The Mad House

Ear Splitting Silent Treatment

John didn't want to let the house win, but he knew that he had no choice when the screaming continued into its second day. Nothing helped relieve the pain that it caused, no amount of Advil or alcohol lessened the effect, it was merely a constant scream, a constant cry for attention, and for company. It was agonizing in all levels, both physical and emotional, because John had to wonder which voice it was using. He had to wonder, if they really had all been absorbed into that woodwork, which one of them was screaming. Perhaps it was both of them, or perhaps it was the whole lot who had ever lived there, all having donated their voices, all having donated their pain. As soon as the screaming started, John knew for sure that it would not subside until the house got what it wanted, until he unearthed that key from his junk drawer and went back to walks its halls once more. Thankfully John hadn't been dramatic, and thrown the key in a lake somewhere. Then they could never get back in, and the screaming would keep on going until they died. John brought the key to work with him, that terrible Monday morning. He felt the screaming in all of his bones, he felt it vibrating like an iron mallet, inside of his skull. His plan was to open up the house after his classes had finished, however it wasn't even before he got into his office before he was attacked by a wild, crazed looking Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been leaning against the wall of the hallway, with a bottle of ibuprofen in one hand and a large purple thermos in the other. The man was a wreck, and really that was saying something considering just how beautiful he normally looked. Today there still was that presence of beauty, yet it was masked by a look of sleep deprivation and misery, as if Sherlock had to drink so much coffee just to get himself out of bed. Just as soon as Sherlock could hear John's footsteps he looked up with a sigh of relief, standing back on his feet and looking desperately at the man as he approached.
"Professor, tell me you hear it too." Sherlock whined, clutching at his head as the screaming gave a shrill increase, as if it knew they were conspiring together. John groaned, yet nodded.
"I don't think it's happy with us." John agreed with a sigh, unlocking his office door and stepping inside.
"Well what are we going to do?" Sherlock asked. "I mean, if this was all to prove that the house was just a house, then I think we've been embarrassingly proved wrong."
"Ya, I know. I know." John grumbled. "I was going to go back after classes were over, maybe if we pay it some attention then..."
"You're going to leave me like this? You're going to leave us both suffering all day; I've got an exam after lunch! How am I supposed to think if I've got this voice in the back of my head, just screaming?" Sherlock whined. There was the largest of frowns on his face as he walked into the office and sank down into John's guest chair. He stretched his legs wide, messaging his temples now with his long fingers, as if he thought that might do something to alleviate the pain.
"Well I don't know, Sherlock. What do you suggest?" John grumbled, really not in the mood to compete with Sherlock's ambition this morning. "It was your idea to leave it be in the first place."
"Well ya, now I know that's a stupid idea. I suggest we go back." Sherlock insisted.
"First of all, there's no we. Secondly, I've got a class that starts in twenty minutes, and I've..."
"You cannot tell me that you're going to choose a forty five minute class over our own mental sanity? John who knows what this voice is doing to our brains, which parts of them it's turning to mush? Already I can't see straight, I've had a migraine all weekend, and you're telling me you're going to choose your students over that? Over finally getting to hear silence in...ugh! There it is again, getting shriller!" Sherlock yelped, closing his eyes and letting out a low groan of annoyance. John heard it too, the voice had raised an octave, as if it was deciding now was the perfect time to get more annoying, so as to persuade them both to start moving. John could see that this was a losing battle, against this boy and against this house as well. He really felt that he had nothing to do but shake his head in defeat and open up his laptop to send a quick email to his students that class was cancelled for today. They were quiet in the car, mostly because it was hard to think when there was that ever loudening screaming in the back of their brains. And yet it was becoming less pained, it was becoming quieter. With every mile they got closer to the house, the screaming started to get less frantic. As if the house knew that they were finally bowing to its wishes, and coming to solve its mysteries once more. Sherlock looked a little bit angry, yet John could not think as to why. He was doing as he asked, wasn't he? He had just sacrificed a whole class of students their valuable learning time (although he was sure none of them would be too bothered) on behalf of Sherlock's moody behavior. Oh well, maybe it was just because Sherlock was tired that he was leaning up against the door with that look on his face, nearly smashed up against the window pane. John watched him for a moment as they hit the stretch of long, straight roads. They were the only cars on these back roads at this time of morning, and so John felt as though he had something of an opportunity to observe his companion. Sherlock's eyes were