The Mad House

The Ghost In The Flesh

"What's your idea, hm? What's your goal here, in tormenting me? In terrorizing me?" John growled, taking a step forward to which the student just squealed again, curling his long, lean body up into a protective ball behind one of the office chairs, as if that was going to protect him from anymore of John's future violence. John stopped his advancing, seeing now that the boy was legitimately terrified, and yet he didn't stop to think for a moment. Anger was clouding his judgment, and his common sense, and instead of stopping to ask himself how this boy had gotten into his house, and disappeared before his very eyes, and appeared so lifelike in his dreams...well no! Those would require paranormal explanations, and John was determined to be rational. He wanted to believe what was in front of his eyes, this logical explanation, this cowering and terrified boy.
"I'm sorry, Professor Watson I...I don't think I've been terrorizing you! If I have been well then...well then it certainly wasn't my intention!" the boy breathed, cowering even farther away from John yet just now mustering the courage to look him in the eyes. John stared into his gaze for a moment, seeing legitimate confusion, and furthermore legitimate terror. And so the boy was properly afraid, well that was good, wasn't it? That was useful. If he was afraid, well then surely he would very easily learn his lesson, and not dare to bother John any longer.
"How could it not have been your intention to go into my house, hm? How could you have mistakenly crept around in my halls and position yourself just so that..." John's voice faded just as he was beginning to hear his own argument. "Just so that I would see you long enough for me to yell." The boy's face was contorting into something even more of confusion, as if he really didn't know what he was supposed to do now. Certainly he could see that he hadn't really done anything wrong, he was merely caught in the hands of a professor who was raving mad. Perhaps he thought he was the end of a joke, yet then again that had been John's assumption of himself up until now. Finally he was beginning to see that it was impossible for this boy to be the same one in his house, for he was so genuinely confused that he simply could not be lying.
"I never went into your house, professor. I never did anything like that." the boy whimpered. "Please believe me."
"I um..." John faltered for a moment, rubbing his face in some exasperation as he realized now just how stupid he had just made himself look. The irrationality of his actions began to set down on him with a crushing weight, and he was suddenly very embarrassed about the force he had used, the fear. A simple conversation might have sufficed, to clear this matter up once and for all. "I believe you. I'm sorry I think...I think I must have mistaken you for someone else."
"There's someone stalking you, Professor?" the boy asked apprehensively, speaking now as if it was his intention to help. He had very quickly overcome his fear, and now instead of cowering he was standing straight up once more, wearing a very long coat with a bag hanging on his shoulder. He looked professional, and apologetic. As if he assumed this whole matter was still his fault, despite John's obvious error.
"No, no one's stalking me." John grumbled, shaking his head and sighing in exasperation. Oh what a fool he was! "You just, you look like someone I thought I saw. But it's nothing, it's...I'm just letting ghost stories go to my head!"
"I love ghost stories." The boy said instinctively, yet John waved him off indifferently. "My name's Sherlock, by the way. I'm studying chemistry."
"Well, Sherlock, this isn't a ghost story, no there's nothing. It's not real, none of it." John sighed.
"I hate to argue, Professor, but if I may ask, would you have accepted it was real if I had admitted to being in your house? Because you seemed pretty set on my involvement." Sherlock pointed out with a gleam in his eyes.
"Well yes, because if you had been in there it would've made sense. But no, now I'm sure my eyes are just playing tricks on me." John grumbled, shaking his head and leaning slightly against the door, as if he was afraid that along with his crumbling mental state his legs would also give way soon enough. The boy, however, seemed to be growing more and more excited.
"That's what they all say, Professor. People in horror movies. They always just jump to psychological issues, but in the end it really is a ghost." Sherlock said eagerly.
"I'm sorry, but this really isn't a horror movie. And furthermore, it really is none of your concern." John grumbled, shaking his head and going now to open the door. Yet something stopped him, for a moment. His hand froze, and he felt something of a burning sensation in his pocket. At first he diagnosed it as a mere muscle spasm, but as his hand neared the handle it continued, burning now so hot that it was nearly scorching his skin. John gave a great yelp, and instead of grabbing at the door he instead plunged his hand into his pocket, unearthing the key that was now burning so hot that it singed his fingers as he grabbed it from his pocket and threw it down at the carpet between the two of them. Sherlock lunged for cover once more, as if he assumed this to be another one of John's delusional attacks. Yet no, the key landed softly on the carpet, and just as soon as it had been freed from his pocket the burning sensation stopped...as if it had never been there at all.
"What's that?" Sherlock asked excitedly, recovering now from the shock of another suspected attack and moving in on the key.
"That's...it was hot." John said stupidly, waving his fingers through the air as if to cool them down, yet all the same he felt no lasting effects at all. In fact, he felt no pain whatsoever, nothing like what would usually come with the aftermath of a burn.
