The Madness Was A Man

A Window Into The Other's World

The cottage was rather small; though the two had made good use of the space they were given. The kitchen was the largest portion of the first floor, with a nice stove and ice box to make it look homey. There was a large counter in the middle of the floor, as well as cabinets and counters stretching the length of the wall. In the other section of the house there was a very well put together sitting room, with flowers arranged in vases all around to give the place a very homey woodland feel. The stairwell stretched near the far end of the wall, and Mrs. Hudson now clung to its banister, calling for John to get down as soon as he was decent.
"He'll be right with you sir. Could I offer you a waffle? John always loves them for his breakfast, and I've got enough batter to share!" Mrs. Hudson offered, darting over to the kitchen and retrieving the waffle which was sitting under the iron for a little too long, oozing out burning batter from beneath the hot plates. Mrs. Hudson muttered her own string of euphemized curses, all the while Sherlock politely declined. Well she was right in the middle of defending her cooking skills (blaming this burnt thing to the distraction of an esteemed visitor) when John appeared, his footsteps pounding down the stairs and announcing his presence long before he was even visible. But when he was visible, well it certainly was enough to make this morning trip worth it. He was wearing overalls, yet they were peeled down from around his shoulders and the straps were hanging all the way down to his feet. The pants fit snug enough to keep him decent, yet his chest was covered only in a very small white shirt, the sleeves having been cut off long before so as to expose his muscular arms from underneath. Well just as soon as John saw Sherlock standing in the doorway he scrambled to make himself decent, fumbling for the straps of his overalls so as to cover up more properly, as if he was expected to be proper when in the presence of an upper class gentleman.
"Don't make a fuss, John." Sherlock assured, hiding of course his own preference of seeing John's very muscular arms. Oh what a mysterious boy he had turned into, and only after just a few nights of staying inside of this wretched house! What was it that had changed inside of him, what had developed so that he saw John in such an exposed condition and nearly felt faint? Had that visitor last night made such an impression that he was unable to go back to carelessness, where either gender did not bother him in either lust or loathing? John nodded, yet he fixed his overalls all the same, as if he felt obligated to look as best he could around his richer new friend. Sherlock looked a bit awkwardly around, finding now that Mrs. Hudson had stalled her cooking to watch him, meaning there were now four eyes set onto him and expecting some sort of expectation for his visit.
"Do you need the horses?" John asked finally, to which Sherlock blinked and shook his head a bit vigorously.
"No, sorry no I don't. Actually I just needed to ask you something, something about the staff here." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"That might be Mrs. Hudson's job really. I don't usually go into the house." John admitted with a shrug, looking over to where the woman was looking a bit put on the spot, as if she didn't like to be addressed with the answers so directly.
"I will answer the best I can." She assured with a little grin. Sherlock smiled back, thinking how best to phrase his question without giving too much away about his visitor.
"I um, well I was just wondering if we had a younger boy on the staff, sort of my age I suppose. Brown hair, tall, well put together. Handsome, I suppose." Sherlock wondered quietly, to which Mrs. Hudson blinked a couple of times in thoughtfulness.
"I don't think we have anyone your age, Mr. Holmes, save for John." She admitted with a thoughtful little pout.
"Not any butlers?" Sherlock wondered a bit apprehensively, knowing of course that if her answer was no then he was being faced with a much more pressing question of who was in his room last night. Unless it was a dream? Oh a dream would make all of this much easier to handle, yet even when he thought back to the occurrence he felt it again, he had remembered every touch and every motion with perfect and conscious clarity, surely he had been awake. Surely he hadn't been dreaming.
"No butlers under fifty I'm afraid." Mrs. Hudson said with a little sigh.
"And no one matches that description from the stables. Why do you ask, Sherlock?" John wondered finally. Sherlock felt his face heating up even though he didn't allow it to, and for a moment he stumbled upon his words as he searched for something believable and innocent to say.
"I um, well I was outside last night and a fellow like that came to speak with me. I just wanted to know if he was a member of the staff or not." Sherlock said finally, nodding his head a couple of times as if to reinforce his own lie to himself. AS if to make himself believe such a tale, so that accepting it would be easier for his audience. To Sherlock's dismay neither party looked as though that was a believable tale, and they were staring at him as if they were hoping for more.
"And you're coming at this hour of morning to ask about some boy you talked to last night?" John clarified with something of a surprised blink. Sherlock nodded again, this time his face heating up to a temperature he did not think very healthy.
"Yes." Sherlock said simply. "I suppose I don't like pondering questions without all of the possible information first. Because now I'm wondering who he was, and what he was doing on our property."
"Maybe here to scare himself, with the tree and the hanging and whatnot." John suggested.