dark and sunken in, as if he too had been suffering through the same withdrawal that John had felt. It was as if just after they had been introduced to the house they had been introduced to a new drug, its affect was pulling them closer and closer, and they had no chance of escape. Not anymore. It seemed now that they had no choice but to do as the house wanted, they could not leave it behind anymore, not after the house's full power had been unleashed in protest. And yet why just them? More importantly, why them in the first place? Why was this their burden to carry, to people from the college, two intellectuals who liked science more than magic, and ghost stories. Why wasn't it Mrs. Hudson who was cursed, why could Mary walk away so unscathed? Had those women even thought about the house since they had last visited, had they been having the dreams as well? And most interestingly was why John was here, why his fate was linked to this building if he wasn't even from England. Was it the tendrils of the house that had pulled him closer, to this college that was only twelve minutes from its font door? John had thought it was entirely his own idea to get away from the States, but had there been a higher power involved? Had there been a beckoning that he hadn't realized in his urgency to escape his family? John sighed heavily, shaking his head and turning his eyes back on the road, not liking the ideas that were circulating through his head. Then again, these were the first ideas he's been able to think for himself in a long while. These were the first ideas that could be clearly interpreted in his head, for as the woods came within view, the screaming had died down to something of a loud groan. It was becoming happier with them, happy that they answered when it called. Sherlock still winced, seeming to be a lot more affected by this constant noise than John was. Perhaps this was because he wasn't a father yet, and hadn't had to deal with a newborn. John bit his tongue a bit angrily, hating that thought just as soon as it crossed his mind. The idea that Sherlock would ever have a child, that he would ever marry a woman, that he would ever settle down. Something about that thought turned his stomach, and while half of his brain hissed the other half merely laughed. One was angry, while one seemed to know already that it was an impossible daydream. It knew that Sherlock didn't have it in him to marry. Finally John pulled up to the driveway, the car crunching along the gravel as it came to a stop in front of the doors. Nothing seemed to be changed from when they last left, nothing out of the ordinary at least. The screaming was still there, yet quiet enough that John could finally hear the wind brushing through the trees, and cry of the birds in the distance.
"Hurry up!" Sherlock growled, nearly kicking open his car door in his urgency and spilling out onto the driveway. He looked completely agonized, almost as if the screaming was just getting louder in his head, while it was dulling down in John's. John nodded, fumbling for the large key in his pocket while he dashed up onto the old wooden porch. Just as soon as he stuck the key inside he pushed the door open, and for a moment all he could hear was the swinging of the door on its rusty hinges. And then, finally...silence. John sighed heavily, happy to hear his own breath once again. He looked back at where Sherlock was, now laying his limbs strewn about on the gravel, breathing heavily yet with drooping eyes, as if he could finally allow himself to relax. He was muttering something, his lips forming words that John couldn't quite make out. Most probably it was something along the lines of "thank God."
"Is it gone for you too?" John called out to him. Sherlock sighed, opening his eyes and finally pulling himself to his feet.
"Yes, it's gone." He murmured in relief. "Now if you'll excuse me...I'm going inside."
"Ya, I suppose we should check around again. See if it's left us any other surprises." John agreed with a sigh. Sherlock nodded, pulling himself heavily to his feet and dragging his feet through the driveway. He clung to the banister, as if his own body weight was becoming too much, and staggered into the house. John sighed, wishing that he had brought his flashlight. It was a cloudy day, with rain in the forecast, and the house was hardly getting any light at all. It was almost pitch dark inside, however Sherlock seemed to think that was some sort of blessing, and he staggered off to the sitting room without a word of farewell. John sighed, lingering at the banister of the staircase and watching as Sherlock shuffled away, too exasperated with that man to even ask what his plans were. John did a simple loop about the house, inspecting everything so as to make sure everything was up to par. In all honesty he didn't know what to expect, he didn't even know what he was looking for. However he understood that the house had the ability to leave him surprises, he knew that if it wanted to play with them more then it would do so willingly, and anxiously. Yet upon inspection John found nothing, nothing had been out of place, and so he started back downstairs into the sitting room. He was surprised to find Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, his trench coat hung over the side and his head smashed against one of the pillows that had been sitting there. His legs were long enough to hang over the edge of the couch, and yet he looked quite settled, as if he was comfortable enough to stay a while.
