There were no marks upon the door, no placards or labeling, though John had remembered which one to go to. He remembered the path he had tread all those years ago, those decades, those centuries. He remembered the first time he had been drawn to this door, the letter which had been slid underneath the gap, the letter which detailed his exact wishes. There might as well have been a nameplate, perhaps even a roll of attendance, one in which visitors from all over the world could declare their name and home country. Everyone knew who lived behind this door; everyone knew who belonged upon the bed which sat well used and deteriorating on the inside. John pulled his hands upon the knob, though he was not surprised when the metal did not budge. It was a locked door, after all, and intentionally so. This moment was only meant to be spent between two very specific people, and it was John Watson who had been gifted the key. He was the only one allowed entry tonight. This was the proof, the definitive proof, that the house had been on his side all along. John began to unhook the chain from around his neck, freeing his skin of the soft weight that had hung there indefinitely, ever since the key itself had appeared without warning back in America. Who knew so many fates could be tied within something so small, something so silver?
"Sherlock, are you in there?" John called desperately, still trying to prepare for what might end up as solitude. Perhaps his own Sherlock was not behind the door and was instead lost within the walls of the house he grew up in? Perhaps, despite John's urgency, Sherlock had not gotten the same instructions. And yet there were multiple Sherlock's from multiple years, many men who had tread this hall in shameful states of dress. There was an indefinite amount of ghosts haunting this house, the residue of the souls who were not completely recycled. Could it be that John would spend his evening with the dead?
"Sherlock?" he repeated again, one fist pounding upon the wood while the other attempted desperately to fit the key into the hole. His voice was straining now, uncertain if this fight was even worth the effort he was putting in. John wanted nothing more than a response, some message, some sign that Sherlock was waiting for him behind the door. His fingers were shaking; the metal collided against each other in a most unwelcomed symphony, clanging and clattering as the sharp key stuck repeatedly into the wood. He felt drunk, he felt delirious. How could he fail so often at a task so simple? It was as if his vision had blurred, as if he eyes were being crossed by two unwelcomed fingers, pushing and pulling upon his pupils to force them into the corners of his eyes. John was becoming desperate; he could feel the key exerting so much force it had the potential to shoot from his fingers and lodge itself into the wood itself, seemingly more anxious to get to the other side of the door than was John. Finally, when he pushed his fingers forward, the key sunk deeper than in previous attempts. For the first time it fit nicely in the lock, and suddenly, after having completed its mission, its anxiety faded. The metal, which at one time proved to be as lifelike as himself, had fallen completely silent. Inanimate, it sat content within the lock. It waited to be twisted, so soft and gentle it may never have been possessed at all. John took a breath to calm himself, a breath to recollect what humanity he might have lost in the struggle. He breathed once, twice, and again. One breath for each heart he was preparing to break tonight. His fingers reached for the key, gently twisted, and let the lock click in admission. The knob, once shut tight, gave way to the weight of his hand. The door, never opened for a man without relevance, swung gently open upon its hinges. The familiar scent of marijuana perfumed the hallway as the air began to mix, a stench that had grown to attract John as would the smell of a rose, or a particularly startling perfume. John took a sharp breath, allowing the shadows to collect on the opposite sides of the wall. He rose from his knees, waited for the door to open wider, and stood to meet his fate.
John hooked his fingers across the door frame, pulling himself to his feet with some effort as he wobbled in urgency, watching as the light from the hallway lamps began to leak into the bedroom and silhouette some of the more prominent pieces of furniture. In content alone the bedroom was no different from John's own forgotten room, with the appropriate arrangement of dressers, wardrobes, and desks. The chair was tucked neatly underneath the writing desk, the drawers closed neatly upon the vanity, and standing in the mirror was John's own shape, outlined from the intense backlight in a weak, struggling pose. His back was bent almost inhumanly, his fingers clenched into fists in front of him, his feet shuffling anxiously upon the carpet. He took a sharp breath, trying to determine the shape of the bed, trying to separate what was pillow and what was man.
"Sherlock?" John whispered hopefully, stepping carefully upon the carpet and allowing the darkness to engulf him. There was not an immediate response, though the smell of weed intensified, as if an unseen form had blown a puff, a deep exhale from exhausted lungs, a boy's breath which might be stolen in the coming minutes.
"Strange way to invite yourself, John." The voice came from the corner, a short and almost sarcastic quip from the shadows that had at once seemed so still, so silent. John, who had been focusing all of his attention upon the bed, turned haphazardly upon his heel, staring at the spot upon the wall which had seemingly spoken with the voice of his lover. From what he could see, the wall was solid, flat, and uninterrupted. Though, as if to directly counter this belief, a small red ember ignited, the soft flame that grew with a pull of oxygen through the smoldering tip. The shape of a man emerged. The shape of a familiar boy, birthed from the shadows as if he was declaring them now his proper home.
"I wasn't invited, I was summoned. I wasn't given a choice," John breathed, recognizing the shadow that approached him. It had the same posture, the same height. There was only one person in his life who moved the way this shape did, only one boy who breathed such foul, contaminated breaths.
