The Madness Was A Man

Condemning Courtship

Sherlock sighed heavily, dropping his hands deep into his pockets and sulking his way up to the house, realizing now that his own feelings didn't matter anyway. If he did love John, well who would be around to care? John wouldn't love him back, Agatha wouldn't allow it, Mycroft might hang them both, and surely Irene Adler would have something else to say. She might get a ring on his finger and ship him off to the Americas, in an effort to change their lives completely. Who cared if Sherlock was in love, when everyone seemed to have his destiny arranged for him? When he would ultimately have to leave John behind, just an unusually attractive stable boy serving in this creepy old house, the house that was only serving as temporary lodgings until Sherlock could have a house of his own. The house rose before him as he climbed up the hill, quiet and waiting like a cat ready to pounce. The doors were open in welcome, like a mouth which was waiting to devour him whole. The house which held his grandfather, which raised his father...which hosted the events which would tarnish the name of Holmes forever. Why was it deemed suitable to raise the last of the Holmes men? Why was it even considered as a safe space, if surely the walls were infecting their minds as well, and causing them to lose themselves in a frenzy of men and misplaced emotions? Sherlock had to wonder what sort of infections Mycroft was developing, which crevices of his mind were opening, which sort of unruly behavior was seeping into his common sense and poisoning him slowly. Unless it was only Sherlock who was being affected, if it was only he who was suddenly witnessing a whole new side of himself. Only Sherlock who was suffering under the painful realization that he could never fit the mold which was set out for him, a mold which was holding hands with a perfectly feminine mold to match. Sherlock lumbered up the stairwell, not caring anymore who witnessed the mud that was pasted down the whole of his back. Instead he wandered the upper floors of the maze like house, trying to find anyone who might run his bath while he prepared his outfit for the evening. Eventually he spotted a maid bustling down the corridor, holding what looked like tools for cleaning a fireplace. She was dressed in the common outdated attire of the house, as if they were hosting a measure instead of a practical place to live. The woman kept her eyes down, walking along as quickly as she could as if trying to avoid eye contact with Sherlock.
"Excuse me; I was wondering if you might run my bath?" Sherlock wondered, trying to step in her way as she hastened on. The woman stopped abruptly, still not raising up her eyes, as if she was too afraid to look. Sherlock noticed now that her chest was inflating rapidly, her breath coming in panicked gasps...
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you, I was just..." Sherlock's words were cut off when his head whipped unnaturally to the other side, the side of his face becoming host to one of the fiercest slaps he had ever received. Sherlock stumbled into the opposite wall, his eyes growing wide as he touched upon his red and raw skin, looking on the maid and wondering just why there was such fire in her eyes...
"You're a demon!" she exclaimed in the most passionate of screams, and with that she ran straight down the hall, the tools rattling about in their charred tin as she disappeared around the corner.
"I'm a what?" Sherlock called back, messaging his face and finding that it was much too late to ask for any explanation. "All I wanted was a bath!" 

