The Mad House

Solve The Mysteries As They Come

As expected, everything was just as they left it. It seemed that nothing had been disturbed in their short absence; however they weren't here to investigate every room. They were focusing today mainly on the attic and basement, where they assumed it would be most likely to find things of interest. They were looking for answers, mostly on who their new mystery man was, yet also in the search for more answers on the past. John wanted to find out everything he could, and of course he wanted some evidence to prove that perhaps there was nothing romantic going on between Sherlock and that man. He wanted proof that there were many men, and that nothing distinguished that one from the rest. If Sherlock was so set on finding his soulmate then he might just have to look in the area of things he saw as impossible. Perhaps he had to realize that a century's worth of history together might hold more weight than did a simple golden band.
"So, what do you say? Basement first?" John suggested.
"Oh that sounds so creepy." Sherlock admitted with a shutter, yet he nodded. John knew where the cellar door was, hidden away in the kitchen as it was with most old houses. To get to the kitchen they had to cut through that beautiful dining room, with the chairs all poised to host another feast, and the windows standing so tall and proud on the opposite wall. There seemed to be no evidence of age in this room, for even the red curtains hung stiff and strong. It was a gorgeous room, somewhere John could see himself hosting happily. It was a strange vision, really, and yet he could see himself and Sherlock sat in those chairs, in their waistcoats of that appropriate fashion. He could see the table laden with food; he could see the sunlight streaming in through the glass. He could envision a life here, with that man, regardless of what time period it was. Perhaps it was a dreadful thing to speculate, but John was quite sure that he could live here with Sherlock if the boy would finally permit it. The kitchen was much less glamorous; it wasn't nearly as fancy, with mere wooden countertops and an ancient gas stove. All the same, the kitchen wasn't what they were here for. Their door in the corner was their subject of interest, that little white painted thing. It gave John the creeps just looking at it, partially because he knew that no one had been down there for as long as the house has been left abandoned, and secondly because he knew that anything could be down there, waiting for him. Who knows wat could be there, how many animals, or even corpses! And there certainly wouldn't be any lighting, that was for sure. Good thing John had packed his flashlight.
"You can go first, John." Sherlock suggested a bit apprehensively, standing over near the stove while John gave him a grin of annoyance yet forged ahead. He unlatched the door and let it swing open, revealing some stone steps leading into a stiff, dank darkness. John hesitated, shining the beam of his heavy flashlight to illuminate the basement before he stepped inside.
"Well then, down we go." John said nervously, stepping down onto the first step and descending slowly and carefully. It didn't seem too extraordinary; there was a large boiler in the corner, undoubtedly responsible for the oil or heat. There was a water tank, and some discarded furniture, and a ton of boxes scattered about.
"Well these boxes look promising." John announced, looking back up the staircase to see Sherlock still lingering in the light. "What, aren't you coming?"
"Do you really think I should?" Sherlock asked apprehensively. "I mean, maybe you could just check the boxes, see if there's anything..."
"You're coming! Come on, coward." John insisted, watching with a look of disappointment as Sherlock finally began down to the first step. His only flashlight was on his phone, and there was a very obvious look of terror upon his pretty face.
"I don't like this." He said obviously, however all the same he started down the steps with something of determination.
"It's fine, just old boxes and furniture." John assured. Sherlock nodded, finally arriving at John's shoulder and standing quite close, as if he was looking for protection.
"Aren't there rats?" he whispered.
"Not that I see." John shrugged, staring towards the boxes and noticing that Sherlock mimicked every one of his footsteps, so as not to lose any of that protective distance. For whatever reason that was terribly flattering, and John rather liked it. He wondered now why he didn't bring Sherlock to scary places before, just to ensure his sudden dependency. John prodded at some of the boxes, to be sure that there wasn't anything alive inside, before finally trying one of the lids. They were made of cardboard, miraculously untouched by any mold or water damage. The box's lid flung open to reveal plates of the finest china, all unscathed and wrapped in paper for protection.
"Oh wow! Look at this Sherlock, must be worth a fortune." John said excitedly, moving forward and unearthing a nice plate from the mix.
"We shouldn't sell them, they belong to the house." Sherlock said nervously.
"Yes I know. But still, think of how old these must be." John said with a smile, demonstrating the plate to Sherlock before setting it back into its spot in the paper. "Hundreds of years, possibly even as old as the house."
"Crazy." Sherlock admitted carefully. John moved then to another box, this one filled with candelabras of some sort. The next was filled with books, which was interesting since there was a perfectly big library upstairs.
"It all seems like old crap, nothing along the lines of memorabilia." John said in disappointment, unearthing a box of old bedsheets with a disappointing sigh.
"Well, it's not crap per say, but it doesn't help us any bit either." Sherlock agreed, still examining the china. "You don't think we could bring this up, set the table?"
"Why would you want to do that?" John asked with a laugh.