"We've had a problem with sightseers for a long time. They come here for a cheap thrill, late at night. Sometimes they're drunk, and trying to climb through the windows for a better look." Mrs. Hudson admitted with a shiver. "Why I remember that one man, he even tried to throw a rope up that tree again! I don't know what his intentions were, but thankfully Agatha came out and swatted him away with a parasol."
"How ghastly." Sherlock admitted quietly. "But surely that's who he was. Maybe he saw me and thought I would have some better stories."
"Don't think too much on it, Sherlock. There are a lot of strange people in these parts; most of them don't know a thing about personal space." John assured with something of a reassuring smile. Sherlock nodded, although he knew that this wasn't just some townsperson who had gotten lost and ended up in his bedroom. This was a planned encounter, someone who had grown obsessed with Sherlock and decided they needed to take their infatuation one step farther. It wasn't random, it wasn't a lack of personal space...well it was past midnight, inside of a locked house! No, there was something more to this, something Sherlock couldn't fully wrap his head around. Something that he had to decipher, if ever he wanted to understand the true meaning behind it.
"Is that all you needed from me?" John wondered, moving past Sherlock and observing the mess of charred waffle that had been set rather haphazardly onto a plate.
"I suppose so." Sherlock agreed rather reluctantly, although it did seem a waste of everyone's time now that his inquiries proved pointless. Well what was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to watch every single townsperson to try to find this strange and friendly boy, or was he supposed to wait until the boy returned for more? What if it was just a once in a lifetime thing, what if it was never going to happen again, and eventually fade into Sherlock's very distant memories? What if it never happened at all, and it was just some sort of psychological transition he had from being forced into relationships with women to realizing that he needed something much more complex in a lover? What if it was a dream, or what if it was just madness? Sherlock's head felt like it was splitting open, not only with the unanswered questions but with the chilling possibilities as well. There were a million different ways this could be detrimental, oh really there wasn't even a single option which he would like to use to explain that boy's presence inside of his room. All options made one of them seem crazy, and if that occurrence was real life then Sherlock would much rather it be romantic, sane, and completely consensual. He didn't want to have been tricked, or crazed, or forced into anything that he didn't want to do. Because like it or not he was a different boy, changed permanently by the simple brushing of beautiful lips upon his own.
"Stay for breakfast, please." Mrs. Hudson insisted, now pouring a heaping helping of batter into the iron to make another fluffy waffle. Sherlock looked rather hesitantly over to John, just to make sure he wouldn't be intruding if he did decide to stay. John nodded his head once, yet eagerly enough to ensure to Sherlock that he was all for the idea. And so Sherlock smiled rather meekly, yet agreed nonetheless. Breakfast time at the cottage was a lot more laid back than was breakfast at the house, partially because it was perfectly acceptable to wear overalls to the table. Sherlock sat rather awkwardly at their little dining room table, tucked right up next to the kitchen counter for a very authentic feel. John sat across from him, and in the middle there sat a full pot of flowery tea, in a sleek white pot with scattered and mismatching cups. John sat with his cup of tea, stirring the spoon and looking rather awkward. It was the first time Sherlock could remember John not having something to say, or some stupid joke to make. Yet this morning he was quiet, almost as if dared not start any sort of conversation with the full knowledge that Mrs. Hudson would be listening in. Sherlock didn't mind the woman's presence; he thought she was a lovely woman and a very hospitable host. Yet she was undoubtedly John's mother figure, and therefore he might feel embarrassed to talk to his new friend in front of her.
"Are you going down to the horses soon?" Sherlock asked finally, deciding that he ought to start a conversation if no one else was going to take it upon themselves. John nodded, dropping a sugar cube into his tea just to watch it dissolve for a moment.
"Yes, they need their breakfast." John agreed in a bit of a distracted way.
"How many horses are there?" Sherlock asked, trying to continue this conversation as comfortably as he could. In all honesty John wasn't making it any easier. He was usually very enthusiastic, yet this morning his mind seemed to be off somewhere else, in another plane of thought entirely.
"Four all together; two chestnuts, a palomino, and a pony." John muttered.
"I like ponies." Sherlock managed, although he's never had much experiences with horses at all. They used to have a stable in the old house, yet he never learned to ride. As a child the horses were nice to pet yet all together terrifying to ride. He had never been a fan of any sort of moving vehicle, as a child even carriages had scared him! It was just the concept of being helpless, and relying on some other entity to keep your life in check. Once those horses got up to speed there was no saying what they would do! You could tug the reins one way and the horse might wander off in the other direction and smash you right into a tree! Well of course he had to adjust to carts, yet a horse by itself was still something that turned his stomach. All the same, there was something very tempting about learning to ride. Especially now, when he was stuck in this lonesome house in this crazy town. It might be nice to get out once in a while, and enjoy the galloping of a smooth horse along the meadows and forests.
