The first thing Victor did was turn on the headlights, even before he stuck the key into the ignition. What had been a ghostly shadow figure was suddenly illuminated into the hunched, maddened figure of his childhood friend. John Watson was leaning upon the hood of the car, exerting so much force that the entire vehicle seemed to tilt in his direction. His mouth was hanging open in an animalistic snarl, only characterizing the layer of dried blood which clung to his skin in fragmenting flakes. His red, naked body stood almost lifeless, though his fingers clenched with such determination upon the hood that they began to peel paint from the metal. Teeth clenched, eyes focused, and muscles flexed, John seemed to be waiting for something on the other side of the car. He seemed to forget that he had lost. Instead he seemed to be poised for attack. It was as if he forgot they had not only secured themselves, but they had also arranged their escape route.
The roar of the engine was enough to startle John, a sound so modern it seemed to wake him from his predatory trance. The boy jumped back, his posture straightening back into a normal stature, and shuffled upon the gravel for a moment of recollection. His bloodstained lids blinked once, his fingers curled and flaked and for a moment the animal looked...human. For a moment he seemed to realize what he was doing, who he was chasing, and with what goal in mind. He might have come back to reality. But Victor didn't want to stick around to make sure.
Victor threw the car into reverse, backing his way towards the house and aligning the car with the driveway, perfectly positioned to take off at break neck speed with one slam of the gas pedal. Sherlock gave a low cry, perhaps a mourning wail for the boy they had left behind, perhaps a shriek of surprise at Victor's sudden and urgent departure. As the car went barreling over the potholes, swerving through the dark trees, both boys had the same thought in mind. They didn't speak of it, nor did their brains wish to contemplate anymore than the vague truth that seemed to cement within their heads. And yet both understood the situation perfectly clearly. They were leaving John Watson. They were leaving him behind. They were leaving him, most likely, to die.

John POV: The cold was the first thing he noticed, the first thing that seemed to be wrong. Last he remembered he had been covered by the body heat of three, buried underneath the blankets in a cocoon of warmth and love. Last he had remembered he was curled against Sherlock's body, taking in the sweet aroma of his skin with his chin on his shoulder, one eye staring into the mess of curls and the other getting a good glance at Victor's sleeping form curled within Sherlock's grasp on the other side of the bed. Last John remembered, he had been warm. He had been comfortable.
And yet the gravel drive was cold, and the wind hit against his bare skin with a particular chill. John had hit the ground, he didn't remember falling but he was now well aware of the form of his body, huddled within a small indentation that placed his skin within the mud. He could smell a metallic odor, though in the darkness he could not quite tell what it was that stained his skin. It flaked like flour, as if he had been rolling through the pantry during his free time. And yet John got the sense that something was wrong, desperately wrong. He understood that the night had taken a turn, some drastic shift away from cuddles to loneliness. Victor and Sherlock had left him. Victor and Sherlock had looked afraid. Something dire happened tonight...and yet for the life of him John could not recall what.
For a long while John sat stagnant, half of him waiting for the pair to return, the other half waiting until the earth opened up to swallow him whole. When neither occurrence happened he was eventually forced to drag himself to his feet, wallowing in the moonlight and scratching more and more flakes off of his skin. His skin was darker tonight, covered in a substance he could not recall. There were gaps in his memory, spaces of time that had been controlled by an external force, a ghost of sorts...perhaps another reincarnation of his ancestors. He had been asleep, peacefully asleep, just seconds ago. What had happened between now and then? How could he have messed up so badly within the span of a single night?
Lingering above him, the house seemed solemn. It carried a particular mood, a telling emotion, within the walls. For now that emotion was wafting into the outside air, polluting the property with a depressing air, the sort of feeling that hallowed out your very soul. It was defeated, though John still wasn't sure if that was a positive or a negative on his end. The house's agenda never quite aligned with his own, could it be that the house was upset about its failed attempts to separate the trio? Or was it upset only as a formality, mourning the eventual and inevitable loss of one of its key players? Was the house donning a sarcastic black hood, only to kill the very victim it claimed to miss? Either way, John felt that the house was regretting what he still could not remember. It was forcing this dismal emotion to be shared by its inhabitants, as if it knew that John would not be upset without the proper support. Then again, he was never one to take partners in mourning. He was never one to agree with what the house chose to lament.
