The Madness Was A Man

The House That Lost Its Mind

"I'm sure you'll both love the house. It's much older than the one you grew up in, with so much history! So many stories were made within those walls, and surely they are not the last ones." Agatha exclaimed with a grin, trying to break the tense silence that had fallen around the stuffy carriage. 
"You mean like our grandfather?" Sherlock presumed automatically. The woman shifted rather uncomfortably, nodding her head reluctantly yet finding it impossible to deny.
"Yes, that is the most popular among the common folk. But you boys know as well as I that such a story is falsified, and purposefully dramatized to make it seem more exciting." The woman snarled.
"But there is some truth in the matter, surely? There was a murder?" Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock, mind your manners." Mycroft growled. Agatha silenced him with a white gloved hand, as if to make sure he understood that she could fight her own battles when necessary.
"It is true that your grandfather killed a man, but he was very sick. He had become paranoid, not insane." Agatha insisted with a roll of her eyes. Sherlock nodded, staring down at the ground a little bit nervously. Honestly he didn't know there was a difference between the two, especially when such paranoia ended in a murder of such caliber.
"And he was hanged, yes?" he presumed. Agatha nodded, sighing rather heavily.
"In the front yard." She agreed miserably. Sherlock looked towards Mycroft a bit apprehensively, though he didn't want to say anything outright. He knew that what he had in mind surely wouldn't be on his brother's mind as well- the idea of hauntings and madness festering in the wounds the man had cut open ages before.
"That's in the past, however. And we are looking into the future. We are part of the future." Mycroft insisted, nodding his head rather stiffly. Sherlock sighed heavily; oh it always seemed to be his brother's intention to make everything sound much more official and political than it needed to be.
"So well put, Mycroft. You truly do sound like my brother's son." Agatha agreed with a large smile on her face. Sherlock rolled his eyes once more, for surely Mycroft would wallowing in that compliment for as long as the carriage ride endured. The ride was about two hours long, for Sherlock watched rather anxiously on his pocket watch. There seemed to be little to do but watch the hands move about the face, for the landscape was blocked by a thick black curtain. There was hardly any conversation, and if it was it was just Mycroft trying to be a kiss up in any way he possibly could. Sherlock didn't want to listen to his little rants about his own upkeep of the house, or his prospects for future employment, or even things such as foul as marriage. Thankfully Mycroft was short winded on that topic, for even if marriage was the way to win his way into their Aunt's favor, even he couldn't manage to discuss it with a straight face for long. No, neither boy wanted to think of finding a bride just yet. Unfortunately it seemed to be on Agatha's mind more than anything else about their futures, and she was listing off names of suitable young women she thought might be proper matches. Sherlock kept his head down, knowing of that, being the more attractive of the two, he would be expected to be married off first. Well surely the girls would be more excited, yet what of his own enthusiasm? Was Agatha not taking into consideration perhaps that he was uninterested in being married off like some animal going in for husbandry? He wanted to fall in love, properly! And no girl he had met in his life had ever seemed fit for his heartache; they didn't even interest him at all. Maybe it was a maturity thing, or maybe such love would materialize itself in due time. And yet something within Sherlock assured him that every single name off his aunt's lips would not do the trick. Something told him that love would be a much more complicated game to play than she would like to imagine. That his heart was a puzzle, not so easily cracked by a young lady who would have dinner with them. Mycroft seemed unenthused as well, yet for whatever reason Sherlock could not guess. It most likely had something to do with flat disinterest, the desire to live alone for the rest of his life, undisturbed by heirs or wives or anything of the sort. Mycroft was a lone wolf, happy only when he had someone that would follow his will, and any sort of butler would do the trick just fine. After two hours had finally passed there was finally a jolt of the carriage wheels, coming to a halt. Each one of the passengers shifted uncomfortably, nearly sliding off of their seats yet happy for finally the silence and stillness that solid ground was able to offer. The door was opened after a moment's pause by the driver, who stood patiently along the side and offering a hand to each person who debarked from the carriage. Sherlock took his hand rather reluctantly, though he was not a man who could resist such temptation. He hardly knew the touch of another's skin, not familiarly like he did when he was a child. The act of holding hands was much more intimate now that he could walk by himself, and he could not think back to the last time a hand held his own. When his mother let her fingers drift away they had not been replaced, not until now when the stable boy's rough hands played between Sherlock's smooth fingers, and together they carried Sherlock's' weight down to the ground.
