things."
"You think he's fallen in love?" Victor wondered, allowing his voice to become thick with concern. Had it happened so suddenly?
"Or guilty," the old man suggested. "Guilty, because he's already done what he swore never to."
"I would know if they were together," Victor snapped, speaking with an intentional sting of determination. The old man's lips curled into a smile, though his eyes reflected no humor. Instead he stared miserably into the darkness that was collecting in the corner of the room, his stare intensifying as if he was beginning to recognize a shape within.
"I thought I would have, too. I thought I would have noticed a difference in him, as if there would be hand prints all along his body. As if John Watson would have signed his name upon his collarbone."
"And you noticed nothing?" Victor clarified.
"Nothing except the absence. Though by the time I began to realize the correlation of their disappearances, it was already too late. We lived here, after all. The three of us. And when Sherlock would go to the store, and John would go on a walk...the bedroom door would be closed. The car would still be in the driveway. His walking stick would be leaning against the porch. They took me for a fool, the two of them. But dare I say, they lost in the end," Victor stared into his cup of tea, staring upon his reflection in the brown surface. Victor bowed his head in some small sorrow, mourning the loss of the men who only predicted his own fate.
"I've not noticed any absence," Victor admitted, allowing his heart to leap in a rare glimmer of hope. He had a rather good assumption of where Sherlock was at all times, and never did he imagine that John's absence from his guest bedroom was accompanied by Sherlock's rogue moments. The timelines seemed to be playing in his favor, at least for now.
"Keep looking for it," the old man suggested. "Keep vigilant. And above all else, don't ever get your hopes up."
"Why on earth should I not..."
"Because it hurts more. The inevitable is just that, and if you begin to believe the opposite your heart breaks all the louder," the old man pointed out. He waved an aged finger across his tea cup, quick enough to be scolding but slow enough to allow Victor's young eyes to follow along, and before long he felt his head spinning with the effort.
"I should hope that in this lifetime the house is on my side," Victor suggested.
"The house has been, and always will be, against us. The very foundation ripples with a mention of our name," Victor debated. The boy creased his brow, finding such a bold claim to be just that. How could Victor swear upon the house's hatred when it was the very structure that was keeping him within its walls? Certainly the house had enough power to vanquish an unwanted guest, especially if its spite was rooted far enough back.
"If it hated us that much, we wouldn't be here. You'd think a house with so much power could break a timeline for one man, but keep the other two returning."
"If anything, we're a plaything," the old man sighed, grumbling as he drained the last of his tea from the fancy saucer. With the aggression of his motions it would appear that he intended to smash the small cup upon the ground, as if he suddenly built up a grudge against both the house and all of its inhabitants. The old man's limbs moved powerfully, jerking this way and that with his fingers clamped around the small handle. His eyes grew aggressive as he stared into the empty cup, his teeth barred. Victor waited. Despite this pent up aggression the man suddenly leaned forward, settling the saucer and cup safely into the tray, and pursed his lips miserably. The remnants of his sugary tea were already crystalizing upon his facial hair, and his eyes darkened to a particular blackness. It was the look of a man without hope, without a future. The look of a man whose purpose had been erased some fifty years prior, and had been living a life without a meaning for the rest of his extended existence.
"I do love him, Victor. Even if he has his issues, even if he's something of an addict, and a jerk... I know most of our history has been engulfed in lust, but I think there's something different between the two of us. I think there are legitimate feelings...an understanding of sorts. Perhaps it helps to understand destiny," Victor suggested.
"You think I did not love him? You think I only wanted his body, and not his heart?"
"All you've ever spoken of was his body," Victor reminded him. The old man sighed, his fingers curling into a fist around the edges of the couch. His frail body shivered once as his eyes shut, remembering back to a time when he would sit here with his Sherlock by his side.
"I did love him, most impossibly. Though I wish I had not. I wish I could have been as superficial as you accuse me of being, if only to preserve what emotions I found shattered," Victor snarled. The boy leaned back in his chair, feeling but a pang of regret for his accusations. This could only be accredited to his naivety, his three months of understanding when compared to the decades of comprehension encased in the old man across from him. Victor was searching for any reason to be different from the rest, any glimmer of hope that would lead him to a conflicting timeline. Love seemed a plausible theory until now. Though, love acted upon both sides. Love was a double agent, employed by the two opposing young hearts. If Victor thought he alone was armed with the emotion he may be greatly disappointed to begin noticing the same tells developing within his best friend. It seemed unfair to let fate decide their final arrangements. If the world was acting without an external influence, one would imagine it was Sherlock Holmes who should have the final say. Sherlock Holmes who should choose who his heart most desired. But perhaps that was the catch, perhaps that was fate acting in accordance. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes was always destined to be enthralled by John Watson, and eventually cast away his worn out plaything in favor of his ultimate partner. Destiny seemed to be working against him, as it always has. As it always will. Victor Trevor was a boy born only to lose. 