"Well we could have dinner here, of course! How funny would that be? Get some take away and light all the candles, drink wine from the glasses and enjoy a fancy night?" Sherlock suggested a bit eagerly.
"That's very...well actually I rather like the idea." John agreed. "A good ending to a day of digging."
"Have you looked through the boxes enough?" Sherlock asked. John sighed heavily, giving the last one something of a kick before nodding his head.
"Ya, nothing of importance down here." he agreed with a sigh. And so together they lifted up the boxes of china, as carefully as they could considering its age and worth. They set the boxes in the kitchen, to be arranged when they had more time on their hands, and decided then to head upstairs and look for the attic. Surely it would be a more watertight place to keep their prized possessions, or rather a good spot to hide old family heirlooms. John knew that they would have more luck in the attic, that is if they were ever able to find it. And so they set up the stairs, knowing of course that the door would be on the top floor if it was hidden anywhere. John felt something of anticipation in his stomach, knowing that whatever they find in this attic may very well determine the course they were set to follow. If they really were here again, whether it be by the will of the house or of God, well then surely they were here for a reason! Was it to fulfil their destinies, or to rewrite their stories, to correct the mistakes they had made before? Was Sherlock destined to fall back into someone's arms, or was he here entirely to prove that he could make his way through life without living off of the pocketbook of a desperate, lonely man?
"You think it'll be a door?" Sherlock asked as they started their way around the third floor, one of the most underwhelming parts of the house. Presumably it was for guests, that or for servants. The rooms weren't as breathtaking, but there was a quaint little lounge in the middle of the floor that looked worthwhile.
"No, I think it'll be a trapdoor." John admitted, searching the ceilings instead of the walls for the telltale outline.
"Do you think this house has any secret passages?" Sherlock asked eagerly.
"No, I don't think so. And even so, it's got so many secrets that it's infrastructure has got to be the most underwhelming." John decided with a little grumble.
"What if it's a passage to some sort of...torture chamber?" Sherlock suggested.
"It's not a castle." John reminded him.
"It may very well have been." Sherlock mumbled, patting the walls in admiration. John sighed heavily, not very thrilled that Sherlock was trying to become the house's favorite as well.
"Ah, there we go! Well no wonder I didn't notice it before, it's only just a little string." John said with a little frown, finally noticing an interruption in the ceiling. There was nothing more than a line carved through, making a big enough trapdoor to fit a person or a small piece of furniture. It wasn't the most impressive thing, yet all the same its secretive nature made it all the more exciting. Attics had plenty of uses, some for criminal activity and some for mere hoarding. John may very well be excited for both. Yet he hadn't exactly thought this through, for while the string was short the ceiling was tall, and he realized immediately that even if he jumped he wouldn't be able to reach. Oh how humiliating it was, to have to ask for help.
"Sherlock, you don't think you could reach that, do you?" John muttered with a little frown. Sherlock's smile turned into a teasing little grin, for obviously he thought it was rather adorable that John needed his help.
"Aw John, can't reach?" Sherlock teased, patting his head as you would with a dog. John growled, pushing him away and folding his arms a bit moodily.
"I can still beat you to a pulp, I guarantee it." he defended quickly.
"That really doesn't make you special." Sherlock reminded him, wiggling his little noodle arms so as to demonstrate his own weakness before reaching up and grabbing the string effortlessly. When he pulled the ceiling flap fell right down, in a violent flop of wood that might have decapitated one of them, had they not ducked for cover. A ladder folded down just as rapidly, smacking to the floor with deadly accuracy, where John had been standing not a moment before. Thankfully the two men had huddled against the wall together, and even in their delirium John could've sworn he heard Sherlock give a little yelp of fear.
"Well then, found the attic." John said carefully, looking up apprehensively so as to make sure nothing more was going to fall down in an attempt to kill them.
"Indeed." Sherlock agreed, also craning his neck so as to look inside. There was sunlight streaming through, making it look a lot more pleasant than the basement had in its threatening darkness. There was a smell of mildew, but beyond that John couldn't distinguish anything more.
"Do you want to go first this time?" John suggested with a little chuckle.
"Oh no, you're the adventurous one." Sherlock insisted, stepping aside as if he was doing John a favor by being a coward.
"Yes of course I am." John agreed with a little chuckle; however he grabbed his flashlight and started up the ladder all the same. He was surprised by how much stuff the old owners (or maybe himself, who knows?) had managed to shove up through that tiny little hole in the ceiling. He found many large pieces of furniture, covered very ominously by white sheets that were stained yellow with age. There seemed to be a dresser, a wardrobe, even an old mattress supported by a bent old frame, disfigured the edges so as to make it fit. The attic itself wasn't large, yet it was filled to about its carrying capacity, with one little window made to illuminate things better.