"That couch probably has more bug colonies than even I can identify." John warned, lingering now by the cold hearth. It wasn't a particularly chilly day; however inside the house it seemed especially cold. He wished now that they had some logs to throw in, and a fire to start. The house would be made much cozier if they had a fire to curl up next to, and some heat to shed on the century of chills.
"No I'm fine. I'm fine here all the same." Sherlock assured with a large yawn. John sighed, knowing of course that Sherlock probably hadn't slept in days. Miraculously John had been able to get a little bit of sleep, for while the screaming in his head had been loud, it had been monotonous enough to be lost into the back of his mind. It was much like the screaming baby, eventually the same noise gets ignored, and you find yourself able to sleep in any situation.
"You're not staying?" John asked with a doubtful chuckle.
"I'm not risking leaving, especially not without a little sleep. What if we leave and it starts up again?" Sherlock whined defensively.
"It's not going to start up, not if we leave with the intention of coming back." John assured quietly.
"All the same, my head is still pounding. I still hear it, even if it's gone. Just the echoes now." Sherlock admitted with a shudder.
"You've got an exam..."
"At twelve o'clock, yes. It's not even ten yet." Sherlock pointed out defensively.
"You're just going to expect me to wait here, then?" John asked with something of a growl. Sherlock turned over now, just enough so that he could look at John so as to gauge his expression. John didn't know how many expressions could go with that sentence, considering its connation seemed pretty straight forward. All the same, just as soon as Sherlock saw the seriousness in John's face he fell back down upon his pillow with a look of annoyance.
"Well, you could always just abandon me I suppose. I've got no power against that." he shrugged. John sighed heavily, leaning against the wall and tapping his fingers a little bit angrily against his leg.
"You know, I really am hoping this attitude of yours is just because you're tired." John snapped. Sherlock gave a little chuckle, this time rolling over so that he could keep his gaze focused on John without much effort.
"Why do you hope so, Professor?" Sherlock asked carefully. John sighed, shrugging his shoulders and feeling a little bit uncomfortable under Sherlock's glare. The boy seemed to be reading his mind, or at least attempting to. Those eyes seemed capable of such acts; Sherlock Holmes seemed like the kind of boy who had the ability.
"Only because I feel that I'm stuck with you, in one way or the other. I'd hate to be conjoined eternally with a little brat." John snapped, to which a great big grin stretched upon Sherlock's face. Well of course John couldn't argue with that, Sherlock's laughter was contagious, and as soon as he began to chuckle John found himself laughing as well. He was happy to see that this was a laughing matter for them both, and that they could treat it as such.
"You'd be happy to know that it's not because I'm tired. It's because I'm exhausted." Sherlock corrected. "Even as a graduate student, I'm not entirely used to going an entire weekend without sleep."
"Ah, try being a father then." John warned with a little chuckle.
"You're a father?" Sherlock clarified in some surprise, his gaze softening into something that looked half like pride, and the other half of something along the lines of disappointment.
"Yes, I've got a daughter. Just born last year." John agreed quietly.
"Mm." Sherlock muttered, rearranging himself on the couch so that his arm draped down to the floor, so long that almost his full forearm could press against the carpet without strain. John watched him quietly, trying to understand what sort of game he was playing here. "I'm sure she must be the love of your life."
"Yes of course." John agreed, though after a moment of hesitation. Sherlock nodded, sighing heavily before lying back and staring up at the ceiling now, instead of at his companion.
"I always thought a family was something of an overrated concept." Sherlock admitted quietly. John paused for a moment, wondering whether or not he agreed for just a moment. "Freedom, that's what I aspire to have."