"John, get the bags." Agatha instructed as Mycroft clambered down by himself, unaware or uncaring that the boy was there to assist. Sherlock lingered a bit closer to the carriage, not as distracted with the house as he might have been had he not been lost in his own whirlwind of thoughts. John, that was his name. John.
"Sherlock look at this." Mycroft muttered, clapping his hand onto his brother's shoulder and staring up at the house with his jaw hanging loosely. "It's magnificent." And so it was, that house which erupted from the earth like a stalagmite or a mountain. It appeared to be many stories tall, with windows peppering the outsides like a million pairs of eyes, staring up blinking and expectantly at its new occupants. It was a white house, ominous in appearance and in history. There was a porch stretching around the length of the house, encircling the house with banisters and rocking chairs, and the double doors which allowed entrance were painted bright red. Yet the most magnificent thing about the structure was not made of wood at all. No, in fact it was the line of people that had come to greet them, standing in the gravel driveway. It was the serving staff, and quite the group it was too. They were lined in a great order, with the maids in their white uniforms looking spotless and eager, the butlers and footmen with their tailcoats and rigid posture- even the cooking staff had arrived outside to get a look at the new boys they would be serving to. It was a wonderful display, and each one of the staff was a bright and smiling face. Sherlock smiled back at them, elbowing Mycroft to do the same, and finally looked back upon Agatha, who was starting her way inside with a hatbox clutched under her arm.
"These lovely people are the ones who will keep you clean and fed." Agatha introduced, waving her arm more carelessly than her voice tried to emphasize. All the maids curtseyed as the boys walked by, and the men bowed their heads in respect. Sherlock had forgotten what it was like to have a waiting staff, a proper one at least, and it was rather a shock to be respected already by so many people who could hardly name him.
"Nice to meet you all." Sherlock mumbled a bit fearfully, for he felt as though if he did not acknowledge them now they would think him rude and unworthy. That was certainly not the case, and he wanted to make that clear. Agatha distracted them both from the formalities just as soon as she swung open the front door, revealing the interior of the fabulous structure. It was Victorian down to its roots, with an odor of aging wood and cloth that hit Sherlock square in the face just as soon as he walked inside. Ages of extinguished candles, perfume, and withering flowers mixed together to create such a remarkable odor, one which flooded the old house with a shadow like consistency, and one which filled Sherlock's lungs with nothing less than history itself. The house was very dark, as it was lit with nothing save for sunlight and oil lamps which were distributed on the tops of the wooden desks and mounted onto the walls with large brass hooks. The floors creaked with age as Sherlock stumbled into the entry way, a small parlor which had doors leading into most of the ground floor living quarters. He could not see into each room individually, but he got a general sense that there was a sitting room to the left, a small library on the right, and a dining room straight ahead. The stairway consumed most of his focus, as it was a gigantic wooden one lined with thick red carpet, curving up to encircle the parlor and add a touch of architecture to the otherwise rather plain design. The top floor doors were entirely visible from below, yet the stairwell seemed to lead even farther, evidence of a higher and more private third story. It was a gigantic house, riddled with age and with history, so much so that all Sherlock could do was sit and stare for a moment.
"Wonderful, isn't it?" Agatha sighed. "Been in the family for as long as there's been a family, and hopefully when I pass it will be taken on by one of you boys."
