The Mad House

It Doesn't Have To Make Sense

John sat miserably in his office, checking his watch to make sure he was still within his time frame. The picture sat on his desk, amongst all his other old photographs so that no one would notice anything was particularly out of place. Even though he detested that photograph, or rather just its existence in general, he still felt as though it had to be displayed. It was, well above all other things it was very beautiful. It was seductive of course, for the look in Sherlock's eyes, directed at the camera, was a look that only had one purpose. That look was the thing that drew someone in, it was the look that made the audience know for sure that they were allowed closer. His body was the prize, but that look was an utter magnet. John didn't know in what context this picture was taken, he couldn't guess as to what the motivation was behind it. Had Sherlock decided to wear such a flimsy outfit for the sake of the picture, was he posing so that all the generations after him would be entranced by his gaze? Or rather was this his natural state, and the observer wanted to capture it? What had been going on before this picture, oh but more accurately, what would go on after it? The moment that camera flashed, the moment Sherlock came back to life out of this still frame. John could imagine it now; well simply because he had seen it before. He had seen this picture before, in live action...all displayed in his head. In that dream he had, before he had ever seen Sherlock's face, before he had ever seen this picture. He knew all too well that after that camera flashed, that Sherlock would draw back his head against the bedpost, still clinging to his robe with one fist, but grabbing onto the post with his other, pulling himself against it in a helpless position. He would sigh heavily, with his chest heaving up and down so visibly, the white skin stretching across his neck, across his collarbones... He was made to be admired, that man. He was made to be worshipped, and this stance was merely his call for followers. For men to bow down before him, gasping and kissing and loving, so powerfully simply...loving. Sherlock had been immortalized in that position for a reason, so that years later, centuries later, John Watson would sit at his desk and stare at it. Stare at it so intensely that he didn't notice the man at the door, the man who was chuckling at John's dropped jaw.
"You look busy, John." Greg said with a little laugh, moving into the room and going to shut the door before John made a noise of disproval.
"No, keep it open. I'm expecting someone." John insisted, instinctively flattening the picture frame against his desk and trying his best to look perfectly innocent. Greg's eyebrows raised in interest, and he moved over now to one of the chairs John had arranged in front of his desk.
"What have you been up to these past couple days? I hardly see you anymore." Greg muttered in something of a protest, crossing his arms and leaning back casually in his chair. John sighed, shaking his head as if he couldn't even begin to explain the mess he had been wallowing through for the past week.
"Oh God, your guess is as good as mine." John grumbled. "It's just been that house, that horrible house."
"Was it all run down then?" Greg presumed with a sad little frown.
"No, no the opposite. It's in mint condition, Greg. Abandoned for a century, and looking like they had just walked out the door yesterday. It's ancient, and it's beautiful..." John gave a great groan of annoyance, letting his head thunk down onto his desk right next to his uneaten sandwich.
"Well that's um...well I don't know. Is that tragic?" Greg asked apprehensively.
"That's not it, Greg. I just feel like the house is playing tricks on me, it's getting into my head. I feel mad, Greg. I feel positively mad." John sighed.
"Well I'm sure you're perfectly sane, John. I mean really, you're one of the smartest guys I know." Greg said with a little grin.
"First of all, you're lying. Second of all, all mad people are intelligent. You're not a very good crazy person if you're stupid." John pointed out.
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, most crazy people don't know they're crazy. So I guess, I mean, if you're that self-aware..." Greg began, but cut himself off with some hesitation after John stared at him for a good while.
"You're really not helping." John said flatly. Greg nodded in agreement; looking a bit careless all the while he twiddled his thumbs together, trying to think of another conversation starter.
"So are you going to move in there, then? If it's all fancy and stuff?" Greg presumed quietly.
"No. No way." John said flatly. "I'm not taking my daughter anywhere near that, that hellish place."
"Why do you say it's hellish? I thought this was some nice mansion, and if it's really pretty, and nicely kept, well then what's the issue?" Greg wondered in some protest, in his own mission to prove that he knew everything. Well of course he wouldn't understand, John felt as though there was only one other person who had even the capability of understanding his struggles. And that was, of course, Sherlock Holmes. The boy who should be making his way through the halls any moment now.
"Ya, I'm sorry Greg, but I really can't put it in words. I don't think you'd understand." John admitted with a shrug, getting to his feet and walking around towards the door. The bell was going to ring any moment, already he could hear the footsteps of the approaching stampede ascending the stairwells. Already he could hear the long stride of Sherlock Holmes, somewhere now, inside of the building. As John was perched at the doorway Greg took that moment to let his curiosity get the better of him, and when John had his back turned he made a lunge for the picture that John had tried so hard to hide. John was too late in stopping him, for the only real cue he had that Greg had acted out was the great exclamation he gave; only after seeing the picture which was tucked safely behind the dusty glass.
