- Sherlock! I've told you at least a thousand times what I think of your fixation on horror ...
Sherlock sardonically smiled before answering.
- And I've replied at least a thousand times that yours is nothing but fear. Terror.
John was indignant, rising in all his unfortunately not remarkable stature.
- Fear? You don't know what you're saying! I will enlist next year, do you know what that means?!?
Sherlock slowed his pace, pretending to be interested in the window of the shop they were passing in front of.
- Sure. It means that you will wear a uniform and massacre hearts among all the silly little girls you'll meet. - he hid his face a little so that the other could not see the redness that had inexplicably spread on his cheekbones at the thought of John in uniform, accentuated by the rush of anger in imagining him surrounded by adoring little girls.
- What an idiot! It means that I will go to war zones, and if necessary I will have to fight on the front line. I'll risk my life! This is what it means! It's certainly not a thing for fearful...but how would you know!
He walked away quickly, to show all his indignation.
The tallest reached him in a few steps.
- Come on, don't be mad at me, I was just making fun of you, I always do ...
Watson stopped, then turned slowly. Why the hell he couldn't keep pouting for more than a minute at that silly boy, that was a fact that would always remain a mystery to him.
- I know I know. So, do you really want to go to that abandoned house?
Sherlock's eyes shone.
- A lot!
- OK, let's do it. Even if I really don't understand what d'you find interesting in it.
The boy clapped his hands, happy as a child.
- Perfect! So I'll see you there at five minutes past midnight, okay?
John couldn't hold back a chuckle.
When Watson reached the street in front of the house, he could not suppress a shiver: that place had a disturbing aspect and the rumors that circled were even more so.
In the 1960s a boy, about twenty years old, had been found dead on the bedroom floor, brutally slaughtered. The body had not been identified and no clues of any kind had been found.
The whole affair was soon forgotten and the house took on its terrible fame, becoming over time the favorite destination of any challenge, bet or initiation rite among the boys of the city.
Suddenly his attention was drawn to a moving light in the house.
"That idiot has already entered," he thought, and headed for the door. If Sherlock thought of frightening him by letting him in alone, he was wrong.
With caution he pushed the door which, as expected, creaked.
He took a few steps inside then called softly.
- Sherlock ... where are you?
The wooden floorboards creaked under his feet and he winced.
- Sherlock, damn it, come on out!
A gust of wind opened a window, John rushed to close it but stopped with his hands on the window seal because he felt dizzy. He shut his eyes tightly, took a few deep breaths and felt better. He closed the window and decided to go out. Sherlock wanted to continue with his stupid joke? Well, he would have done it alone.
He opened the door and took a step out, but was unable to cross the threshold, as if an invisible hand was holding him back.
He felt anger closing his throat.
- Sherlock! Cut it out!
He turned to face him but his friend's voice reached him from outside.
- Stop doing what?
He turned abruptly and Sherlock was there, in the doorway, studying him questioningly.
- I ... I ... you ... you were inside, how can you be here!
The other raised an eyebrow.
- Are you drunk? I have arrived now!
Watson rubbed his neck and moved to let him in.
- N-no, nothing. Come on, come on. The sooner we start, the sooner this story will end.
They headed for the stairs to reach the floor above. They went up slowly, both feeling the sensation of not being alone in that strange house.
They entered the bedroom and Sherlock felt a shiver run through him.
- This is where they found him ... I can't believe they didn't gather any clues. The police are so superficial!
Watson did not reply and an absolute silence fell in the room.
Sherlock turned around.
- John, what's wrong? Are not you feeling good? You are so pale ...
The boy stood motionless, his arms at his sides and his eyes closed. It seemed that he wasn't even breathing. Holmes laid his hand on his shoulder to shake him slightly.
- John ...?
Watson shook himself and raised his eyelids.
- Never felt better.
The taller looked at him carefully.
- Are you sure? Maybe you caught a cold, your voice lowered ...
- I'm fine, I tell you.
The tone did not allow for replies and Sherlock returned to take care of the floor next to the bed, driving away the annoying impression of having seen something unusual in the eyes of his friend.