Since the night proved to be so cold, John decided it was better to take refuge inside of his sentiment structure. It was his only friend of the night, at any rate. Even if he couldn't fall back to sleep he may have better luck in front of a nice warm fire, curled on the couch instead of the bed, listening to the crackling of the flames instead of the silence. Exhaustedly, the boy made his way back up the porch and to the front door. By the way the knob still twisted John imagined the house was not holding a grudge, lest it merely lock him out for the time being. It was truly and deeply upset, as if it housed an event that was somehow uncommon even throughout its multiple centuries. Could it be that it was mourning the loss of its rivalries? Was the house regretting its failure to seed enough contempt between the three boys, thus allowing them to reconcile at the last moment? Were they truly the first generation to have gotten along so well?
It seemed ages ago that John had successfully courted Sherlock Holmes, though it had still shared the same familiar span of darkness. When the sun set, John had been carefree. He had been alive with love, with possibility. When the sun rose it would undoubtedly illuminate a broken man, depraved and miserable for no apparent reason. No obvious cause. Could it be that those few hours in between housed an event so dramatic it could ruin the peace they had established? Could John have somehow, by some miracle, ruined the first moment of cooperation the trio had ever shared?
Perhaps these questions were better pondered in the dark, as the darkness allowed for blissful ignorance. John was able to ponder these questions from an outside source, as if he was wondering from outside of his own head. He was able to think of the worst case scenarios that involved other villains, not just himself. In the darkness John could be blind, though the light of the candles began to shed light on the true villain, the true reason to be afraid. As the calming glow settled upon his skin John was finally able to look at himself, finally able to squint upon the stained skin he had been wearing this whole time. As the boy stumbled through the entry way, his bare feet padding against the marble and shedding bits of rock from his unfolding joints, he was finally able to determine just what he had been caked with. Just what had been covering his skin from head to toe, as if he had not only ben splattered, but been bathed. If he had been any more ignorant John might have mistaken the blood for dirt, considering it dried on in a particular brown color. Nevertheless, it flaked off in the predictable red pigment. There was a blood red sparkle hiding under the oxidized outer layers, gleaming against his skin like a sorry pile of gold. Blood...blood of a human? Of an animal? John scraped more and more off of his naked body, attempting to find the answer carved underneath the thin coating. His nails ached from the effort, his fingers already exhausted from the flexing and concentration it took. In fact, john's entire body began to ache with the effort. Not just from this particular task, but from another. It was the ghostly soreness, the same he felt after completing a workout in soccer practice. The same muscle memory that pained to recreate. His muscles began to grow tired, his fingernails began to yank against his skin...as if he had been using similar things before. As if he had taken to scratching, pulling, and breaking sometime during the night.
The blood of a human? Or the blood of an animal? John shivered, unsure if he would like to know. Though the house had its own agenda. The house, undoubtedly, realized that John's memory would be clouded in the subject. The staircase was dripping. Not unlike in his dreams, those which stretched back to his earliest childhood. There was blood progressing down the stairs in a slow, progressive line. Each drop falling to the next stair and leading the train farther and farther towards the foyer. As of now the marble was clean, though with such speed the puddle was sure to spread before John could even reach the stairs himself. The blood wasn't just dripping, it was flowing. Not from a puddle, but from a source. As if someone had turned on a tap upstairs and let it flow freely throughout the mansion, a soft yet rapid grab of pristine territory to be bloodied and forgotten in its wake.
John remembered how these dreams went. There was a man dead at the top of the stairs. There was a man dead in the bedroom, lying on the floor. A shiver ran through his body, though it was not nearly as violent as it could have been. Not if he hadn't seen with his own eyes his two friends leaving in a hurry. Sherlock and Victor were safe, as far as he could remember. He had made eye contact with them both, blinded in the lights of their car but sure enough to understand that they were not the ones above the stairs, broken and bleeding. They were safe. This body, whoever was at the top of the stairs, had not originally been invited. This was a stranger...or rather it used to be. What choice did he have but to approach? In the dreams his curiosity got the better of him, though in life it was more of a state of necessity. John understood that he could not go any other way but up. The house would not allow it. The house would turn him or itself in an attempt to make any foot fall in the direction of the stairs, whether John liked it or not. He was much more of a coward in real life, much less willing to investigate than in his dream state. Perhaps even while asleep John had realized there were no true costs to the situation. In sleep he understood that the dead were from the past, not from the present. Today, the boy had something to mourn. He saw now that a life had been extinguished since the sun had fallen.