"I've seen that key before." the boy said thoughtfully, squatting down next to it and moving to pick it up from where it lay.
"Careful! It just burned me!" John exclaimed, yet his words faltered when Sherlock took the key up in his hands, handling it with long, careful fingers. He looked very intensive, something like a detective who was following a clue. He looked downright entranced, with the little bit of metal he was holding in his hands. Thankfully, the boy disregarded John's burning delusions, and instead looked up at John with a look of amazement in his eyes.
"I've seen this, I just don't know when." He admitted quietly. John hesitated, his mind immediately jumping now to the man in his house. Well if this stranger had seen the key, perhaps he really had been sneaking around! Yet just as soon as the idea came to John's mind, he disregarded it. Once again, he was letting his own delusions get the better of him.
"Well it's a pretty common looking key." John said with a shrug.
"No it's not. How many other keys have you seen, that are made of this thick iron?" Sherlock challenged.
"I suppose it depends on how many old houses you own." John shrugged. A quick smile passed over the boy's lips, a smile that John had never seen before...yet one which affected him like nothing he had ever seen. It was a smile that warmed him to the bone, something that gave light to his dark heart, something that made his heavy feet feel as though they could fly... He took a quick inhale of breath, shaking out images in his mind, of that vulnerable man standing up against the bedpost, that man with the same face, and body. Yet how, how could they possibly be one in the same?
"You own an old house then?" Sherlock presumed, his voice now taking a turn from excited to curious. He sounded interested in John's life, for some reason, as if John's manic episode was thought provoking for him.
"Ya, I do now. I just got the deed a couple of days ago, God. It feels like ages but...ever since then I've felt crazy." John admitted quietly.
"You don't say." Sherlock said with a little chuckle, holding the key in his palm and standing back up, twirling it between his fingers so pointedly. John felt as though he should take it back, for even if there was the slightest chance Sherlock had been creeping around his house, well the key would probably make his endeavors a lot easier. John almost stretched out his hand, but something stopped him, a tiny voice in the back of his head that made him stand still. Something in his head told him...it told him to stay back. That this was all meant to happen that...that the key wanted to be in that man's fingers. As if it had some purpose there. And so John refrained, and he watched as Sherlock looked down upon the key with a very soft expression, as he felt the meaning as well. As if that cold, iron key was warming him from the inside.
"Mr. Holmes, do you think I'm crazy?" John asked with a trembling little voice, his hands shaking now as he shoved them in his pocket, trembling a little bit at the man who stood before him. And yet he didn't feel ashamed, he knew that while he had just met this boy in the hall, just minutes before...well there was no point in hiding anything from him. In fact, it was impossible to hide anything from him. Because their secrets felt mutual, their pasts seemed intertwined and their futures seemed...destined.
"No." Sherlock said quietly, phrasing his words very carefully, as if he was afraid to say something wrong, as if he was afraid to trigger any more of John's little breakdowns. He took another deep breath, rattling the air between his lips yet pausing, thoughtfully. "No I don't. But I do think there's something going on, something I can't entirely explain." John blinked hopefully, nodding his head in relief. And so finally, someone understood! Someone felt it to, someone acknowledged that the house, the key, they were both driving forces to insanity!
"Do you feel it too, then?" John asked anxiously, not able to contain his little smile of hope. And yet Sherlock shook his head, taking a step forward and handing the key out in the palm of his white hand, as if he was handing it back. Yet still, John knew that the key had not had its proper time with him. He hesitated.
"No, I feel nothing, Professor. I just know for sure that I never told you my last name." Sherlock said finally. John blinked, feeling his limbs tense up in panic as he tried to decipher what that sentence could even mean. He stared into Sherlock's eyes, knowing of course what colors to expect to find in his irises, knowing what secrets the colors were trying to hide. John knew the secrets, yet he couldn't call upon them at the moment. He couldn't do anything but stare, and try to remember if he really had been told Sherlock's last name. Sherlock Holmes's last name. And then, in an instant, he snatched the key back from the student's hand and pocketed it anxiously.
"I must've seen it somewhere; certainly I saw it on a file. I mean, Sherlock Holmes, it's um...it's not a common name. I heard your first name, and connected it to the last that's..." John nodded his head, grabbing at the door handle and finding now that he could open it just fine. The hall was empty. "That's how I knew it."
"That would make sense." Sherlock agreed, knowing obviously that it was his time to leave.
"Yes, it would make sense." John agreed with a shutter, holding the door open even wider and allowing Sherlock to move past him, moving slowly and purposefully over the carpet. He was in no hurry, yet he was on his way nevertheless.
"Then again, Professor, sometimes things just don't make sense." Sherlock murmured, stopped right next to John yet not looking him in the eyes. And with that he passed into the hallway, blinking as if clearing his head, and starting down in the direction he had been heading before. Walking swiftly, and fast enough so that when John went to close the door, the boy had disappeared from his sight all together.