The Mad House

Love, Violence, And Allegories

Entry Nine: It's become intolerable, watching Victor as he looks upon Sherlock with that possessive look in his eyes. I don't know if he knows what happened between us, yet something has changed within him, that's for sure. He's become much more clingy, if that's the right word. He hasn't let Sherlock out of his sight, and even at the dinner table he holds Sherlock's hand, almost as if to remind me that I've got no power in my own life. Almost as if to remind me that I may have had Sherlock for a night, but Victor has him for the rest of his life. For every other night, except the one I had achieved. Sometimes Sherlock looks back at me, and I see something of a glimmer in his eyes, something of a plea for help. I think he loves me, perhaps I'm just looking for what I want to see, but sometimes I could swear there's a glimmer of love. I don't know how he feels about Victor, perhaps he's trapped, perhaps he's got no other choice but to love that man. Either way, I think I might be what he needs. Either way, I think there's hope for my own future, no matter how possessive Victor intends to be. If we're all destined to live in this house, well then I suppose we must make the best of it. If we're all meant to live here, there's no reason that we're not meant to die here as well. I think it's my duty to take Sherlock for myself, no matter the consequences. I suppose there are other ways of getting what you want, despite resistance. Love and violence go hand in hand.  

To celebrate their reunion, Victor proposed taking them all out to his favorite restaurant, so they could not only reminisce on old times, but also plan for the future. John knew that he really had no choice but to agree, for while he would much rather go somewhere with Sherlock and leave this artist to starve, he knew that he had to be hospitable, at least for now. He didn't know how old their resentment was, or even if there was a resentment to begin with! He just knew that right now, Victor posed a threat. Not just to Sherlock's heart, for John had known that coming in, simply with the superiority of the group. For a while, John had the illusion that he was in control of everything that happened. He had the last word, he made the decisions. The house was his, and so he decided what was going to happen with it and with them. And yet here was Victor, looking as if he owned the world, knowing more about their pasts than either of them combined without even having seen the house before! It wasn't fair, to have been uprooted by some man who had just sauntered into their lives an hour ago! And yet here they were, sitting now at some fancy restaurant that no one could afford, sipping some fancy wine and staring at each through the dimly lit candle light. Victor had dressed for the occasion, having abandoned his artist look for instead a nice shirt and coat, looking quite formal and professional. John couldn't imagine that the man had any money, yet he certainly acted as if he did. Perhaps the art business was going better than John anticipated, perhaps people liked to buy his obscene paintings, having a nude Sherlock or John staring at them indefinitely throughout their house.
"I call that collection The Mad House." Victor explained quietly, tapping at his silverware as he stared over at Sherlock with a very far away, thoughtful look.
"Based off of the house?" Sherlock presumed, looking quiet mesmerized. Victor smiled at him, looking again to the menu and pausing for a moment.
"I owned it, you know?" Victor pointed out.
"John owns it." Sherlock corrected. "The deed has his name on it."
"My name is painted over; there was a name underneath it." John muttered a bit shamefully.
"You know why you were gifted the house, Mr. Watson?" Victor asked.
"No." John admitted quietly. Victor sighed heavily, shrugging his shoulders as if that was just a shame.
"Well, then I suppose it's not my business to tell you." He decided finally. John fought off the urge to rise to his feet and slug that guy senseless. He was really playing with John's last nerve, basically begging him to explode right here in this high class Parisian restaurant. John didn't want to be an embarrassment, and he definitely didn't want to disturb France's higher class in their enjoyment of snails and cheese and whatever else these people ate. But this little brat was just asking for it, wasn't he? He was just begging to be hit across his pretty little face.
"Why won't you tell us the ending?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"It's not within my power, I'm afraid. I've had the dreams; certainly someone wants me to know something you don't." Victor offered with a shrug.
"I don't think that's quite true." John snapped back. "I don't think you're any more special than either of us."
"I owned the house when you two came crawling through my door, of course I've got a special connection with that house. It's mine, Mr. Watson, and certainly that is working to my advantage." Victor said with a small smile.