"It's fine!" John announced, looking now to the ceiling so as to make sure there weren't any bats hanging around. Thankfully he seemed to be the only living thing, up until Sherlock ascended to join him.
"Well that's a relief. My parents have got rats in their attic." Sherlock admitted.
"I thought there were rats somewhere here. I saw some evidence before, but I can't find where they might be hiding." John muttered with a frown.
"Maybe that's this house's biggest secrets. Where it's hiding the vermin." Sherlock suggested with something of a chuckle.
"You're right here, aren't you? Not a big secret after all." John muttered, to which Sherlock gave a weak sort of slap and ventured deeper into the attic.
"No boxes or anything." he commented with some disappointment, pulling a sheet off of one of the wardrobe and examining the beautiful carved woodwork. Why such a beautiful piece of furniture would be stashed in the attic really was something of a mystery. There were just some old suits hanging inside, nothing of overwhelming importance or value. Sherlock gave a little sigh of annoyance, yet he closed the door and moved now to the desk.
"Well I don't know if the previous owner had anticipated us coming back to investigate." John admitted. "There wouldn't be a box here labeled answers to your questions."
"Weren't we the previous owners?" Sherlock pointed out, tearing the sheet off of the desk and nodding proudly. "Beautiful." He muttered, though John wasn't entirely sure if he was commenting on the desk itself, or the reflection Sherlock saw in the mirror. In John's opinion, both was the correct answer anyway. The desk had plenty of drawers, none of which Sherlock seemed to interested in. his attention had instead been caught, as usual, by the shining thing that was sitting on the desk. It was a simple band of gold, something rather unexciting in John's mind. Yet just as soon as Sherlock saw it he gave a little cry of recognition, as if that little ring had meant so much to him at one point. The very idea made John a bit sick, for he of all people could identify an engagement ring. He had to look at them so dreadfully long, so long ago when he thought he had picked the right partner.
"Oh look!" Sherlock cried in astonishment, picking up the ring in some urgency and sliding it onto his finger as quickly as he could. It wasn't much more encouraging when the ring slid so easily onto his finger, almost as if it was fitted exactly for him.
"Wonderful, an engagement ring." John muttered. "Left there, that's rather telling."
"Oh surely it's owner must've put it down and died, or something." Sherlock suggested with a shrug.
"Possibly." John muttered. "Or the owner was reconsidering, and left it there to ponder."
"You say that as if you want that to be the case." Sherlock pointed out, admiring the ring on his finger as he held it up to the sunlight.
"I'm just brainstorming, Sherlock. Solving the little mysteries as they come." John pointed out.
"Little mysteries." Sherlock repeated quietly, dropping his attention from the ring yet not sliding it off just yet. John frowned, for he really didn't like the look of it on Sherlock's usually unburdened hand. This mystery man wasn't even named, yet he already seemed to have Sherlock entranced to the point of engagement! It sickened John to even think of such things. Sherlock took to investigating one side of the desk drawers while John rather absent mindedly pulled open another side, poking about in the contents to find what looked to be a leather bag filled with something heavy.
"Coins." John said instinctively, throwing the bag onto the desk and listening to the clatter the metal made against the wood. Sherlock nodded, looking a bit nervous as he reached for the bag and investigated the contents.
"And pounds. Old ones." He commented.
"This must've ben your desk, then." John decided without even thinking of what sort of insult that would've been. Then again, Sherlock seemed to have come to that same conclusion, for he was quiet for a moment, dumping some of the old coins onto the desk and sighing.
"Well, a bag of money isn't that suggestive. Besides, if I really did...well if I really did have such an occupation I wouldn't have gotten my own desk." Sherlock pointed out. "I wasn't a permanent resident."
"Well if you were engaged you would be." John pointed out, nodding again to the ring that was still sparkling on Sherlock's finger. The boy twisted the ring a bit apprehensively, yet kept it there all the same.
"Nothing here links this to me." he said again, in some sort of denial. John nodded, going through desk some more and unearthing some sort of old envelope, something with an undeniable scribble on the front. He hummed in excitement, looking up towards Sherlock and flashing the envelope proudly.
"You were saying?" he said with a little chuckle. Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning now on the desk in some sort of shock, as if he still wasn't prepared to find such damning evidence. Maybe all of this wasn't real enough to him, not until that envelope labeled Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
"Ancestors share names." He whispered.
"Not faces too." John pointed out again, in reference to the picture they had found before. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, welcome to your past." Sherlock gave something of a shutter, now going to sit on the desk in some agony, hanging his head in his hands and shuttering nervously. While Sherlock recovered from the shock of his cyclical timeline John took to opening the letter. Well that might be some sort of invasion of privacy, however with some examination of the contents he found with something of a fearful shutter that he wasn't invading anyone's privacy. In fact it seemed as though this letter belonged as much to him as it did to Sherlock...for it was Sherlock's name on the envelope, but John's name at the bottom.