Carefully, John mounted the stairs. The statues in their alcoves seemed to shift, their stone faces watching with some interest as he began to climb slowly. John made sure to avoid the bloodied trail, though this rationality did not seem to fit with proper reality. He was already covered in blood, so there really would be no trouble in splashing in the remains of it. This puddle, it seemed everlasting. It was almost impressive how much blood could have been stored in the corpse on the second level. Could it be, then, that this was not a human? Was it the dead body of a horse, or another large animal? Could this all be for show, this scenario put on like a play to mimic the worst of his dreams? It was a fault of John's to begin believing this. It was a fault of his for getting his hopes to rise, letting his guard fall as he began to allow himself a moment of doubt. It began to feel more and more plausible that the blood was inhuman, and this theory was so favorable that John allowed his heart to leap. It gave no preparation to the scene behind the bedroom door, the one which seemed to have been left open for this exact shock. When expecting the body of a horse or some comparable animal it is incredibly haunting to be faced with a nearly hallowed silhouette, the shape of a human that seemed to have been drained of all humanity.
The door had been left open, though the darkness of the room was being invaded by the candlelight of the hall, flickering and illuminating the figure which awaited him at the foot of the bed. It was a human shape, undeniably human, though it was missing some of its most important pieces. The man was sitting gently, naked yet propped up and positioned as if he had just sat down for a simple rest, never to get back up. His arms were folded on his lap; his legs were crossed casually, though there was nothing for him to smile with. There were no eyes to gauge his audience, nor even a nose to twitch. His head was missing, absent of the exposed spine that was jutting from his back in a distorted, hauntingly disassembled way. There were certain parts of the human body that were never supposed to see the light, never supposed to be up for examination. The notches in one's spine is a good example of this rule...this rule to be broken tonight. John had to hold his breath, he had to grind his teeth and plug his nose to avoid letting his stomach loose his dinner upon the stained floor. He felt a horrendous tugging in his organs, as if the entirety of his stomach cavity had decided to uproot itself from their places, dissembling their neat alignment and squirming as an unorganized unit inside of him. In the dreams John had never felt fear; he had never felt this sickening sensation of impossibility. He had never felt guilty, especially in this instance, when he already knew the blood which was dried underneath his fingernails was the same blood that used to keep that man alive.
But who was he? The skin was old and wrinkled enough to determine he was over fifty, not the young boys who John had begun to cherish like family. The corpse was not someone to be mourned personally, though the events of his arrival and his imminent death were facts to be pondered. John had killed him, that much was certain. John had taken off his head, presumably with his bare hands. Had he deserved it? John crept forward, lingering at the doorway to the bedroom and noting the disruption of blankets upon the bed. Last he had seen them they were draped over three calm bodies, capturing their warmth and their love. Last he had felt those blankets he had been safe, accompanied, and happy. What had occurred here, to have left a man dead and sent two of the most beautiful birds flying from their nest? In this moment John was happy he didn't remember, he wouldn't wish to see the expressions of his friends as they began to realize what exactly he was capable of. 
As John realized his questions could not be answered from afar he forced himself forward, treading carefully into the room and allowing his feet to shuffle off of the familiar hall carpet and into the stained hardwood. Nevertheless, this proximity only did more to turn his stomach, with almost no regard to answering the questions which were stored like magazines so tightly within his head.

"Who were you?" John whispered, mainly to speak his mind and narrow his questions down to the simplest one. The room vibrated quietly with the question, culminating across the walls as if the house legitimately intended to answer. John should be getting used to surprises by now, yet when he heard a response he nearly leapt all the way down the stairs and destroyed his own skull in the process.
