The Madness Was A Man

The Reality Of The Matter

The carriage started off up the gravel driveway, with the horses' footsteps falling heavily to a sort of rhythm. The wheels rolled steadily back and forth, all the while the carriage itself shook hazardously, as if they were traveling on uneven ground and destined to flip over. Sherlock clung to the railing carefully, for fear of falling out when they hit a larger bump in the road, and the other hand was occupied by shielding the sun from his eyes. It was an open air sort of contraption, and he could already feel his pale cheeks beginning to burn.
"Sherlock what in particular are you looking for? I was thinking of first going to the pharmacy, and secondly to the grocers..."
"I really don't care." Sherlock interrupted abruptly. "I'm just here for the sightseeing, I don't need anything too important."
"Sightseeing, Mr. Holmes?" John called back, over the multiple sounds of wind and horses.
"As long as there are exciting things to see." Sherlock agreed.
"Not many exciting things if you don't know what you're looking at. In fact, not many exciting things at all. I'd say the richest historical building we have is the one you boys live in." John admitted.
"And I still don't think I know the half of it." Sherlock grumbled disappointedly, all the while his brother shushed him with a quick pat to the side. Obviously Mycroft didn't like to acknowledge the family history, not even the gaps that seemed to be growing in the story they had been told as children! Surely there was more to it, surely the rumors around this town must be more akin to the truth than what their father had told them so long ago. Everyone had their own version, yet Sherlock still suspected that each version veered closer to the truth.
"Well if you wanted a tour guide, I'd be happy to at least try to point out some of the interesting factoids. There's more political history about these parts, yet for any old history buff it might be worth your while." John proposed.
"Yes! Yes that sounds..." Mycroft gave Sherlock a very stern look, so frightening that Sherlock's words halted and his enthusiasm was sucked dry. "I would like that." Sherlock finished finally, in a voice so monotone it sounded like an old record player which was horribly out of tune.
"Sherlock, you know what Agatha said." Mycroft growled, under his breath so that it wouldn't be overheard and thought to be rude.
"I don't care what she said. I'm allowed to have friends." Sherlock insisted right back; perhaps a bit louder than was necessary for Mycroft just stifled his mouth with one of his large hands, pushing Sherlock rather forcefully into the side of the cart and slumping in his own little fit. Perhaps he was just jealous that Sherlock had found a friend, or perhaps he was mad that Sherlock was finding people to hang out with other than himself. Mycroft was a myriad of emotions, and none of them ever positive. He was a very selfish person, cold hearted and law abiding, it was a wonder the brothers were even related in the first place! The rest of the ride was silent on both ends, for obviously John could tell that there was something a bit uninviting lingering within the conversation in the back, and Sherlock didn't dare open his mouth to begin a conversation with their driver. As for Mycroft, he was too angry to even say a word. Oh but Sherlock wasn't afraid of Mycroft, no he wasn't scared of anyone really. Especially when their argument was completely invalid, and their point of view reflected nothing that the average person would value. Both Mycroft and Agatha were terribly askew in their opinions, regarding social values and status symbols alike. It was exhausting to be living within them, living as if time was cemented with the same rulebook it had in the last century! Things could be different now; surely things should be different now! And old prejudices must be forgotten. They arrived in town after about a half hour drive, and were met with more people than Sherlock had ever been faced with in this little old place. The streets were bustling with all sorts of people, people who looked normal from far away but began to distort as you got closer, and focused in on their appearance and their expressions. They stared at the cart as it was pulling over, as if wondering who it was who owned such beautiful horses, or who even had enough money to hire a driver these days. Sherlock could only presume that their questions were answered just as soon as they came to mind, for there only seemed to be one prosperous family within a ten mile radius of this rickety little village. Sherlock and Mycroft were both high figures, people who radiated power and cleanliness and money. They were beautiful, pristine in mind and body, and dressed in clothes these people couldn't afford with their life savings. They were, most certainly, descendants of the Holmes family. Now no matter how tarnished the name of Holmes was, their money still stood in the branches of the family. Their power still remained, though their reputation and their sanity was questionable.
"There we are, sir." John muttered, opening up the door and welcoming Mycroft down onto the dirt. Mycroft merely sneered at him, clambering down by himself and landing in a small cloud of dust.
"You'd do well to remember yourself, Mr. Watson, and to remember your place in this family." Mycroft muttered, to which John merely stared. His expression was not one of weakness, or fawning. He instead remained tall (or as tall as he could manage to be) and unblinking, staring Mycroft daringly in the eyes as if to show the man he was not prepared to back down.