He had just knelt when he felt John's hand caress his back. He tried to walk away, to look at him and ask him what he was doing (not that it actually bothered him, but he would never have expected it from the most heterosexual boy on campus), but a low, almost unrecognizable voice stopped him.
- Don't turn around, let me caress you ... you are so beautiful!
The hand that touched his back came to the nape, intertwining his fingers with the dark curls that covered it. Sherlock held his breath and closed his eyes, losing himself for a moment in that hypnotic caress. Then his fingers tightened around his hair and forced him to get up, preventing him from turning around. He felt taken by the other hand, a possessive hold to which he felt he could not rebel.
The hand crept under the shirt and began to stroke the sensitive skin in that spot. An uncontrollable tremor seized him, his head was spinning, he had never felt anything like this.
As much as those caresses bewitched him, he decided to regain control because that situation was too far-fetched, John had never shown interest in him and now ... this? He forced himself to turn and when he did he stood, amazed.
Watson's features were confused, as if his face was turning into someone else's, the irises staring at him were changing color ... what was going on?
The other's gaze became sad.
- Is that what it's called?
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, trying to keep a coherent thought.
- Who are you...
- My name is Michael.
- What ... did you do ... to John ...
- He's fine. He is always here
- W-what do you want ...
- Justice. And amends.
- Do you want me to find out who killed you?
- I know who killed me. Don't you want to know my story?
- Is it important?
- It is, to me.
- Then you will leave my friend free?
- You mean the guy you love ...
- I don't ... I don't love anyone!
- You know that's not true. You love him and he loves you.
Sherlock blinked quickly, trying to process that sentence, fixing his gaze on the boy in front of him and for a moment he saw John again, then his features became even more confused.
- It's not true. He doesn't love me, he has many girls ... why are you lying!?!
Michael raised a hand, touching Sherlock's flushed cheeks with the tips of his fingers.
- I'm not lying to you. I couldn't. He loves you, I'm sure ... I'm inside him, remember?
- I have to ... sit down.
Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, clasping his shaking hands convulsively.
- Who killed you ...
Michael's eyes dimmed.
- My stepfather. He was in love with me and didn't want me to be someone else's. I was in love with William, a boy I studied with, but my stepfather had threatened him several times. So we ran away from Edinburgh, where we lived, and came to hide in this house, which belonged to my grandmother. But he found us. He waited for William to come out, took me by surprise, tried to kiss me. I resisted and hit him in the face,
I came to lock myself in the room, but he broke the door and grabbed me. The last thing I remember is awful pain in the throat. Since then I have been cursed to stay here, waiting for William.
Sherlock had listened with his heart in turmoil. He let out a long sigh, covering his face with his hands.
- My- my first name is W-William.
Michael's gaze softened. He joined Sherlock and sat down next to him.
He took his face in his hands and whispered.
- I missed you so much...
When their lips touched, Sherlock knew with certainty that he was kissing John and Michael. The arms that now held him were those of John, the heart he felt wildly beating was that of John, but on John's lips he was savoring two souls, two consciences, two memories.
Michael and John were merged in one spirit, which permeated that body tightly close to his.
That night was Sherlock's first time and it was his John who took him, with love, passion, sweetness, but the tears that wet Sherlock belonged to both.
Michael's pain and despair melted in that salty rain and came out of those blue eyes that Sherlock loved so much.
John was also crying, a prisoner of a spell that was giving him what he unknowingly had always wanted, since he first shook hands with that wonderful boy with stormy ocean eyes.
When their breathing subsided, held tightly in each other's arms, they looked at each other and Sherlock realized that Michael had dissolved into the blinding white glow of his orgasm explosion.
- John ...
- The boy...he's gone
- I know. I'm sorry it involved you, I won't tell anyone, I swear...
- Sherlock, hush. What do you say?
- You ... I know it would never have happened if we hadn't come here, if I hadn't ...
- If I wasn't in love with you.
Sherlock's eyes widened.
- So that's true? You love me?
- Always. From the first time. This was the best night of my life.
- I love you too. I didn't think I was capable of it. Then you came ...
- And Michael ...
John held him tight against his chest.
- Happy Halloween, my love.