"Oh my God! John this is downright pornographic! What on earth do you have this on your desk for?" Greg asked in exclamation, giggling like a mad man all the while John's face turned about as red as a tomato.
"Oh stop that, it's not my picture." John growled, snatching the frame out of Greg's hands before he could study it too carefully.
"Not your picture? No, just holding on to it for someone else? All the while staring at it, and keeping it on your desk? My God, aren't you married to a woman?" Greg pointed out. John saw that he was smiling, and yet he wasn't entirely sure if Greg was joking or not. Most of John's common sense said no, that Greg's inquiries, however stupid they were, were serious. He was actually doubting his friend's loyalty and his sexuality. That only made John all the more embarrassed.
"No, it's not mine. Well I guess it is mine, technically, but I didn't bring it here for me. I found it in the house, and I need...well I've got to show it to someone." John said quickly, hiding the picture against his chest so as to keep Sherlock's secrets safe to himself once more. Even if it wasn't Sherlock in this picture, surely the man himself would not appreciate it if John was showing his great grandfather's scandalous photographs around the campus.
"All missions aside, John, you were staring at this thing when I came in." Greg pointed out.
"I was thinking about it." John growled. "The very picture is a mystery, because it wasn't on the mantle when I first toured. I can swear to that, and no one's been in there except me ever since then. So not only how it got there but..." John was interrupted now when the door in the back of the hall opened, and he allowed a small little smile slip onto his lips. "Well, you'll see the other part really soon I'm sure."
"Excuses, excuses. You were fantasizing; I saw it in your eyes." Greg teased. John sighed heavily, shaking his head but deciding that it was probably in his own best interest that he stopped arguing all together. There was no point in fighting Greg, especially after Greg had made up his mind. He would see all too soon, why this picture was such an enigma. And so John ignored Greg for the time being, and instead stuck his head out to watch the passerby. He knew that Sherlock would be among them, as he had been before. They both had twelve fifteen classes in this very building, yet those classes could wait. Those classes were not nearly as important as the house they were both now trying to figure out. Finally John saw Sherlock's face in the crowd, the face that seemed to draw his gaze like a magnet. John was quite sure that he could never miss that man, and once their eyes were locked he was sure that he could never look away. What an odd attachment the two of them had, without knowing each other at all! What an odd sort of destiny they seemed to share. John waved him down, for of course just as John could always spot Sherlock, Sherlock undoubtedly could always spot John. And the boy nodded, making his way through the crowd of people a lot more peacefully than he had during his first trip to John's office.
"Sherlock, do you mind stepping inside for a moment? I've got to show you something." John muttered just as soon as Sherlock was within earshot. He nodded eagerly, as if he was just happy to be included once more in this little adventure, their shared ghost story as he was so anxious to call it.
"Yes of course." Sherlock agreed, stepping into the office just in time for Greg to let out a gasp of recognition.
"Oh my God, John! You've got a picture of a student?" Greg exclaimed, his face growing pale but his smile widening all the same. Certainly he was ashamed of John's scandalous behaviors, but all the same he may just be proud of himself for guessing that marriage was such a trap. Oh how he wanted to say "I told you so" after John kept insisting that he was content with his marriage.
"No, you moron. This picture is as old as the house. But now with your little recollection, may I please ask you to leave." John suggested, ushering Sherlock inside all the while he held the door open wider, for Greg to go out.
"What, and miss all this?" Greg asked with a little chuckle.
"I rephrase. Leave, Greg." John corrected, forcing his lips into a smile all the while Sherlock looked between the two as if he was wondering what on earth was going on. As if he couldn't really tell what these two men knew and he didn't. Greg sighed heavily, but obviously he was in no position to argue. And so he raised his hands in surrender, shrugging his shoulders passively and getting to his feet. He paused on the way out to crane his neck up at Sherlock, studying his face as if he really couldn't understand how he could look exactly the same as the photograph.
"Whack." Greg muttered, and that was his final word, for with that he left. John slammed the door behind him, quick enough to silence any last words Greg might have had. And now it was just the two of them, ultimately how John felt it should belong. And yet he had to admit, this picture that was still flattened against his chest wasn't just disturbing, it was also very racy. Would Sherlock be embarrassed of it, or would he be so afraid of the resemblance that he would leave John forever? Would he not care for this mystery, so long as he was still caught up in the middle of it? There was an awkwardness building between the two of them, for still when John saw Sherlock he couldn't help but see him again, in a different state...with a lot less clothing.