"I'm just being friendly." John said finally, after Mycroft had already twisted his hand full length around the carriage door, clenching it in his hatred of rudeness.
"He's being perfectly helpful, Mycroft. Even you need to ask for directions sometimes." Sherlock defended, disembarking on his own this time and rather interrupting the two's staring contest.
"Yes, but I do not fraternize with my guide." Mycroft growled.
"Dare you ever be pleasant for a change." Sherlock teased right back, to which Mycroft's little eyes narrowed once more. Yet he said nothing, for obviously he had nothing to refute that with. He knew as well as Sherlock did that he was unfriendly, yet he didn't want to start preaching his own ideals just now. Not when he had already quoted them a million times already, to the equivalent of a brick wall which was absorbing none of the advice given.
"Go and get your shampoo Mycroft, I'll meet you back here later." Sherlock insisted, shooing his brother off with a careless wave. Mycroft, however, stood still.
"Sherlock, I do beg you to take our advice. It's one thing on our property...another in public." Mycroft whispered, dropping his voice now that he felt rude. Yet John was standing a mere foot away, and could hear even the slightest whisper through Mycroft's perfect white teeth.
"Maybe I will give the reputation of the Holmes family a boost, then. Go along with your shopping, if you don't want to see me walk off with him." Sherlock insisted, and with that his brother finally seemed to get the message. The man simply straightened up, pulling at the edges of his jacket so that it folded crisply over his shoulder blades, and gave a quick nod of farewell. He gave John a mere distrusting glare, which the servant returned with a smile. That undoubtedly infuriated Mycroft even more, yet he turned off before he could inflict anymore verbal abuse and was finally disappeared into the crowd.
"Well, at least he likes me." John muttered, leaning up against the cart and looking quite amused. Sherlock sighed heavily, though just as soon as he allowed himself to be relieved he realized what a foolish mistake that might be. He had just made something of a scene, if not to the passerby then at least to John, who had witnessed it all! Oh it wasn't embarrassing per say, for surely the boy appreciated it, yet in the back of their minds they were both wondering the same thing...why? Why would a man of such sophisticated blood ever fight tooth and nail for a friendship with a boy he had met only a day ago? Why would he even defend John, if he hardly knew anything about him?
"He's rough around the edges, but in the end he's a real softy." Sherlock assured.
"Excuse me if I doubt you on that. He doesn't seem to have anything soft about him." John muttered doubtfully.
"Except for his stomach." Sherlock added quickly, to which John chuckled a bit apprehensively. He was probably still afraid that Mycroft would be lingering, and listening in on their conversation.
"That's incredibly bold of you." John commented, grabbing at the reins of the horses and tying them securely to the post along the side of the road. Sherlock watched him at work, looking about at the passerby so as to make sure they weren't taking too much interest in the two of them. You could tell by the way the two were dressed that there was some economic differences in them, yet Sherlock suspected that no one would dare call them out on it. No one questioned the Holmes family, especially when they thought they might be killed by one in the future.
"So this history you've got for me? Anything we should see first?" Sherlock wondered. John merely chuckled, sauntering up to where Sherlock stood before shaking his head a bit regretfully.
"Nah, there's no history here. I just said that to get your brother off of our backs." John admitted finally. Sherlock merely blinked, a bit surprised in that answer. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure if he was supposed to take it seriously or not.
"You said...well you said politicians?" Sherlock clarified with another blink, keeping his eyes fixed on John so as to look for any signs that he might be joking after all. Yet there was no smile, at least no teasing one at least. It was a genuine smile, as if Sherlock's reaction to his little fib was entertaining enough.
"Yes, the most boring branch of history I could think of. Surely no one wants to listen about politicians? Come on then, let's get a pint, put our feet up." John suggested, nodding his head off towards a sign marked 'Tavern' in big peeling letters. Yet that seemed to be a bit too much, even for Sherlock's standards. That seemed downright disgraceful, to go wallowing in beer and whiskey with the local scum and alcoholics.
"No, no I don't think I'd like that." Sherlock said immediately, even after John had started down the sidewalk through the thin crowd. He stopped just as soon as he realized he wasn't being followed, and although he looked slightly disappointed he definitely realized that he didn't have a choice in the matter. Even though Sherlock had stuck up so rigidly for his own rights, he called the shots around here. John was his puppet, like it or not. John walked back up to Sherlock once more, this time looking slightly more disappointed.
"Even I have a limit." Sherlock admitted under his breath. "What about tea?"
"Tea? Oh surely you don't want to go to Madam Donavan's?" John asked in a whine, stomping his little feet into the dirt and looking so honestly disappointed.
