The Mad House

Conferences Really Cause Conflict

Sherlock arrived a little bit late, at three o'clock just as soon as John's office hours began, yet Sherlock was the first one into his room, almost as if he had been waiting outside on the couches, as if he was worried he wouldn't be admitted outside of the usual time.
"John, check this out!" Sherlock said excitedly, walking in a great stride and placing a laptop on John's desk, right on top of the papers he had set himself to grading. John smiled at him, wishing that he had been offered something more of an introduction. However he focused now on the laptop, deciding that if Sherlock deemed it unnecessary to exchange introductions than it was best not to argue.
"What am I looking at?" John wondered a bit apprehensively, straining his eyes to see what he assumed was some sort of art blog. It had no actual paintings on it, merely aesthetic pictures of paint brushes with an artist's bio at the top.
"I've found him, Victor Trevor." Sherlock announced proudly, standing up to his highest height and beaming. John sighed, noticing now that the artist's name was undoubtedly the name they had seen on that death certificate. He tried to fight off his disappointment, for he had known all along that it would only be a matter of time until this man walked into their lives.
"You don't know this is really him. I mean, there might be thousands of people with that name." John warned, trying to grasp at any sort of hope he could find. Yet he knew that Sherlock was smart enough to account for that, he understood that Sherlock would not be this excited if he hadn't been certain.
"Look at his picture then, scroll down." Sherlock insisted. John sighed, pounding a bit on the down arrow (to which Sherlock winced) and just now seeing a large portrait of a man standing up near what looked to be a large, French style building. Only half of his face was visible, the other half was cloaked in shadow, yet it was undeniably him. A modern day Victor Trevor, half of his face matching almost perfectly with the drawing that Sherlock had done. John nodded his head, pushing the laptop away before he had to look at anything more. He really did hate to have to see this, Victor's arrival into his life cut like a dagger and he wasn't even here yet! Certainly when Victor made his grand entrance everything that John had with Sherlock would be lost, ruined with this horrible man! This man who Sherlock would undoubtedly prefer.
"Well that's pretty neat." Was all John could manage, scrolling down now to an address printed in blue font down at the bottom. "Paris? He lives in Paris?"
"Yes, that's sort of the only downside." Sherlock agreed with a shrug.
"Why is it a downside?" John wondered.
"Well, vacation days must be scarce. And I'm working on an experiment that's..."
"You're not actually suggesting that we go to Paris?" John exclaimed, falling back into his chair with his mouth hanging askew in surprise. Sherlock looked a bit taken aback, as if he couldn't understand what he had said wrong.
"Well of course we have to go to Paris." He said a bit quietly. "How else are we to be sure that it's him?"
"I've got great news, Sherlock. They've invented the telephone!" John exclaimed.
"You know as well as I that it's not as simple as that." Sherlock scoffed. John sighed heavily, shaking his head and folding his hands a bit apprehensively on his desk. He stared at the picture some more, a beautifully photographed image, with that man looking long, lean, and handsome. That man that might be so tempting.
"I can't go to Paris." John muttered, this time his voice straining hesitantly.  

"What on earth are you getting your suitcase for?" Mary exclaimed, ducking out of the way as John reemerged from the basement, lugging up his great big suitcase they had bought for air travel. Ever since Rosie had been born they had been unable to go on vacations for more than a weekend, and so this suitcase still had the tags on it.
"Paris, I guess." John grumbled.
"Paris?" Mary exclaimed. "John Watson you cannot abandon me like this!"
"I'm not trying to abandon you! God, I'm not trying to do anything. They want me for a bloody conference, some sort of science conference in Paris, where I have to meet with all sorts of people I don't want to meet with, and talk about things that I already know." John lied quickly. Well of course the story was fabricated but the anger was not. Oh if only he was going to a conference, how much easier would his life be! But no, he was going to collect the very man that would weigh down his entire life, and fill his eager heart with lead. Mary hesitated, yet all the while she followed John up to their bedroom, for obviously she had more questions to ask.
"Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?" she questioned.
"Because I thought I could weasel my way out of it. I'm the youngest professor they've got in that department; I thought they'd send the chair! Only now did they tell me that I'm to be flying out on Wednesday." John grumbled.
"Wednesday? John that's three days away, what am I supposed to do with Rosie?" Mary insisted.
"Well I suppose you'll have to manage. You can call your mother, have her help out. Besides, I'll be back on Friday at the latest." John suggested. Mary's voice faltered, and she crossed her arms across her chest with a frown appearing on her face.
"You're not going to take me along?" she muttered quietly. John blinked, looking towards his wife as if she had just sprouted another head.
"Why would I take you?" he asked, blinking to show his obvious confusion.
"Oh nothing, it's just that usually when there's conferences abroad, people take their spouses. Make a vacation out of it. And Paris, the city of love...I thought you might have considered that." Mary murmured.
"I'll be in meetings all day; certainly I can't take you now! Mary, over the summer we'll go somewhere excellent. We'll go to Paris; we'll go to Prague, wherever you want! But not now. Don't make me bring you across the channel just to ignore you the whole time!" John begged, taking one of his wife's hands and squeezing it gently to show his enthusiasm.
"As if you don't ignore me here." Mary muttered, pulling her hand away and storming out of the bedroom in one of her little fits. John sighed heavily, shaking his head and deciding that if Mary wanted to be difficult then it was her own fault. Besides, there was no possible way she could be allowed to come get Victor. First of all, that would expose their operation, and John would have no choice but to confess everything! Secondly, Mary's presence would just spoil what time John had left with Sherlock before he felt that he had to hand him over. Oh John really did have a way of digging himself into a hole, didn't he? One that he would never be able to escape, no matter how hard he tried. For if he was trying to lie to Mary then she got mad at him for the little parts of the lie that he didn't account for! And if he was trying to be truthful to Sherlock, then Sherlock got mad at him for the things he couldn't control! And if he fell in love with Sherlock...then he couldn't say a word, lest he be crucified for it. John sighed heavily, deciding that he really best not argue with his wife right now. He had enough trouble with her as it was, and to add some more fuel to the fire would be unnecessary. She didn't deserve to hurt, especially for things that were completely out of John's control. It wasn't his fault that she couldn't tag along to the conference that didn't even exist. And so he went back to packing his things, throwing in a couple of shirts, some shoes, pants, and a dinner jacket just in case Victor decided to take them somewhere fancy. Truth be told, John wasn't expecting this to be a very large affair. He wasn't expecting this to take very long, just long enough for the two of them to drag Victor back to England with them, and introduce him to the house. Who knows, maybe he'll have already packed in anticipation. Maybe he was just waiting for the okay. John felt as though he would have a stroke of luck if Victor was hesitant, and considering his luck thus far, he decided that it was thoroughly impossible. If he wished for something to happen then certainly the opposite would occur, especially when his relationship with Sherlock was involved. John then moved to his work bag, knowing of course that even in Paris he would have to keep up with grading. He was dumping out some important files when out came that picture frame, tumbling out on top of his clothes so as to display Sherlock once more. This ancient photograph, taken undoubtedly to torture everyone who saw it in the future, anyone who might be allowed to imagine Sherlock as they knew him in that same state. John sighed heavily, staring deep into those eyes, those eyes which depicted emotion he may never see in life. Only on this tattered picture would John be able to receive such a gaze from Sherlock Holmes, only on this tattered picture would he see any amount of Sherlock that was not supposed to be made public. John sighed heavily, deciding that he had no choice but to throw that picture among his clothes in his bag. Besides, if Victor needed any proof then that picture would surely serve as enough. There was no denying that ancient photograph depicted Sherlock Holmes, the man that lived now.