"What an honor it would be." Mycroft said with a grin, nodding his head in admiration as he looked about at the molding which lined the white walls, and the thick red curtains that hung still by every window they could see from here. The walls themselves were covered with pictures of all kinds, from photographs of landscapes to ancient looking paintings of men and women looking grim. It would seem that Agatha had a soft spot for decorations, for there hardly was a place which was left untouched by a ceramic pot or a bouquet of withering yet beautiful flowers. It was rather organized, despite how terribly it matched with the rest of the house, yet all together the disaster aesthetic still gave Sherlock something of a sense of home. When his mother had been alive she had loved all the same things, in moderation of course, and yet still it was nice to see a woman's touch on a house once more, no matter how strangling Agatha's grip proved to be.
"Come on boys, I'll show you your rooms. Our maids had them all done up for you specially." Agatha decided with a grin, tapping along the banister as she ascended the stairs in a very dreamy like state. She seemed to float more than walk, as if she hardly needed to move now that she was back on her home territory. Sherlock and Mycroft followed obediently, following their Aunt's quickened footsteps as she started along the second floor into the two most observable rooms- those with the least privacy in the whole house. Perhaps it was to keep the 'crazy kids' under control, yet Sherlock still felt rather uncomfortable as he walked into the first of the two rooms and saw that his new room would have a perfect view of the parlor, and of course the parlor would have a perfect view of him as well. The room itself was rather nice, with a queen sized bed placed in the center, draped with a rich black bedspread and decorated with white pillows to contrast. There was a large wardrobe near the wall, one made of dark oak wood, and a writing desk at the other end stacked with papers and pens to use as he pleased. The window overlooked the front yard, with white lace curtains to pull for privacy despite their very thin and light penetrating fabric. Sherlock nodded, looking towards the bed and trying to wrap his head around the fact that the bed was now his own, his home for the rest of his life until he could find a bride and be married away. Oh how ghastly it was, that marriage should be his only escape from this underwhelming and rather frightening establishment. How horrible the system was, the system of the higher class. Mycroft had long since followed Agatha into his own room, and so Sherlock found himself alone at last. Alone in this house which never quieted, even when the footsteps had long since stopped. He walked first to the window, pulling open the white blinds and staring out into the front yard. It was ever so obvious which tree had done the trick, which of them all had hoisted the rope which had led to his grandfather's death. There was a magnificent elm tree with a long and rather jagged branch, one which would be just high enough that the man's toes could not scrape the ground. A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine as he blinked for a moment, imagining what it might have looked like to have witnessed such a thing, imagining what it would have felt like to be falling and be caught only by your neck and the thick, scratchy rope...
"Do you want these on the bed?" asked a voice behind him, making Sherlock jump so far into the air that he felt as though he might've hit his head on the ceiling. He turned quickly, finding that it was none other than the driver John, who was carrying all of Sherlock's possessions in both hands. It seemed a bit of a burden, for as he waited for instructions his arms were beginning to shake with the effort of it all.
"Yes! Well anywhere really...the ground is fine too." Sherlock assured as quickly as he could, spitting out the words just as soon as he realized what a pain it was to have to lug around his wardrobe in one case.
"Enjoying the view, are you?" John wondered, throwing the trunks onto the bed as promised. Sherlock sighed heavily, drawing back the curtain as if he felt guilty for staring so long.
"Observing it, not necessarily enjoying every part." He admitted, thinking with a shutter back to the tree which had taken his grandfather's life.
"You're his grandson then?" John presumed, looking rather interested as he looked up at Sherlock. Surely he knew the story by heart now, having been working here for however long. It must be a legend down in the town, must be a ghost story friends tell at their slumber parties. Sherlock stared back at John with the same bit of curiosity, though it was not his past he necessarily cared about. He was more taking into the details of the boy, his blonde hair and the way he parted it down the side, his hazel eyes and their spark of intelligence...
"Yes." Sherlock said simply. "But before you ask, I'm not crazy."