"And what might that be?" Sherlock asked, his interest having being sparked due entirely off of John's reluctance. It must have been a classy joint, if this little rascal wouldn't bear it.
"It's all filled with women, and perfume. It's just bland tea serving by obnoxious ladies, and their everlasting chitter chatter. It's where men dump their wives while they go off shooting, or drinking. They're perfectly entertained, festering in the town's local gossip. It we go in there we may never get back out, they'll pinch our cheeks until our face falls off." John grumbled, rubbing his heel into the dirt and looking quite upset. Well, Sherlock had to admit that Madam Donavan's sounded much preferable to the tavern, yet he had to cater somewhat to John's obvious dislike.
"When faced with two extremes, a compromise never hurt anyone." Sherlock decided finally.
"A compromise such as?" John wondered, one eyebrow raised in open minded curiosity.
"Soda?" Sherlock suggested, feeling a bit childish yet not able to think of anything else in the realm of liquids that might quench both of their thirsts. John merely chuckled, looking up at Sherlock as if he believed he had found something truly special.
"Soda works." John agreed finally. In another five minutes Sherlock found himself at the curb, sitting at a wooden bench and sipping orange soda straight from the bottle. It wasn't what you'd call rebellious, at least not in the eyes of most, however Sherlock had never felt so carefree in his entire life. He never felt so powerful, like he could do anything right here and now if he wanted to. He could take off his suit jacket, he could put his feet up, he could relax like a normal human being for once in his life! Because he was a normal human being, they were both so very human. Perhaps it took an orange soda and a front row seat to the pedestrian to realize that each and every homo sapiens was in this together, whether they liked it or not.
"If you want some history, right there is where one eyed Joe spilled a pint on Miss Adams, whether accidentally or on purpose no one ever found out. Yet he was fined for it, just the cost of her new dress, yet it was the talk of the town for a long while." John muttered, nodding towards a rather shady looking corner nearer to the tavern. Sherlock chuckled, as the locals here seemed to be quite some interesting characters. "And in that street there is where Mr. Heathcliff hit a traveling salesman with his cart, nearly killing the lad. Everyone felt bad, so they all bought his hand soap after that."
"Surely you're joking?" Sherlock wondered with a little chuckle.
"Swear on my mother's grave, these are the most interesting things that have happened in this town. Save for your family business, we've got nothing exciting." John admitted.
"Well, I wouldn't call my grandfather exciting, per say. Terrifying, yes. Interesting in the realm of the grotesque...but exciting certainly not." Sherlock muttered.
"From an outside perspective it's nothing more than gossip. Those whose lives were affected by it, those who had family there, those who pulled the rope..." John silenced himself quickly by drinking from his bottle, all the while Sherlock sat back and blinked rather quickly.
"It wasn't a court ordered hanging, was it?" Sherlock presumed. He had always sort of assumed that the local law enforcement had ordered the hanging.
"It was a riot, Sherlock. They didn't wait for a Sherriff, they didn't wait for permission." John admitted finally.
"Were his crimes so heinous? That that was deemed necessary?" Sherlock wondered quietly, trying to imagine just how popular this one servant was. Surely if the townspeople resorted to murder to get their revenge then it was considered a serious offense?
"I can't really tell you that part, I haven't a clue who he killed, only that he did kill. And that he was generally disliked around here. They considered him much too pompous, much too conceited." John admitted finally.
"How do you know that?" Sherlock wondered a bit stiffly, remembering the resemblance that was shared between his famous grandfather and himself. Perhaps along with the same face they might also have shared the same personality?
"Stories of course. I won't bore you with the rest, all those flying rumors." John grumbled.
"I thank you for that." Sherlock muttered. "But I know half of what they say, not just about him, but our family as well."
"That you're all crazy?" John clarified finally.
"That it's inherited. Like a disease, passed through blood. My father died of madness, and I'm predicted to go the same way." Sherlock said finally, shuttering a bit in his fear of the unknown.
"I don't believe in that." John said finally. "I don't believe that who you are has anything to do with who you're related to."
"You say that so passionately, as if you have something to prove as well." Sherlock muttered, looking back towards John and expecting a story. John merely shrugged his shoulders, leaning over onto his knees and letting his soda bottle dangle from his hand over the sidewalk. He looked like an old piece of art, one which you'd find in a log cabin long abandoned, with a particular yellow hue hanging over everything. A beautiful painting, with washed out colors of gold and red to make a sort of glowing portrait of the boy with the bent back, his elbows rested on his knees and his expression looking so distantly off into space. Yes he was something to look at, a masterpiece of a man if ever there had to be one in the flesh.