"You don't have to be so self-righteous about it." John growled, looking towards Sherlock with an expression that begged the boy to see just how rotten this man was who sat before them. He was upset to see that Sherlock wasn't even looking at him; he was instead fixated on Victor instead. His eyes looked absolutely entranced.
"So you put all of your visions down on canvas? Why?" Sherlock wondered.
"I thought they were delightful. I thought it was wonderful to see a whole story set before my eyes, a masterpiece, a story of scandal and madness. Truly I saw a different side of myself, and of humanity as a whole." Victor admitted with a smile, sipping at his wine delicately.
"But you didn't think it was actually real? You said before you suspected it all to be nothing more than a metaphor?" Sherlock pointed out curiously.
"Well yes, I thought that we all represented different types of madness, and the house was our cesspool. It was inside each and every one of us, it emphasized our drives and our needs, and we all represented the reasons people lose their minds. And together, each and every one of us getting all entangled, loving each other, merging, well it was poetic in a way." Victor admitted.
"That's beautiful." Sherlock breathed quietly.
"We're reasons people go mad? Like...like archetypes?" John questioned. Victor nodded, his eyes gleaming brighter in excitement, as if no one before had been interested in his little allegory.
"Yes of course. The three of us are locked inside of the house, together with different interests in mind. Sherlock is mad with love, presumably because he loves both of us at the same time, yet in different ways. He's insane with his own confusion, feeling strong emotions yet not knowing what on earth to do with them. He was a prostitute, as you may have known, simply because he couldn't live without being admired." Victor began.
"I'm different now; you'd be shocked at how much I've changed." Sherlock said quickly.
"Perhaps you've adapted to a new age, but you're still the same conflicted boy I knew before. That's for sure." Victor said with a little grin. John sighed heavily, he felt bad for hoping that little comment would be the one to break Sherlock's heart.
"And John, you're mad with envy. You love Sherlock so desperately, yet you know you can never have him. You're willing to do anything and everything in the world to make sure he's yours, yet you despise me, and even him, for loving each other instead." Victor continued. John felt his fists clench on the table, and he took a quick glance at Sherlock so as to gauge the boy's reaction. He might have guessed that he didn't look surprised.
"I'm married." John said finally. Victor chuckled, shaking his head as if he saw directly through that.
"And I'm sure that's going quite well." Victor hissed.
"John's an excellent husband, Victor." Sherlock snapped, to which John could only smile proudly. At least Sherlock was beginning to see the rough edges around this man.
"My apologies, for making assumptions." Victor murmured, holding his hands up in something of a surrender. As soon as they dropped, Victor grabbed yet another cigarette from his jacket. Smoking in a restaurant was basically unheard of in England, yet Victor lit it up and puffed out great billows of smoke without looking the least bit nervous. In fact, John seemed to remember him smoking quite a lot during their few hours together, something of a chain smoker presumably.
"And what about you, then?" John asked finally, waving around his face so as to clear the smoke a bit obviously. Victor didn't seem to care that John was affected; he instead kept puffing away, as if he was happy to add a little bit more annoyance to his competition's life.
"I'm power, mad with control." Victor admitted finally. "I own the house; I own its power and its influences. I know every little thought of all of its inhabitants, and I control them just as a puppet master might control his puppets. I had strings on each and every one of you, controlling Sherlock with money and love, and John with the faint sense of hope he preyed on. I let him think he might have had control, the upper hand on Sherlock's heart, but I was holding the reins the whole time." Victor admitted with a conniving little smile.
"That's awfully evil." Sherlock admitted finally.
"Well, together the three of us embodied madness as a whole. I think it's quite wonderful that we get to reunite, I can already feel the house trembling with excitement." Victor admitted with a large grin.
"What do you think it wants us back for?" John asked. "If you've got all the answers, why are we here again?"
"For our happy ending, of course." Victor said with something of a laugh. "We did everything correct, except the end. The house wants to give us another shot at it."