"Have you ever ridden?" John wondered, just finally tuning into the conversation, realizing undoubtedly that he had been rather rude for the duration.
"No, no I was always afraid." Sherlock admitted, shrugging his shoulders as if that was no big deal.
"It's terribly fun." John assured. "How I do love those chestnuts. Did you ever have interest in learning?"
"No...well I suppose I never used to." Sherlock muttered, looking a bit hesitantly down into his cup of tea though he now felt a smile daring its way onto his face. He knew what this was, it was an offer. John was looking for a chance to be alone with him, a chance to hoist him up on a horse and instruct him around the fields.
"Have you ever wanted a teacher?" John wondered, that near flirtatious little smile appearing on his face once again, just the half grin with the slanted eyebrows, and the eyes that seemed to be saying much more than his lips ever had.
"A teacher would be greatly appreciated." Sherlock agreed with something of a chuckle. John nodded, thinking for a moment while the whole house began to smell once more like delicious golden waffles. They were nearly ready, as Mrs. Hudson announced.
"How about this, Sherlock. You teach me writing, and I'll teach you riding. A little window into each other's worlds, trading roles for a moment and learning things we never thought we could." John suggested, his fingers wrapping around the handle of his tea cup very anxiously, as if this was the best idea he thought he had in a long while. Sherlock smiled, dropping his chin into his hands and gazing almost too appreciatively at the boy across from him. The boy...well God how embarrassing was it to call him perfect? But for a moment Sherlock realized it to be true, and so heartbreaking it was to realize that never will John understand his appreciation. Never would John even consider that Sherlock might have accidentally developed feelings for him, and so never would those feelings be returned. Then again, perhaps some alone time might do them both well, and open their eyes to the possibilities that they each had. Romantic possibilities, and soulful compatibilities.
"That sounds like a wonderful idea." Sherlock agreed quietly.
"Splendid." John muttered, holding up his tea cup in something of an awkward little toast. Sherlock mimicked him, and together they took a sip in celebration of the upcoming diversity. Together they drank, yet in celebration of prospects that were wildly different. Or at least they assumed they were, for neither could quite fathom that the other had something strangely similar in mind. 

 Sherlock met the pony first, as John assumed the smaller animal might be a little bit less intimidating. Sherlock didn't really admit his fear of horses or carts or any of that, mostly because he thought it made him sound like some sort of control freak, or even worse a coward. Yet he was none of those things, at least he didn't consider himself to be. Yet the admittance of such a childhood fear might taint the image John had of him, it would turn him into something less than respectable, something that John might pity instead of praise. And Sherlock couldn't have that, none the less John seemed to know that he might go to the smaller horse first. The one where he could sit down and still touch his feet to the ground, for safety reasons. 

"This is Hazelnut." John introduced, pointing to the very short pony which stood so low to the ground that its head could only just reach up to the topmost fence post. It was a squat little thing, with a thick brown coat and a beautiful auburn mane. Its hair was overgrown in front of its eyes, and so Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if Hazelnut could see him or not. Either way the pony seemed unbothered, and allowed John to open up the pen and admire him from a closer angle. Sherlock ran his hand along the horse's back, patting it carefully so as not to scare the poor beast.
"He's very pretty." Sherlock commented, rubbing the pony's ears as if it were a dog. Hazelnut didn't appreciate that too much, and he shook his head in protest, leaving Sherlock to jump back into the wall so as to avoid any kicking or other attacks the horse might try to use. Yet the head shake was about as aggressive as Hazelnut got, for as soon as his head stilled it when right back to staring at nothing, completely stagnant.
"So I guess rule number one is never walk behind the horse, especially if he doesn't know you're there. With Hazelnut I suppose it's not as big a problem, but when you get to the larger horses that can hit you with a kick in the middle of your forehead, that's where you're in danger." John warned.
"Well Hazelnut isn't a problem with me at least. But I'm sure he can hit your little head, since you're about her height." Sherlock teased, to which John merely frowned, leaning up against the fence rail as if he wasn't amused by the short jokes.
"Perhaps you should walk behind the horses, Sherlock. Perhaps a hoof print right across your face would suit you nicely." John grumbled. Sherlock merely chuckled, going back to stroking Hazelnut and trying to change the conversation rather quickly. He didn't think that would be a subject John was touchy about, yet all the same he was a bit concerned that John would be mad at him. He didn't like anyone who held grudges, especially because Sherlock had rather a big mouth and absolutely no filter. If someone couldn't take a joke then they deserved no spot next to him, and if John threw a little hissy fit then it was over for them. He may be beautiful, but if he was a baby on the inside their future may very well end here.