The Mad House

Another Century To Come

"John." Sherlock muttered, having peered inside of the wardrobe and been caught in something of a dead standstill. John hesitated, yet all the same he considered such a word to be a summoning, and he allowed himself to walk carefully inside of the room towards where Sherlock was standing. He had his hand on the door, holding it open so as to stare inside, at the wardrobe's contents. And yet the wardrobe was empty, save for one single garment hanging by a hangar inside. One single piece of fabric, left there with a purpose, left there with the intent of Sherlock finding it.
"My God, it's the robe." John whispered. Sherlock took a great breath, and with something of a deep blush he slammed the wardrobe door shut, so violently that it shook the entire floor. John jumped back in surprise, not having expected such a violent reaction out of the man. Yet it was as though that robe scared him, it was if none of this had been real until he had found that garment, hanging in wait for him to find it once more.
"John, what is going on here?" Sherlock whispered in a trembling voice, leaning up with his hands against the wardrobe. In such a stance it was difficult to determine whether he was holding himself up against the doors, or rather forcing them shut with all of his body weight, so as to keep something from escaping. It was as if he expected that robe to slip out through the cracks, and force itself onto his skin.
"I don't know." John admitted quietly. "I don't know."
"But why me? Why was I roped into all of this mess, this isn't my house! This isn't my house." Sherlock growled, shaking his head violently and turning on his heel, storming out into the hallway and leaving John alone in the room for a brief moment. He stared for a while at the wardrobe, tempted now to reach out and open it just a little bit, so as to see the robe hanging there where it was promised to be. Yet he refrained, he knew that it wasn't his to touch, and so just like Sherlock he turned on his heel, making something of a less dramatic exit. John of course had the manners to close his door on the way out. John found Sherlock in the sitting room, holding his head in his hands in something of a defensive manner. He dared not sit on the furniture, and so he was curled up against the wall of the fireplace, sitting on the floor with his knees to his chin. John might've thought he was crying, and yet he was shaking noiselessly. No, he didn't seem upset about anything. He merely seemed afraid. And fear was an emotion John currently knew a lot about. He lingered a little bit closer, yet he dared not speak a word, lest he interrupt Sherlock in his helpless state. And so John merely leaned against the doorway, taking a deep breath and watching in a pitiful sort of way, watching now as Sherlock cowered all the while knowing that he could do nothing to console him. He knew that this was all such a crippling burden; he knew that this was all such a puzzle that it split your brain clean in half. Oh, but was it selfish to finally appreciate that someone else understood his pain? Was it ghastly to feel something of a relief, to know now that this headache was not his alone to bear? There was someone else involved, someone else roped in without their consent. Finally, John was not on his own.
"I hope you don't think I'm a coward." Sherlock said quietly.
"I don't. In fact, I sort of wished I acted the same as you. Unfortunately I'm good at bottling up my emotions, and ignoring them completely. Ignoring the pain they bring." John admitted quietly.
"John this is something more than pain." Sherlock whispered quietly. "This is something more than just...ugh! What is it; I can't even put it into words! It's just a feeling, a feeling of devouring, like something is eating me up from the inside."
"It's the house." John said simply. "It's this place, it's the memories that are trapped here."
"But they're our memories, aren't they John? We lived here, this is our house." Sherlock whispered fearfully.
"It cannot be." John murmured. "No, we're alive now, Sherlock. Not a century ago."
"Who knows? Maybe someone brought us back, reincarnations, necromancy, take your pick!" Sherlock insisted with something of a growl, throwing his hands up into the air in exasperation. Once he picked up his head John noticed immediately that he really had been crying, for his eyes were red and watery, and his cheeks were stained with trails of moisture.
"I don't believe in any of that." John said quietly, feeling the need to look down at his wrists, feeling the need to clarify just to be sure. No, there was no such thing as reincarnation, or any sort of Black Magic. There was just...there was just coincidences. The mere coincidence that this was all falling into place, that they were bearing such recognizable traits as their ancestors, their faces, names, and freckles. It was mere coincidences that John had peculiar birth marks, stretched all the way down his forearms in a steady, solid line.
"I'm sorry, John, if this is going to be at all disappointing, or at all surprising. But I want nothing more to do with this house." Sherlock whispered quietly. "If there really is something going on here, well it's not my duty, nor yours, to have any part in it. If there's some plot behind all of this, well it can be foiled by simply walking away. Maybe there's a reason this house has been locked up for centuries. And maybe there's a good reason to lock it up for another century to come."
"No, that's not a surprise." John admitted quietly, although he had to admit that the idea never crossed his mind. Never once in this entire ordeal did he have the mind to just walk away from it all. Never once did he even consider it as an option. The house wouldn't allow that, would it? The house wouldn't allow all of this to just come to an end? After it had tried so hard to bring them together, would it actually allow John to lock the door and tuck the key away, somewhere no one would find it? Well no, not if this house had powers it wouldn't. And yet, maybe this was a good way to prove the power of coincidence. Maybe this was a good way to guarantee that there was nothing more in his life than just science. Maybe, by just turning his back to this structure, he could prove that it was just a house after all. And that it could do nothing more than sit here and rot, waiting for its prey to return to it, even after they had decided to say their goodbyes.