"The older part of half your destiny," came the grumbling response. John swallowed hard, locking his feet together and twisting instinctively towards the sound of the voice. He should not have been surprised to see the mirror as the culprit; for once again his own reflection was staring back at him with the aged and matured look of a past generation. This one was older, not in age but in time period. This John Watson was dressed as if he was the original, with a proper suit and coat, disheveled as they were.
"Sherlock?" John guessed.
"Victor," the mirror corrected. "A mistake on the house's part. The one rat who slipped through the trap."
"Victor?" John breathed, turning away from the mirror to identify closer the man he had mutilated. "Is this...is this another Victor? He's from a different generation?"
"Many years back, in fact," the older John sighed heavily, tapping his fingers on the glass with a distinctive click, as if solid fingers were hitting upon their translucent cage. "Tonight you weren't supposed to kill. Though, as with everything else your generation has done...you are early."
"Early?"
"Early for the end," the mirror reminded him. John bit his tongue between his teeth, deciding to accredit these words to madness. There would be no end unless he allowed it, unless he orchestrated it. John's bloodshed would trigger the ending, though he hadn't killed anyone of importance. He had merely killed a blip in the system, a mistake in the algorithm. If anything, John had merely set their generation back to where they ought to be.
"I'm not convinced," was John's simple answer. "I still have no intention of killing them. Besides...they're gone anyway. What good is a kill if it's not in the house?"
"They're coming back," the mirror responded. "The house is already calling them...it should be deafening by now. The house is throwing a temper tantrum, can you not feel it? Don't these floors creak a little louder, these walls hit a little harder? Can't you hear that energy in your head, the dissatisfaction of two hundred years?"
"It shouldn't be dissatisfied, I did what it wanted!"
"You did nothing yet! If that old man had not shown up...well perhaps you would have done as you were intended to do! But, you fool, you killed the wrong Victor!"
"I'm not going to kill anyone else!" John defended, stomping his foot with what may be the weakest moral argument of all time. Then again, what choice did he have but to stand his ground? This crazy mirror was insisting he kill his two best friends without any necessity, without any reason. It was as if this entire house was expecting him to pick up a dagger and start slashing, just because fate demanded it! Well, screw fate.
"John, don't you see? Don't you see how narrowly you are holding on to him? Your job is not to be nice; your job is not to share! Oh to think...to think you shared a bed with that lunatic, that utter monster..."
"If you're talking about Victor, I suggest you watch your tone!" John warned.
"Don't you see what is going on? He will take Sherlock from you, if you allow him to be a part of Sherlock's life; if you allow him to be alive, well then it will have been for nothing!"
"It seems the two of us have conflicting views on what is important. Yes, I love Sherlock, but I'm not going to kill my best friend to be with him!"
"How could you have gone so wrong!?" the mirror wailed in despair, in fact the reflection moved on its own now to capture its face in its hands, disregarding the game of mimicry as its frustration began to mount.
"There's nothing wrong with me, I'm a human, and I'm proving myself as much!"
"If you don't kill Victor Trevor tonight, this house will have to kill you all."
"Is that not the progression of things either way? I kill them and die at their side?" John clarified. The mirror shook its head rapidly, the brown eyes growing in a haunting, exasperated stare.
"No, no! That's the joy of it, John...you are different in that you have no reason to kill Sherlock. We're early enough along that there has been no pressure, no force pushing you! You could only kill one and live the rest of your life the way you intend it to be! You can give us a rest, a final rest...you could end the cycle for good. That's all this house wants, John, that's all any of us want."
"For me to be with Sherlock?" John clarified. The mirror's smile widened, he nodded his head almost childishly, bobbling up and down with such ferocity that John expected the frame to topple off of the dresser which held it.
"It could be the moment we are waiting for. John Watson you...you are an exception. The one we have been waiting for."
"Well, too bad," John decided at last, nodding his head in stark approval. "You say I have to kill Victor to make this house happy? Well then I'll say it again, too bad."
"Your stubbornness will do nothing," the mirror reminded him. "I've proved it to you twice before...we have our ways of making you comply."
"Not this time, actually. You want your destiny? I'll give you another piece of it. You want a happy ending? I'll gladly pass it along to them."