"Well you haven't got any freedom now, whether you like it or not. This house is your child, and your parent. It's your shackle to this town, to this place." John warned, with a touch of offense in his voice. He really didn't like getting criticized for taking the path most traveled. He didn't want to listen to Sherlock telling him that there was any other way to go, even if he did have a point in his words. John didn't want to hear someone else taking Greg's side, and mocking him for settling down.
"No need to get defensive, Professor." Sherlock warned. "This place will learn to let me go."
"Not likely." John muttered. Sherlock gave another long sigh, as if he was simply too sleepy to have this conversation.
"Make my excuses for me, Mr. Watson, if I don't wake up." Sherlock pleaded, and with that he rolled over so that his back was facing towards John. After a moment John couldn't decide if he was actually asleep or just a really good actor, and so John sighed as quietly as he could and went to sit on one of the armchairs that were positioned around the cold fireplace. He really did wish that it was warm in here; it would be a lot easier to sleep. Then again, just as the thought crossed his mind his head had already hit the chair, and within a moment, quite unintentionally, he fell straight to sleep as well. 

John found himself sitting across from Sherlock Holmes, a face that he recognized not just from the present, but from the past as well. And yet the man seemed different, or rather he seemed different from his modern self. He was much more formal, sitting up in his straight backed chair and keeping his head more or less pressed up against the back of it. To couple with such odd mannerisms, he was smoking as well. He had a cigarette clenched between his teeth, sitting silently in an accusing manner, with his usual black robe pulled about his chest tightly, so as not to show any skin.
"So why are you really here, then? Not on real business I imagine?" John asked in something of a hurtful snarl, as if he was offended that he had been left out of something. And yet John didn't know which part of himself was being displayed in this dream. While it was coming from his own mind, he seemed to be instead something of a third person observer. He was looking onto this scene, for while he noticed Sherlock's rigid posture he noticed himself as well, and the way he rather slouched in his chair. And so what was this, then? Something of his imagination, or something far more real?
"Real business. Very real business." Sherlock assured with a grin, his cigarette sticking out an odd angle as his lips spread to a smile.
"So then he's..." John paused. "You're profiting?"
"I may seem like a wealthy man, Mr. Watson, yet I am quite the contrary. And since I have no suitable home for myself, well to put it simply I get a roof over my head every night, so long as I'm willing to share the bed." Sherlock admitted with a triumphant little puff of smoke.
"You're a prostitute?" John clarified, with a sour taste upon his lips.
"I'm a traveler, Mr. Watson. Merely that." Sherlock corrected.
"A traveler who pays for lodging with his body?" John pointed out.
"Do you not assume that I love Mr. Trevor?" Sherlock wondered, leaning forward now with a playful yet knowing gleam in his eye. John hesitated, clearing his throat so as to give himself more time to think. John as the onlooker felt a very odd feeling in his stomach, for he could feel the tension in the air.
"It is not my place to judge you, Mr. Holmes." John said finally. Sherlock paused for a moment, before finally letting out a happy little chuckle and falling back in his chair.
"Best not to, Mr. Watson." Sherlock agreed. "The only one who shall properly do that is Minos...when I arrive at his doorstep."
"You think that badly of yourself?" John clarified with a raise of his eyebrows.
"I merely acknowledge that there are holier ways to live." Sherlock admitted. "Yet if I could do anything else, I don't know which occupation might be more tempting."
"So you enjoy it, you enjoy...him?" John asked in a very small voice, which got Sherlock chuckling once more.
"Don't believe me, Mr. Watson? That a man can enjoy the company of another man?" Sherlock asked, his eyes flashing in some sort of challenge.
"Well I suppose...I suppose I haven't thought about it before." John admitted quietly.
"Ah well, Mr. Watson, perhaps that is best. We don't want you tainting your little brain with thoughts such as these, all of us sinners surely don't want you company for the long run." Sherlock agreed quietly. "All the same...you know where to find me if you ever change your mind." John didn't know whose jaw dropped, yet he had the distinct feeling of absolute shock...yet something more as well. Something of a newfound tugging in his heart, something which was able to counteract all of the repulsion, and feel something a bit more like opportunity.