"And why do you call for me? Out of fear?"
"I take it you were the one I was called to meet," John insisted, his voice now catching in his throat as the boy drew closer, still without a defining feature to be revealed. It was as if the house was summoning its own shadows, insisting that Sherlock be hidden in a shroud of mystery. Perhaps there were more secrets to be hidden; perhaps the boy he thought he knew was being deliberately concealed. Was it the same boy he had grown familiar with? Was this the Sherlock Holmes he came here to be with?
"I didn't summon you, but I shall be glad to welcome you," Sherlock's voice grew deep, confident. He chuckled minutely, taking a step forward with such might that the door to the hall flew shut, slamming with such force that the mirror rattled within its frame. John shuttered, though he was not afraid. In fact, he felt the proximity. His body was reacting to what was undoubtedly a breach of personal space, a hand, a foot, a body perhaps, breaking though his usual perimeter. It had been a long while since his skin had erupted into goosebumps, not from the cold, not from fright...but instead from yearning. His skin erupted from its own constraints, rising and pulling to meet the boy who was lingering ever closer.
"I can't see you," John complained, straining to follow Sherlock's shadowed movements as the light source extinguished.
"Do you need to?"
"What if you're not the right Sherlock?" John offered. "What if you...you're riddled with bullets? I've seen men like you before. Men who bleed."
"Even a dead man would happily stand in my place. Do you fear abuse?"
"I want to be with the boy I've decided upon," John demanded, finding it difficult to speak out against the perpetual motion of things. At the moment it seemed as if his wishes would be met...was he really going to be so difficult as to demand transparency?
"You are the most stubborn of your kind," Sherlock breathed, his voice lingering so close that his words exhaled upon John's skin, a hot and welcoming aroma colliding with the own sparse puffs of air that John managed to produce. His lungs had stopped working, it would seem as though breathing was not listed as one of his body's priorities.
All at once, the feeling of proximity diminished. As if he had been yanked away by a cord, it would seem as if Sherlock Holmes had all together vanished from his side. Instead, an oil lamp flickered to life, illuminated by the twist of long, gentle fingers. The room was bathed in a small halo of pale orange light, enough to illuminate the boy who summoned it. Finally, John saw the face of his expected partner. There was Sherlock Holmes, alive and well, the same boy he had grown accustomed to staring at day after day. The same black curls patted down upon his head, the same lines of discontent that were beginning to soften as his face relaxed, as his body relaxed. It would seem that even Sherlock Holmes found it difficult to be upset, and for now his entire frame radiated a certain air of optimism, a confidence that could only be displayed in such conditions. For all of the bodily traits that John recognized, his state of dress was quite different from the previous occasions. Instead of his usual combinations of jeans and a punk tee shirt, instead the boy was scantily clad in a robe of deep black, a silky fabric that mimicked the shadows that had once hid it. The robe hung loosely around his thin frame, with a cord wrapped around his hips that allowed his modesty to be protected in the dim, romantic lighting. There was a stark contrast of his milky white skin compared to the dark fabric, the sort of pairing that had mastered the art of seduction for the past two centuries. It was the sort of color contrast that sent generations of John Watsons to their knees. It was a beauty unmatched, uncontested...it was an opportunity men would kill for. An opportunity men would die for.
"It's no wonder we've all gone mad," John breathed, taking a careful step forward so as to meet his lover halfway. Sherlock laughed his deep, singular chuckle, pushing all of his weight upon the desk and allowing his head to tilt sideways, thus tangling his curls along the front of his forehead.
"Is that a compliment, Mr. Watson?" Sherlock wondered, his voice falling into a deeper, more mature octave. He was summoning the vocals of his predecessors, the whisperings of his past lives.
"It's an invitation," John corrected. He took another step forward, approaching Sherlock cautiously, trying to ensure that his proximity would be welcomed by his counterpart. They both knew what they were here to do, though it would appear as though either party had to take their turn to stall.
"If I am to go mad...infect me," John offered. "If I am to kill, place the gun in my hand. If I am to die...fill up the bathtub in my stead. But god...god, if I may first enjoy my given time with you, then so help us all with the aftermath."
"The culmination of the centuries, John Watson." Sherlock chuckled again, his hand falling upon the plunging collar of his robe, fingers curling and sliding over the soft silk seam to expose more of his thin chest, his knuckles knocking against each one of the exposed, unhealthy ribs.
"Then let's get on with it," John insisted, nodding his head in stark determination.
"Undress, John Watson," the command was accompanied by a sharp click, the flame extinguishing at the room falling into darkness. "And join me upon my bed." 