The old man was asleep, though the clock only read eight o'clock. Nevertheless, time worked differently in this old house, and the small analog on the wall was not to be trusted. Perhaps it was midnight, or even six in the morning. Either way Victor's parents would grow concerned, though he dare not go home, not yet. It had been a long while since he had time alone with the house that had cursed him, and he took some solace in quietly wandering the halls. Perhaps with this moment of reconnection the house may recognize his growing agony. Perhaps it would even take pity. Victor tried to touch upon the walls as much as possible, dragging his fingers across so as to spark up any sort of connection, the equivalent to stroking a dog's head in order to get it to trust you. Though in this scenario, certainly the dog would snap back. If the house had jaws, now would be the time it would use them. Sinking its long fangs into Victor's hand in defiance, determinedly retaliating against any attempt at understanding. Perhaps the only thing more satisfying than stroking the walls for connection was the knowledge that the house despised the touch, and considering it couldn't do anything about it, Victor decided finally to press his whole palm against them, chuckling as he went along. It was time the house was finally put out of its depths. Perhaps it could suffer just a fraction of the amount it inflicted upon others.
The upstairs halls were long and narrow, with the wallpaper sticking determinedly on in yellow strips, their edges curling up in the mildew and the age. Victor's fingers caught against them, though he was deliberately gentle. He had no intentions of destroying the house, lest he give it any legitimate reason to be angry. There were lighter spots upon the walls, squares developed by the presence of picture frames, long absent, removed perhaps by the past generations. Or by the house itself, who had chosen to hide some more of its secrets. Maybe there had been portraits hanging in those spots, framed oil paintings of the ancient inhabitants. Their own faces, easily recognizable, having been brought to life by a painter long dead. It would seem as if even the house was trying to fool Victor, arranging itself for his presence and his absence, showing things to his counterparts that he would never have the luxury of seeing.
Victor's hand settled upon the brass doorknob of an upstairs bedroom, his hand being drawn towards the knob as if it had called out to him subliminally. Or perhaps he had fallen into his old rhythms, and his body had directed him this way out of pure habit. Either way, he felt that he was supposed to go inside. Nevertheless, Victor had no luck with twisting and pushing in an attempt to force the old metal to collapse under his grip. The room was locked, and the more he pushed the more he realized the importance of this old room. Victor felt his heart yanking upon his chest, urging him to pass through the wood and join his lover on the other side. He felt that he ought to phase through the wood completely, perhaps if he collided enough times he may have the chance, if he kept banging upon the door with his forehead it might finally let him pass. How many times had his soul crossed this threshold to meet Sherlock upon the bed? How many times before John's arrival in their lives? Victor pounded upon the door with one hand, twisted the knob with the other, and felt his knees shaking miserably underneath. His energy was fading quickly, but his patience was dwindling faster. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand here, not without entry.
Was this the house's intentional metaphor? Was it an intentional sabotage? His own house, his own door, his own lover...his own agony. The wood creaked, as if to laugh, before Victor finally released the knob and collapsed upon the hallway rug. His teeth barred in desperation, his forehead meeting the threads of the carpet as he bowed pathetically upon his knees, worshiping something he could not see and crying out his frustration in large, noiseless tears. The house delighted to see the boy wracked in pain; it seemed to rejoice as he let a scream pass from his lips, pushed into the carpet fibers. Months of misery began to materialize, first with the arrival of John Watson, a supposed friend of his, a supposed ally in the game of life. Then with the arrival of Sherlock Holmes, the arrival of a love that was developing slowly and steadily within his chest. The foolish childhood admiration, the pathetic misunderstanding of fate! In those days Victor imagined that life would unfold like the love stories of old, in which any feeling of love was reciprocated, where the main character got who they wanted in the end. And perhaps love did work like that, in the real world. Perhaps without a mystical house interfering, a hand made of cement and roofing tiles forcing the lovers apart. Forcing someone between them. Was this the curse of repetition?
Countless generations had suffered from the same fate. Men with the same name, with the same face, with the same heart. But Victor Trevors were not supposed to find love. They were destined to fall into it, head over heels; they were destined to get just a taste, a mocking reminder of what they will never be able to keep for themselves. Victors were destined from the beginning to lose. They were destined to step one pace too far from happiness. For decades the house had tossed their soul from hand to hand, playing as if a leopard with its most recent kill. From the moment Victor was born, from the moment he was settled in a plastic crib across from the infant John Watson, his heart was in the process of breaking. Before the organ even formed in the womb, already it was developing fissures.