The Mad House

It's Never Just A House

The deed to the house came by post to John's work address, though he had never gotten any personal mail through that mailbox before. It arrived in a mysterious parcel, appearing in his mailbox even though he hadn't been expecting anything. John took the envelope back to his office during his lunch break, when all of the kids were off in their respective cafes or restaurants, taking time away from their studies to enjoy a sandwich with their friends. Well, he didn't have anything too fantastic for lunch and so was not missing anything as he took a pair of scissors and cut through the top of the thick paper envelope. It was addressed to him in a very sloppy hand, written in pen as if in a hurry, and there was a stamp printed along the top corner bearing the Town Hall's return address. At first, John thought it might be calling him for jury duty, or perhaps it was a parking ticket he had neglected throughout the years. However, when he opened the package out fell an envelope, and inside was the most peculiar document he had ever seen. It was handwritten on an ancient piece of yellowing paper, so frail it looked almost as if it would fall apart the moment he set his fingers on it. Yet with further examination, he saw it had a strange address printed upon it, of a house most likely, and his name scrawled in very neat calligraphy at the bottom. John studied it for a moment, deciding that if he was reading this correctly, then this was a deed, an inheritance of sorts. This address must now belong to him, through some accidental chain of family heritage. John examined the deed once more; just to be sure that he wasn't misreading anything and tried to determine the age of the document. It looked ancient, truly ancient. Yet there was his name, in the same old ink as the rest of the writing, possibly a grandfather of his then, someone with the same name? John didn't remember any family history behind his name, and so of course this deed couldn't mean him. And so it must have been someone way back in the history of his lineage, someone who had owned a house...John didn't let himself get too excited, of course. Just because there was an address didn't mean it was anything glamorous. Knowing his ancestors it was probably a rundown old tool shed, which they had given a mailbox and an address just for a laugh. John really wasn't proud of his heritage, as he had left his family behind in America to start a new and more distinguished life for himself in England. If his ancient ancestors proved to be anything like his immediate family, well he knew not to expect much from this strange inheritance. Besides, any structure with a deed this old ought to be the same age, if not older. And if this deed was just falling into his hands now, who knows how long the building had been sitting in the elements, unowned, and rotting back into its framework? Nevertheless, John decided he ought to show it off to the only person he knew would tolerate his rantings.His coworker and fellow professor Greg Lestrade had an office just down the hall, as John's office in the biology wing was placed in such juxtaposition with the criminal science wing that it was impossible for the two of them not to befriend each other over the years. Then again, when you walk past someone in the hallway enough times, eventually you have to say hello, followed eventually by a complement of a tie, or a new pair of glasses. And then came the conversation, presumably...Oh, who knows how they got to be acquainted? One day John was the new professor on the block, and the next he had a best friend, right down the hall within yelling distance. Yet today John decided not to yell, as those older professors who have more wrinkles than PHD's usually don't like noise during their lunch hours, especially when it was coming out of John's office. Despite his being here for a year and a half, he was still the newest professor in this hallway, and therefore was automatically the one who got blamed for disturbing the peace. It wasn't usually a fair accusation, considering Greg was almost always the most vocal of the two of them, while John kept his own voice to a reasonable and professional volume. And so, John minded his footsteps as he walked down the old wooden halls of the university, his feet scuffing against the old red carpet that still clung attractively to the wooden floors. And yet, along with the age of the building there also came almost no discretion at all. Whenever someone decided to move about through the hallways there was always that telltale squeak of the ancient floorboards, and that very squeak must have been why Greg knew to swivel his chair around to face the door before John was able to announce himself.
"Ah, Professor Watson," Greg said in his most nauseatingly formal voice, folding his hands politely on the table in front of him and sitting up as straight as he could manage. "What is it that I can do for you today?" John just scowled, holding the deed a bit gentler between his two fingers and giving his friend a little glare.
"Well, Professor Lestrade, you can very politely act your age." John suggested with a sarcastic sneer. Immediately Greg's posture dropped, and he leaned back in his chair and spun around once, as if to fully satisfy John's request.
"In all honesty, I've only been told to act my age when I'm immature. Never has anyone complained that I'm being too mature." Greg pointed out with a wagging finger, all the while he was still completing his second turn in his swivel chair and therefore had his back facing John. "Not until now." John corrected, kicking the door shut and wincing when it made a loud bang. "Well, there you go. Now you'll get to witness the real mature folks, as they come in here with their daily noise complaints." Greg groaned, finally ceasing his spinning by planting his feet solidly on the floor and pulling himself up to the table, as if to further investigate the paper John had just laid down on top of the piles of assignments that littered the man's desk.
"What have we here?" Greg asked, pawing at the paper before John winced, moving to pull it away before Greg faltered and lifted his hands in surrender.
"Gentle, Greg, gentle. That thing's ancient." John warned. Greg sighed heavily, yet as per John's instructions, he moved carefully, and picked up the deed with uncharacteristically delicate fingers.