"But you won't tell us the ending, will you? You won't let us know." John snapped.
"Well of course not. Only too easy to manipulate the ending if you know what not to do. It would never be genuine." Victor said with something of a chuckle.
"But you know, how is that fair?" Sherlock challenged.
"I'm power...fairness doesn't matter to me." Victor admitted with a shrug. John sighed heavily, shaking his head in exasperation and leaning a little bit farther on the table, so as to stare Victor directly in his eyes, so as to challenge him.
"I'm sorry Victor, but I am not going to let you hide things from us and play to your delusion of an allegory. I could make up my own crackpot theory and insist everyone plays to my rules next, assigning us the role of angel, devil, and a**hole if you want. But you're not a prophet, and your word isn't gospel. So tell us what we're here to do, tell us what we did wrong, and maybe the three of us could figure out a way to get us off of this forsaken earth once and for all." John growled, staring Victor directly in the eyes as he delivered his angry little monologue. Victor simply chuckled, oh that might be his most annoying trait! The way he refused to back down, or even to be intimidated at all! The way he acted, as if he was on top of the world and no one had a chance to drag him down!
"Anger won't get you any closer." Victor warned. John gave a great groan, shaking his head and falling back into his chair in defeat. Well he could only imagine one scenario which wasn't happy, and which also seemed imminent. If there really was an everlasting ending, well he could only imagine that it involved him hitting Victor with a very blunt object until his skull cracked and his all-knowing brain spilled out onto the floor. Thankfully the waiter appeared with their food, interrupting whatever sudden outburst John might have made. Then again, the food wasn't exactly helping ease his temper. For his twenty five euros he got what appeared to be a side salad, with three little slices of duck on top. It wouldn't be enough to fill a small child, much less a grown adult. Yet he said nothing, for he noticed everyone else in this restaurant were eating equally tiny portions. What sort of insane country were they in, when luxury was considered eating absolutely nothing?
"Delicious." Sherlock said, wiggling in his chair excitedly as he set his napkin on his lap and went to attacking the roasted vegetables that were on his plate.
"So how did you two find each other, then?" Victor wondered as they were just beginning (and finishing, apparently) their meals. Sherlock was still chewing, and so John took it upon himself to answer that.
"Perhaps the house doesn't want you to know." John snapped. Victor chuckled, spearing a piece of steak onto his fork and waving it around threateningly.
"You're just how I imagined you, John Watson. Indefinitely the loser, yet fighting tooth and nail to stay on top." Victor chuckled.
"Stop it, both of you!" Sherlock interrupted, looking quite desperate as he dropped his fork and waved his hands around in exasperation. "You're both acting like children!"
"Well considering we're eating from the children's menu, it's not entirely difficult to get into that mind set." John growled, staring down at his tiny portion in an attempt to fight that, too.
"We met at the college. I'm a graduate student, in chemistry, and John's a biology professor." Sherlock admitted. "John sort of cornered me one day, asking me why I was following him around."
"Turns out I saw a ghost...or perhaps a memory." John admitted quietly, finishing up the last couple bites of his salad all the while his stomach was still growling for more.
"And we've been tied together ever since." Sherlock ended quickly, to which Victor nodded in satisfaction. He finished his meal and sat back with a cigarette, holding it between his teeth and looking quite content with himself.
"So the house brought you two together, is what I gather?" he presumed.
"That is the theory, yes." Sherlock agreed, as John had sat back in his own chair and become happy with silence.
"Well isn't that just destiny?" Victor chuckled, puffing on his cigarette in a playful sort of way.
"I suppose this is all destiny, wouldn't you agree?" John insisted. Sherlock sighed heavily, as if he was really becoming irritated with the way his two companions were quarreling. Surely he wouldn't say anything, simply because he was too afraid he might get yelled at in return, however his lips were becoming pursed, and his fingers began tapping at the silverware.