Victor POV: Somehow he felt every fingerprint, despite the distinct impression Sherlock's touch made upon another canvas of skin. Where those fingernails impaled, Victor's nerves fired, and as he writhed under his lonely blankets he felt every motion that was passed from Sherlock Holmes into the body of another boy. He saw it as a spectator, as an unwelcomed pair of eyes imbedded into the wallpaper. As if he was hovering over top of the lovers, those pairs of bare limbs strained above the blankets, wrapped and wrestling, Victor felt as if he had the capability to join them. Because he felt included already, he felt alive. He felt admired. And yet it was not his lips which were receiving such attention, it was not his body being caressed. While his own arms were quaking with the pressure it was John Watson's skin meeting against Sherlock's smooth palm. While Victor could feel his own chest heaving, his own torso pressed down upon his bed, it was instead John Watson who was buried underneath their mutual lover, indented into the undisturbed blankets. The entire scene reeked of urgency, the lovers scrambling to meet their marks, rushing to force every potential for ecstasy out of each second that went by. Their urgency was evident within their grasps, their clenched fingers and flexed muscles, their writhing skin, their grinding teeth. Each kiss was executed as if it would be the last, pressing lips and saliva upon bare skin and teeth, pushing, pulling, grasping for a handle that could be made from the jutting bones. Fingers locking, knees colliding, bodies blending... Victor felt it all, as if his very own body had been introduced into the mix, and it was a long moment before he realized the dream held any significance. In fact, he may not have jumped to such a conclusion himself. He may not have cared to see his boyfriend embracing another boy, not if he had remained asleep. Not if he had been left to dream on his own accord, and enjoy vicariously the love he was not receiving.
Through dreams spilled into reality, and touches, while better left ghostly, became solid. Gentle hands upon another's skin turned to forceful pushes from a solid form, and before Victor could fully wake he began to gasp, his fingers reaching for the hand which wrapped upon his arm, reaching underneath the starched sleeve for the touch of another's skin, falsely assuming what he could only understand as a loving gesture...
"Victor!"
"Sherlock..." Victor breathed, his eyes falling carelessly open as he reached a leg out from under the blankets, preparing to fall off of his mattress and around the waist of his lover. The real face, the earthly visitor, was not quite so satisfying. In fact it took one glance at the matted beard for Victor to promptly fall out of his ecstasy, blinking his eyes and withdrawing his grasp so rapidly he may have very well been yanked away by an entirely external force. As if the back wall of his room had become a vacuum, so suddenly did the young man fall away from his older, withered counterpart.
"What the h*ll are you doing in my bedroom?" Victor snarled, wrapping himself urgently in his blankets and hiding the more permanent aftermaths of his lovely dream. The old man didn't even chuckle; he didn't bother to treat the matter with anything less than the utmost urgency. There was a terror in his eyes, a wildness that surpassed his usual unhinged expression. Something had necessitated his travel, something had carried him here.
"The house...I was at the house..." the man shook his head anxiously, as if he was trying to decide whether or not his story really ought to be told. He was breathless, as if that long walk had instead been a run.
"The house, yes?" Victor's voice grew increasingly worried, and yet he tried to keep his composure calm. Reacting to this situation in any negative way would only strain the old man further, and if he got too excitable perhaps his old, withered heart would finally give up on trying to sustain him.
"John Watson arrived." the old man whispered, his fingers tangling around a bunch of fabric from Victor's blanket, simply looking for anything to squeeze, to attack. "Your John Watson. And he was driving your car."
"John?" Victor breathed, his interest sparking as his heart began the long and steep descent into his stomach. Once again he felt that sickening sense of betrayal, the sneaking, the secrets. It was that uneasiness that came only when he sensed disloyalty, when he sensed something was amiss. Something was wrong with the picture he had drawn up in his head. "John was at the house?"
"I've seen this before. I've been through this before. As soon as they start going behind your back...as soon as they move in the darkness..." the old man's voice quivered, suddenly breaking off into a slow and miserable moan. Evidentially he was staring upon his own past, staring at Victor's young face and recognizing his own. He saw the pain reflected, the very same that he had to suffer through when his own predicted events came to pass.
"There was...there was only one car?" Victor clarified, figuring that was a rather telling sign. There was no sign of Sherlock's being there, at least for now. Perhaps John had been summoned for a different purpose? Perhaps he was working along his own path of discovery, the sort of mysteries that only unfold for the vessel which carried his soul. There were secrets to be learned for all three of them, each in separate intervals, each in separate ways.
"I didn't see Sherlock arrive, though I saw John run up the stairs. He looked...determined. He looked as if he knew what was waiting for him," the old man admitted. In any other event, Victor might have scolded him for his pessimism. However, at this point in his life it was no surprise that he did not trust anyone bearing the name John Watson.
"You think Sherlock is there too?" Victor managed, his dream becoming less of a fantasy and more of a stark, unwelcomed reality. Perhaps that had been a failed summoning; the live broadcast sent to his head in an attempt to bring him to the house in his expected urgency. Could it be true, could Sherlock be betraying him at this very moment? Was that house, as clever as it was, really organizing its preferred order of events?
"We have to go, Victor," the old man announced, pushing himself to his feet in his aged, struggling fashion. He was not getting any healthier; in fact it seemed as if the continued interactions with the rest of his shared soul was beginning to draw his own portion away. Perhaps the newest version was due to win this battle, perhaps it was a series of reverse osmosis, in which the smaller portions of the same substance began to leak slowly into the larger mass. Was the younger Victor Trevor laying claim to the rest of his life force? Was he finally regaining the fragmented part of his due existence, all at the cost of his most trusted companion?