"Deed to a house?" Greg presumed.
"Ya, I got it in the mail this morning." John agreed. Greg nodded in approval, setting the paper back down on the desk and rearranging himself once more in his chair.
"Isn't that fancy? A whole new house- you could have two families then! One of them would have to know, of course, but you can just tell the other that you're going on a holiday and scamper on to your new wife, in your new house, whenever you get bored of the first." Greg suggested with a grin.
"I won't get bored of the first, Greg. I know a bachelor like you won't understand what it's like to be in love, but I can assure you it doesn't just end." John taunted.
"Not if you do it right. But you won't know that until you're at least a year in, would you? Just you wait, John, soon all those pretty girls will look very tempting." Greg teased. John groaned, shaking his head and wondering to himself why he even thought telling Greg would be worth his time. He ought to have known that Greg would use the house to make fun of his new wedding ring. It had only been a couple of months since he had gotten married to Mary Morstan, and yet those months had still managed to be filled with love and commitment. The couple just had their first child together, a little newborn named Rosie, a beautiful baby with little wisps of blonde hair and the most adorable toothless smile. Now of course, this was the most delightful thing to ever happen to John, at least in his conscious recollection, all the while Greg constantly reminded him that a child was a weight, and a wife was the shackle. That man always did like to make fun of John for settling down, probably in his own denial of the miserable state of bachelor he had found himself in. Then again, Greg was too much of a playboy to settle down. He never got very far with his girlfriends, usually because he got bored of them within a couple of weeks. And because of that, it simply wasn't Greg's place to call John's love life a failure.
"While completely ignoring what you just said, what do you think I should do with it?" John asked with a little frown.
"The house?" Greg clarified, rolling his hand over his wrist a couple of times in quiet pondering. "Ya, the house, the deed...I mean where do I go from here?" John agreed with a tried glance, wondering just how much maintenance this house was going to need, if it even was his own house at all! There was still some doubt in his mind about the truthfulness behind the deed, as if it was just some practical joke two hundred years in the making.
 "Well, you own the place now, don't you? I suppose you go there, then. Go check it out, see if it's worth your time. If not, try to sell it. Although, I suggest flipping it, in all honesty. These days house flipping is where all the money is. If it's a rundown shack then abandon it, but if not, try to make some money." Greg suggested with a grin.
"My only concern is that this house isn't supposed to be mine. Just look at the name! That ink seems to be older than I am! It certainly couldn't be left to me." John insisted with a small shake of his head.
"Your name's not the only one on here, mate. See that?" Greg pointed to what appeared to be a bit of paint, peeling from underneath the ink that printed John's name. It was almost like some ancient form of white out. "It looks like you were added afterwards. So, maybe someone changed the names on the deed, from your father's name to yours, or whoever originally owned the house."
"No, we never had a house, especially not in England!" John insisted.
 "Well, maybe your ancestors were English. Just because you're from America doesn't mean you all originated there. I mean, when you think about it, all Americans were English at one point." Greg pointed out with a smart little smirk. John narrowed his eyes at him, not entirely sure if that was a valid argument or not.
"Ya, but that still doesn't mean their property was to be passed down. If this was some ancient seventeenth century house, you'd think I'd have known about it before. You'd think they'd make a bigger deal about it." John said with a sigh of defeat.
"Are you complaining? I feel like you're complaining. Got a nice big house to your name now, and you're whining that it doesn't make any sense. Why don't you just go with it?" Greg suggested insistently, glaring at John as it to forcefully make him enjoy the special little surprises life had in store for them.
"I like things that make sense, Greg. You know that." John groaned. "And this deed seems to be as much an enigma to me as you are."
"Oh man, such extremes!" Greg yelled with a laugh, to which John apprehensively shushed him, turning his eyes towards the closed door and listening hard for any approaching, angry footsteps.
"I'll go down to Town Hall tonight, after class. I'll just make sure everything is as it should be." John decided with a sigh. Greg gave a great groan of disapproval, yet then again that was all he could do, as he knew any verbal protest would be a waste of both of their times. Once John's heart was set on doing the right thing there was no going back. Greg's rebellious nature was not enough to contaminate John, and there was no way he was going to collect this deed without first making sure it was intentionally left to him. Besides, if there really was another John Watson from his father's side, it still didn't make sense that they would choose to pass something as important as a house to him. Historically, John had done nothing to that family except disgrace them, as his father had said right before he left. Certainly, he wouldn't get any presents from the Watsons except an envelope full of ricin. And so, Greg could never understand not only that this deed might be misplaced, but also the idea that anything from the Watsons must not be a gift at all. Surely if the house was intentionally passed to him it was because there was something wrong with it, and so it would be more of a burden than a gift. It was merely some more family baggage that he would have to carry atop his already aching shoulders. An old deteriorating shack that no one wanted to deal with anymore, come into his possession because its original owners had gotten lazy. Of course it would be passed down to him.