"Anyone in the mood for desert?" Sherlock asked finally, to which John raised his hand a bit apprehensively, for while he wanted desert he knew that his budget probably wouldn't allow for it.  It wasn't long until they all paid their own individual bills, all so hopelessly expensive that John felt as though he should go on a diet of Ramen for a whole week to make up for it. Yet that anger was soon set aside when they left, for now he was standing alone. John stood on the curb, waiting in some agitation for Sherlock to finally finish saying his goodbye to Victor. They had already organized their travel plans, and they would see him bright and early at eight o'clock for the trip back to England, yet if anyone would have seen them it would look like they weren't seeing each other for another year and a half. Sherlock stood on the sidewalk, his posture broken as he hunched into an awkward little stance, as if he was too timid to do anything more than giggle and nod. Victor was standing next to the cab door, to which the driver was probably irritated, and was talking quietly to a blushing Sherlock. John stood near the curb, cursing the two under his breath, as he tried to hail his own cab for the ride back to their hotel. He looked back just in time to see Victor kiss Sherlock's hand in farewell, before disappearing into the cab and closing the door with a snap. John tried not to scream, for as horrible as that man was, at least he was gone. Gone for now, at least. Oh never before had John hoped for a house fire, never before this moment. And yet if he woke up to find that man dead, and his studio burnt to ashes underneath him, well perhaps John would find it within him to shed a single tear. That was all. 

"Oh isn't he just..." Sherlock started with a twirl of enthusiasm.
"Infuriating?" John offered.
"Wonderful." Sherlock corrected with a frown.
"If you consider controlling, possessive, and nasty to be wonderful then yes, I must agree." John grumbled.
"Oh shush John, don't get all jealous with me." Sherlock insisted, swatting his hand playfully at John before losing interest quite quickly, and looking now towards the road to try to hail a cab. John sighed heavily, for he knew that before victor arrived Sherlock might have wanted to walk back with John, or at least he might have wanted to stare into his eyes for a little longer, and long for each other under the light of the street lamp. But oh, how things have changed. John knew that Sherlock wanted to rush home, just so that he could sit with a glass of wine and think about Victor some more. What bloody teenagers they all were, whining about each other's relationship status as if they were all entitled to get what they wanted without fail. John hated Victor's stupid little allegories, but he knew that there was at least some truth in it all. If he could ever assign himself a role in this trio, it would undoubtedly be the jealous odd one out. And Sherlock of course, would be the one falling in love left and right, only because his heart and self-control were so fragile they could be toppled by a simple gust of wind, or perhaps just a puff of cigarette smoke.
"Oh that wretched little man." John grumbled as they got themselves settled within a cab.
"What's so bad about him?" Sherlock asked, looking towards John as if he was blaming him for all of this confusion.
"Can't you see he's just sauntering in here, thinking he's the ruler of the world? Thinking he can just swat me aside, take you for his own, and claim that he's the house's favorite?" John grumbled.
"Well...John it's sort of all destiny. Surely you've come to grips with that?" Sherlock clarified quietly.
"Ya, I know all about the stupid destiny." John grumbled, shaking his head in exasperation. "I just don't see why it can't be changed, that's all. I thought...well it doesn't matter what I thought anymore. It's just that he's here, and he's being completely unfair."
"He has good points though, John. Maybe we are just stuck in a never ending allegory, maybe we're...maybe we're not real at all!" Sherlock suggested, his voice picking up in his excitement. John sighed heavily, yet took it upon himself to slap Sherlock rather hard in the side, making the poor boy gasp.
"You feel pretty real to me." John decided finally. "Besides, I doubt all of this would hurt so badly, if it wasn't real. I doubt archetypes feel actual emotions."
"You know it's not my intention to hurt you." Sherlock murmured quietly.
"It's his!" John exclaimed, feeling his voice tempting to crack, and a sob tempting to appear. He just shook his head, looking out the window and trying to distract himself from this chaos. He tried to just look at the streets, and at all the people who were happily holding hands with their soulmates...well it was just John's luck, wasn't it? That his definitive soulmate was destined to end up with someone else. Oh that was just his bloody luck.