The Mad House

Happiness Is All That Matters

It wasn't too difficult to find Sherlock, for he had placed himself once more on his favorite couch in the sitting room, opposite of the empty fireplace. John shivered, for there was an obvious chill in the air, yet Sherlock didn't seem to notice as he curled into a little ball.
"I think I might stay here tonight." Sherlock decided quietly.
"You haven't got a car, Sherlock, you'll be stranded." John reminded him. Sherlock sighed heavily, extending his feet out towards the other end of the couch and giving a little groan of annoyance.
"Oh, debt really is crippling in times like this." He grumbled in annoyance, beginning to drape his limbs off of the other end of the couch, seemingly with the intention of getting back to his feet.
"I'll stay with you." John said immediately, feeling the need to prevent Sherlock anymore hassle, anymore inconveniences for the night. "So long as I can get this fire going, I'll sleep in that armchair again, it wasn't too bad."
"I really couldn't make you do that. Mary will be worried." Sherlock pointed out.
"Oh she'll understand. I'll just tell her that I'm spending the night at the house because I need to do some stuff in the morning. She'll understand." John insisted, getting his phone from his pocket even before he searched for any fuel from the fire. He knew of course that he'd be willing to sleep in the cold, he'd be willing to just about anything to extend his time with Sherlock. Perhaps it wasn't just Sherlock that was drawing him in; maybe it was something more than him. Maybe it was this house, tightening its grip on them both. Holding them hostage with its suggestions turned whims, making itself all the more comfortable so that it could house its everlasting occupants even longer within itself.
"John don't let this house get in the way of your marriage." Sherlock warned.
"She's my wife, not my burden." John defended with something of a snap, already holding the phone to his ear. It was a very shot conversation once Mary picked up, for in the background he could hear those telltale shrieks of Rosie. Oh he was very glad that the yelling would stop just as soon as he hung up the phone. Mary didn't seem too thrilled about the idea, yet all the while she didn't offer up much of a debate anyway. Her voice was quick and stern, as if with every word of agreement she was cursing her idiot husband, telling him no with her tone yet agreeing in words all the same. Well tonight John was just going to ignore her underlying meaning, and pretend that he couldn't read between the lines. Tonight he wanted to just stay here, to relax and not worry about his family for a little while longer. For as Sherlock said before, they've got a destiny here, and nowhere else. In some ways this house was all that mattered, Mary and Rosie were simply two side characters in this elaborate story, this story which encompassed so much more than a happy suburban family. When John hung up the phone he didn't say anything, he merely went to the fireplace to find that there was a nice stack of firewood stacked up around the corner. He wasn't entirely sure how long it had been there, if not only for a few minutes. Perhaps the house had summoned the fuel he had asked for, in an attempt to keep him inside the walls for the night. Well whatever this house's plan, if there even was a conspiracy at all, it was certainly working.
"Firewood." John announced with a smile, holding up a log in one hand and a little box of matches in the other. The matches were visibly old, they came in a tiny little carton and it was brown and worn with age. Yet it had been sitting alongside of the wood just where he knew it would be, just where he needed it to be.
"Convenient." Sherlock commented quietly. There was some apprehension in Sherlock's voice, almost as if he was worried that John had intentions of this night, intentions that were not shared. Well of course that would be of the romantic nature, considering they had only just discovered their interesting history earlier this afternoon. Sherlock might be worried that John intended on using that to his own advantage, perhaps he was apprehensive that this evening might turn into something more awkward for the both of them. And yet he could rest assured, John didn't intend to try anything tonight. He was getting just as weary as Sherlock; the day's adventures were starting to weigh heavily on him, and his eyelids were falling with every spark that he attempted to strike over top of the logs.
"Indeed." John agreed, smiling now that a flame had begun to spread through the ancient wood, burning through quite nicely and finally offering up a comfortable heat. With such a simple flame this cold, barren sitting room became something much more like a home. The fire was shimmering, bouncing flickering beams of light off of the walls and creating friendly shadows. There was warmth, there was crackling, and furthermore there was the calm, peaceful sigh of Sherlock Holmes as he drew his knees back to his chest, snuggling now in the warmth that was being offered.
