The Mad House

Entangled In The Centuries

"Does this mean we're technically ex's then?" Sherlock muttered quietly.
"Depends how we left it off last time. I mean, you never know who gave you that ring." John pointed out. Sherlock nodded, examining the thing on his finger with something of a frown.
"I feel as if it was from this Mr. Trevor. It was who you were afraid of, so I can only imagine I was in something of a dedicated relationship with him." Sherlock guessed.
"Well, maybe that letter changed things." John offered.
"I don't know." Sherlock admitted. "This is all so peculiar...it still almost feels like it's some sort of everlasting practical joke."
"No, certainly not that. Doesn't explain the house, the screaming, the dreams." John pointed out.
"I know. It was just wishful thinking, that's all." Sherlock admitted quietly. "No one's this cruel."
"It's not...well it's not cruel, is it?" John insisted quietly.
"I think it might be. Making us feel special, as if we mean something in this world. Or at least meant enough to be brought back. Introduced us to the idea of destiny, only to rip it away again, and curse us to the mortality of the common man." Sherlock muttered. John blinked, not having expected a small philosophical lesson from Sherlock so abruptly. He didn't really know how to respond to such a thing, and so he looked a bit anxiously towards the door where Mrs. Hudson had disappeared through, hoping her reappearance might interrupt his answer. Unfortunately she stayed missing, and the room as just as quiet as ever.
"Yes. I do suppose that would be cruel." John agreed finally.
"You haven't thought yourself anymore special, since this all began?" Sherlock wondered quietly.
"I feel it's more of a curse, than anything." John admitted with a quick shrug, lunging now for a sugar cookie so as to interrupt this conversation and give himself something else to think about.
"I like the idea of not being finished. It makes me fear death much less." Sherlock admitted.
"You don't think we'll have to do it again? That doesn't scare you, the idea of an eternal loop, never resting? Just chasing each other in circles, under the authority of that house, for the rest of existence?" John insisted a bit fearfully.
"Well no, not really." Sherlock murmured, shuffling his feet against the floor in a guilty sort of way.
"Why not?" John asked immediately. Sherlock sighed, bringing his eyes to meet John's for the first time since that letter had been discovered. And John wanted to look away, he wanted so badly, with every muscle in his whole body, to just escape from this gaze! From that gaze like a magnet, making him want to lean closer and closer...yet he was unable to! He had to stare; he had to wait for that response.
"I guess because I know that no matter what, I'll never be alone. That somehow you'll find me." Sherlock admitted finally, in such a soft voice that in any other situation John would have had to kiss him. If ever there was a more romantic line, John had to yet to find it. And as his face paled he found that he could only open his mouth to do one thing, for his words would betray him in the end. And so he merely shoved that cookie into his mouth, as much as he could to silence himself, a whole cheek full of the most disgusting, stale cookie he had ever eaten before. Sherlock's eyes widened, yet he didn't get the chance to say anything against such an action, for just as soon as John nearly choked himself with cookie Mrs. Hudson decided to reemerge, giving a little holler of success that only Sherlock could respond too, for John had evidently bitten off far more than he could chew.
"Documents, boys!" she exclaimed excitedly. "And it seems as though there was indeed a Mr. John Watson, died at the house."
"Wonderful, thank you." Sherlock said excitedly, getting to his feet and collecting the papers from Mrs. Hudson. John followed, however he was trailing behind so as to swallow that dry cookie and wipe the crumbs from his lips.
"So my ancestor did die there." John muttered a bit stoically.
"Yes, it would appear so." Mrs. Hudson agreed, handing the document over to John with something of a regretful sigh. Maybe she thought it was a sensitive subject, but then again John had to have known his long lost ancestor was dead? Obviously anyone who had the word "great" in their name must be a loss that wasn't too painful to accept.
"And there were two other death certificates, written for the same day. I thought maybe you'd like to see them as well. It looks as though they were found in the same spots, though it doesn't say what was the cause of death." Mrs. Hudson said a bit quietly.
"Two others?" Sherlock clarified, looking at John a bit eagerly. Already they knew that one of the names was very likely familiar.
"Yes, says here there was a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and a Mr. Victor Trevor. All three deaths on the same day, in the same house." Mrs. Hudson muttered. "Little bit funny, don't you think? I wish they gave more description."
"Victor Trevor." Sherlock breathed, now taking to twisting that ring along his finger once more, as if the name was ever too familiar for him.
"You think it was murder?" John wondered, looking over the other two death certificates just to make sure the woman wasn't missing any obvious facts. But just as she promised there was no obvious cause to be found, just an old warrant with Sherlock's and Mr. Trevor's names typed across with a small typewriter.
"Oh I don't know, that's something for a historian I'm afraid." Mrs. Hudson said with a little frown.
"There's one that could tell us then? Someone who knows about the house?" Sherlock asked eagerly.
"I don't think so. No one's taken an interest in that house for as long as it's been condemned. Those documents were probably in the same cabinet they were first placed in, all those years ago." Mrs. Hudson admitted grimly. John sighed in some defeat, although he knew that they might hit a dead end here in the town hall, with withered old Mrs. Hudson. Yet they did have something, the name they had come to retrieve. They now knew at least who their mystery man was, the name to fit the picture that Sherlock had so graciously drawn. His competition, if not his murderer...Mr. Victor Trevor.