"I have my own family, gone by the disease that should've killed me as well. Something inside of me, something kept me alive. I don't know if it's biological, or psychological, or just plain stubbornness. Just plain bad luck. Whatever it was they didn't have it, and now here I am all alone." John grumbled.
"You're not alone, John. You've got friends, coworkers." Sherlock offered.
"I don't need pity, Sherlock." John muttered, an almost threatening air to his disgruntled little hiss.
"Everyone needs a healthy dose of pity, it means that someone cares." Sherlock pointed out defensively. "The thing is, I've lost people too. My father, my mother...I'm as much an orphan as you are at this point."
"Yes, but you've the wallet to handle such a thing. I didn't have a job; I didn't have support save for my strength once I recovered it. I had to fight my way, I'm still fighting. You're just longing." John growled.
"Don't be upset with me for who I am." Sherlock snapped. "You've seen the way they treat me, well surely you can't be under the delusion that it's all fun and games!"
"Dare I say, Sherlock Holmes, that your life is a little softer in all aspects! That your problems seem like mere trifles to anyone who actually had to work to make a living!" John exclaimed. Sherlock stared at him, unable to think of a response quick enough, unable to snap back with the right amount of force. He knew that arguing might be useless, for even his most aching troubles might seem meaningless, yet he hard to demonstrate one way or another that living the life of a higher class gentleman was not all smooth sailing. In the meantime John seemed to be recovering his senses, and as his red face returned to its previous color he merely sipped angrily at his soda, leaning back against the bench and shaking his head quietly. Sherlock couldn't tell who John was more angry at, himself or his companion, yet he decided that he ought to defend himself all the same. Defend himself with his biggest grievance, the one thing he would trade the world for...
"John, at least you're free." Sherlock muttered finally. John merely sighed, rubbing his face anxiously yet looking over at Sherlock with a saddened look of doubt.
"Free to do what, exactly?" John wondered.
"Anything. No one's watching you, no one cares. I...I live in a house where they pick my life for me. They pick my occupations; they pick my life, my meals, my wardrobe...my friends. You can do anything you want, and go anywhere you want, and there's not going to be a soul that doubts you. Or asks what exactly you think you're doing, going and wasting your life." Sherlock grumbled.
"You have the money to escape." John pointed out.
"No one has the money to escape. No one can pay rumors to stop, or families to quiet. I can vanish off the maps, and still I'll hear my brother's voice in my head." Sherlock growled, finishing off the last of his soda and wincing as the carbonation burned down his throat. John sat for a moment, obviously lost in thought and taking Sherlock's heartfelt confession seriously, considering it for a moment and searching for the truth in it all.
"I suppose there's a certain irritation in that." John agreed finally. "But I think you've got the wrong mindset, in the end. I mean look how hard you fought your brother for my cause, and look how you've succeeded!"
"He's only one barrier, the smallest of them all. Agatha won't be swayed, she sees us together she may very well shoot you." Sherlock pointed out.
"Well I haven't done anything scandalous! I haven't poisoned your mind or stolen anything, goodness you'd think from your family's reaction that I've been holding a gun to your head the whole time!" John exclaimed. Sherlock had to laugh, letting his head dip down as he giggled rather guiltily. John was, well he was certainly one of a kind.
"Perhaps they're afraid of your potential. Your free spirit." Sherlock suggested after a moment's thought.
"The moment a free spirits is feared, our world as we know it will collapse." John mumbled.
"That's exactly what we need it to do, if ever we're going to move on." Sherlock grumbled. "The fall of the monarchy, fall of the patriarchy...the end of old distinguished houses and ancient blood money. It all has to collapse if ever we're going to rise up from the ashes and make something of our lives."
"Spoken like a true anarchist." John said, with a hint of pride in his voice.
"Spoken like a realist, I should hope." Sherlock grumbled. John grinned, something of a knowing grin which was hiding something much more radical in itself.
"Spoken just as I would say it. Take that as you will...but I consider it a compliment." John admitted with a chuckle. Sherlock nodded, feeling his cheeks blush up in some flattery. Oh he really shouldn't be letting John get to him, not to such an extent as this! And yet his cheeks flushed, his knees went weak, and all he could do was stare at the ground with that peculiar smile on his face, quiet now that his voice would only come out as an unimpressive little squeak. John chuckled, draining his soda bottle and deciding now that their conversation had come to a close. He got up to his feet and offered his hand out to Sherlock, maybe as a joke and maybe as a formality. Either way it was there to take, and Sherlock being the eager boy he was clasped his hand around John's thankfully. He let him drag him up off of the bench, and back onto his feet. Back into the reality that he belonged in, whether he liked it or not.