"Quite the homemaker you are." Sherlock commented quietly, his eyelids drooping peacefully.
"Oh yes, well I was a boy scout back in America." John admitted.
"A boy scout? Going about selling cookies and whatnot?" Sherlock asked with a laugh.
"No, not cookies. That's the girl's job." John scoffed.
"What did you sell then, pellet guns?" Sherlock presumed with a chuckle.
"Popcorn." John corrected. Sherlock burst out into a fit of giggles, as if he really couldn't imagine John going about and selling large bags of popcorn. "And it was good popcorn too, don't get me wrong. Cheddar popcorn, it always sold the fastest."
"That is so outrageously unlike you." Sherlock decided.
"Oh come on, I was a fantastic boy scout! Would've been an eagle scout, had my dad not pulled me out of it." John growled, waving the poker in his hands rather threateningly, as if his dad was standing somewhere within striking distance. Oh how he would live to just smack this iron thing against that man's hideous, balding head!
"Why'd he pull you out?" Sherlock wondered curiously. John sighed heavily, shaking his head before dropping the poker back on the rack and going to sit on the floor, leaning his back against the couch Sherlock was lying on and stretching his feet out towards the warmth of the flames.
"Oh, well he noticed that I liked it, you know? And we couldn't have that. Not even for the honor of getting all the way to the top. No, he'd sacrifice any high honor just to ensure that I was miserable." John groaned, clenching his fists against the carpet and staring into the now roaring fire. He felt a burst of anger bubble up inside of his chest, an anger that he had not felt for years, yet one which was so startlingly familiar all the same.
"You can let that all go, John. Let it all go. You're happy now, are you not?" Sherlock asked in that calm voice, a soft voice that might have deceived John into believing it meant something more.
"I'm happy." John agreed quietly, nodding his head and leaning it back against the cushion, back enough so that he could feel the indentation of where Sherlock's weight was distributed. He could feel that boy getting closer with every ounce of pressure he applied.
"Then that's all that matters, is it not John? Just happiness." Sherlock whispered, his voice beginning to sound sleepy, his words becoming slurred as his eyes began to droop shut. John nodded his head in reply, knowing now that if he would have asked a question he would get no response. Sherlock had fallen to sleep; he could hear it in his breathing, in the rhythms and in the soft drumming of his heartbeat. John smiled softly, thinking once more on the concept of happiness, and just how much his life had changed since then. Since he had been trapped up in his room, seething with anger he didn't understand. Perhaps there was something inside of him all the way back then, something that knew he wasn't intended for that life. Perhaps all of that anger didn't just come from his father, or his mother, but instead from his past life, and from this house. Half of it was understanding he didn't belong there, and the other half was missing the essential parts of his life. Missing Sherlock Holmes. And yes, happiness did matter in the end. Happiness mattered; it was the end goal despite any destinies, reincarnations, or paths which one is cursed to follow. John was supposed to happy, that was the end of it, and he felt as though he had achieved just that. He let his fists unclench against the rug, he let that age old anger seep from his muscles and for the first time in a long while he felt himself relax, properly. He felt himself sink deeper into that house, devote yet another piece of himself to its walls, and praise it once more for having found him a home. A true home, somewhere he belonged, somewhere he had been before. He thanked it for the friendship it had supplied him with, for that boy who slept so peacefully behind him. And for a moment John realized that he had never felt so complete, so whole in his entire life. Not his wedding day, not Rosie's birth...nothing had given him such a warm feeling inside than did this moment right now. He didn't have to be loved; he didn't have to be accepted. It was the lack of the cage, that thing people had been building around him all of these years. His father, then his wife...John felt perhaps that tonight was the night he found the key. Tonight was the night he let himself out of the constraints of what was expected of him, and ventured now out into the world. Out into the realms of his own life, so as to find the happiness that all men were promised, one way or another.