"No, no of course I would never ask that." John assured. "I don't believe in ghosts, or curses, or any of that nonsense. None of the staff does, that's why Agatha keeps us. They had problems before with people joining the staff just to go poke around the tree at night, or try to summon spirits in the basement."
"Surely no one is that invested into our family's history?" Sherlock asked with a scoff.
"Well you see, we've nothing else to talk about around here. Certainly the arrival of you boys will be the talk of the town before everyone finds out you're perfectly normal." John presumed with a little chuckle. His smile brought out something of an awkward grin in Sherlock as well, yet he shook his head rather modestly all the same.
"I never made a promise to perfectly normal. I'm not mad, or at least I'm not yet." Sherlock assured.
"Well that's a relief, certainly. Do try to stay that way." John decided, standing up on his toes with a nod of his head as if looking for something to do other than stare. Sherlock looked back, knowing that it was not rude to return a stare so long as you were not the one holding it any longer than it was meant to go.
"I should um, see how your brother is getting on." John decided finally, tapping the trunks once more on the bed as if mentally checking that they were all there before nodding himself out of the room. Sherlock didn't say goodbye, yet he didn't set straight for unpacking either. He merely stood at the windows, allowing his thumbs to sink into his pants pockets as he stared at the spot John had been standing in moments before. He thought, for a moment, about what a nice friend that John could make in the future. If of course there was any sort of future promised for either of them. 

Mycroft seemed quite content in their new house, yet Sherlock had to admit that the place was a little bit more odd than he would have liked. The everlasting excuse was that it was an old building, and that most older architecture was eerie and impractical, yet the way this house was set up was more like a maze than any sort of home fit for a common family. For starters, the rooms in which Sherlock and Mycroft were situated could be characterized more as entertainment for the rest of the home rather than a private place to sleep and relax. The doors opened up right into the eye view of anyone who happened to pass through the parlor, and when it got warm they had no choice but to leave the doors open to allow airflow. It was rather miserable, knowing that while you sat on your bed every single movement you make will be judged by the cleaning ladies as they bustled along with the laundry, or by the butlers as they passed through with Agatha's afternoon tea. The rooms themselves were all very oddly spaced out, some being very small and some being abnormally large. Presumably they had other uses when they were first put in, as Mycroft's bedroom was big enough to have been two separate rooms by itself, and the dining room must also double as a ballroom when they needed to have guests over. Yet Sherlock had not yet found the most unsettling part of the house until he had to track down his Aunt to fetch a thicker curtain for his bedroom. The nights here were unusually miserable, for there was a gas lamp positioned in the driveway to illuminate the grounds for any guests that might have arrived after dark. Well this was very convenient for everyone except those positioned where the light from the lamp would interrupt their sleep, and since Sherlock's window was only dressed with thin lace it was impossible for him to get any sleep at all. All night the room would be illuminated in a very eerie shade of silver, as the moonlight and the gas lamp together produced shadows which seemed to morph all night long. Occasionally Sherlock would wake up in a cold sweat, to see that his jacket which he had left along the back of his desk chair had cast a shadow long enough to be mistaken for a person, standing near the door. Not to mention that Sherlock had a perfect view of the tree from his room, and if he looked out his window at night he could see all the knobs and straggly branches of that obscene plant, the very one which would be rightfully crawling with the spirit of the Holmes grandfather, long dead by its strength and stiffness. It was no wonder that Sherlock hardly got any sleep! No wonder that he was too afraid to open his eyes when the large clock in the hall rang to announce that it was two o'clock in the morning. There was something very threatening about it all, about the violent deaths which had occurred in the house and the stories which encircled the entire Holmes family. Of course Sherlock was one of the only people in the world who could dispute such things, yet all the same he was also one of the growing numbers which had to wonder about the truth behind it all. People just don't lose their mind, after having taken care of his father he knew well enough that it was no coincidence, the way the poor man went out. Something was in their bloodstream, and if it was not entirely biological then certainly they were being troubled by something not from this world...surely they were being haunted.