There was a small welcoming party assembled at the door when the carriage arrived, with its beautiful while horses neighing elegantly as they came to a halt, stamping their large hooves as the driver dismounted and went to get the door. The driver, Sherlock noticed, was not nearly as handsome as was theirs. John himself was absent, and yet the stairs were honored by the three most noble members of the house. Agatha was the first in the line, followed then by Mycroft (who looked quite sour) and finally Sherlock, who was undoubtedly saved for last as some sort of exciting finale. It was quite obvious that he was the son which would be flaunted about, thrown towards the rich woman in an effort to secure some more funding to the dynasty. Sherlock was beautiful, it was not secret and no tragedy, and yet in this moment he rather wished he looked a bit more like Mycroft. That way he could never be married off, and live a happy life here with John in the cabin with no questions asked. The door opened and a young lady stepped out, one who was undeniably beautiful yet with a very conniving look to her. Her face was pointed in a very intelligent yet smug sort of way, with her dark black hair pulled up in a very elegant bun and her pale skin covered by a dress of beautiful red. She must be the maiden, Ms. Irene Adler. Followed behind her were two very elegant and aging folks, presumably her parents by their wealthy attire and proud expressions.
"Ah, Mrs. Holmes!" exclaimed the older woman, coming automatically to Agatha as she shook her hand warmly.
"It's been much too long." Agatha said with a smile, though Sherlock could not tell yet if she was genuinely happy or just faking her joy to be a better hostess. Irene lingered on the driveway, looking up at the two boys and settling her greedy black eyes on Sherlock, where he stood rather awkwardly behind his brother's shoulder in an effort not to be noticed.
"Ms. Adler, may I present by nephews Mycroft and Sherlock." Agatha announced, gesturing up to where the boys stood together like animals trapped in a corner and ready to be kicked. Irene curtseyed in welcome, yet proceeded to climb the stairs and offer her bedazzled hand to each brother, for them to kiss and greet her properly. Irene lingered a bit longer on Sherlock's step, thrusting out her hand and smiling as his lips touched upon it. Sour tasting skin, like an over abundance of strong and expensive perfume. Oh if only Sherlock might be allowed to kiss John's hand, so as to feel what the rest of his skin might feel like under his eager lips...
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes." Irene purred. Sherlock could almost sense Mycroft's exhale of relief, knowing now that Irene preferred his younger brother and would therefore leave him alone and at peace.
"Nice to meet you as well." Sherlock managed.
"Oh what a deep voice! I didn't expect that from you...I was prepared for a little squeak! How divine, how...how elegant." Irene exclaimed, her face lighting up in the most unpleasant of smiles all the while Sherlock tried to figure out if that was a compliment or not.
"Yes well um...vocal cords do like to surprise." Sherlock managed, grimacing at his own terrible response. Thankfully Agatha had begun to lead the older Adlers up towards the house, and there was no time to ponder what a fool Sherlock was making of himself. Then again it was for the best, a good first impression just the thing he wanted to avoid. He looked longingly over to the stables as he led Irene inside, wishing for just a glimpse of his stable boy, as a reminder of what he was fighting for in the end.
"What a wonderful house!" Irene exclaimed, tugging onto Sherlock's arm even tighter as she looked up at the many floors which stretched above their heads. Sherlock nodded, though he wouldn't quite call it wonderful. He wondered if Irene even knew what had happened here, if she even understood the stigma which came with their last name. He wondered if that might be a deterrent or not. Thankfully their time of socialization was very brief, and the little conversation which was exchanged was only between Agatha and the Adler parents, mostly about their social lives and other unimportant things. Conversation was held over tea, so thankfully Sherlock and Mycroft could sit on their own little couch and distract themselves with stirring in more sugar, deciding on which tea cup they liked the best. As expertly as Sherlock was avoiding Irene's glance he knew it was there, he felt it right in the middle of his forehead like some sort of presence, some sort of nagging insect. If he dared glance up he would catch her staring at him, they would exchange a rather awkward smile, and then Sherlock would go back to huddling against his brother for what proved to be a very poor layer of defense. Dinner was served and of course Sherlock was seated directly across from Irene, so that he would be forced to talk to the girl as the adults indulged in their own conversations on the other side of the table. The other conversation almost seemed to be plotted, for it was so unbearably complex and boring that the younger generations had no choice but to talk among themselves. And so Sherlock was stranded, almost as if he was an island alone with nothing but his unfortunate bride to be, knowing that he must begin to make her a little less keen. Of course if Irene's heart was set upon him there would be nothing he could say against her, and they would be married without the groom's consent whatsoever.
"What's it like, living in this old house?" Irene wondered, admiring her surroundings with something of an intrigued look, craning her neck up to observe the fine detailing around the ceiling and molding.
"Oh it's not too bad." Sherlock admitted, through in the back of his mind the many grievances were beginning to surface. The creaking floors, the creepy views...the intruders at uncanny times of night. Not too bad might be a terrible euphemism to make him sound much braver than he could ever manage to be.
"I have heard what happened here, I've heard all about it." Irene said finally, arranging herself a bit more proudly overtop of where her dinner was positioned in front of her. Though the plate was full with the wonderful delicacies prepared by their chief she seemed much more interested in her company, and had hardly touched anything set before her.
"You have, have you?" Sherlock clarified, his heart dropping now that he couldn't use that as ammunition against her. If even the inherited Holmes madness could not drive her away then surely she would be stuck to him like glue from here on out.
"How your grandfather lost his mind, and murdered the whole house?" Irene chuckled.
"That's an over exaggeration." Mycroft interrupted from where he sat. His plate, as per usual, was very much touched and nearly emptied already. Irene faltered, her enthusiasm rather dampening now as she settled her beady eyes onto the older brother.
"Is it now?" she clarified with a very confrontational look about her. Sherlock sat back quietly, happy that he was not on the other side of that nearly threatening glance. Mycroft, however, seemed perfectly unfazed.
"He didn't kill the whole house, he killed just one person. A servant, from what I've heard." Mycroft insisted in his know it all sort of way.
"From what you've heard? So you have no actual proof?" Irene pointed out, turning her head in falsified confusion all the while Mycroft's face wavered for a little bit, and his stern sense of all-knowingness was rather wiped away. Together the Holmes brothers realized that they had no proof, nothing that could hold up against the urban legends at least. All they knew is the version their father told them, and even he had been a child, too young to remember anything other than stories he heard. Euphemisms, perhaps...
"Nothing more than the family's own recount. Yet that is better than any story a local could tell you." Mycroft pointed out, with his posh little nose turned up towards the woman sitting across from him.
"It was the locals that were there, the locals who dragged the bodies out. The locals had nothing to lose by telling the truth, while your privileged little family would have every reason to water down the slaughter to a mere misunderstanding." Irene pointed out, snapping right back and not backing down. No one had ever attacked Mycroft for this long, and as far as Sherlock could remember, no one could ever beat him. That woman had a brain in her head, that was for sure. Unfortunately that did not make her any more attractive to him, no matter how feisty or intelligent. There was a certain sort of person that was perfect for Sherlock Holmes, and that person was sat out in the barn somewhere, not at the dining room table. Oh John Watson...it had only taken a matter of hours for Sherlock to realize what he was feeling inside. What he had tried to deny inside of himself for ages, until it was presented to him in the form of a nightly visitor.
"I must believe what I hear from people I trust. Perhaps you feel the same way, but get your information from different sources." Mycroft murmured.
"And you trust her, do you?" Irene hissed, dropping her voice down low enough for just the boys to hear. "The woman who you've only known for a couple weeks now?"
"Why do you seem to be the expert on our family?" Sherlock interrupted, now with a bit more force than he had intended. And yet she was getting on his nerves, poking and prodding at everything Mycroft said as if she had to prove herself by destroying his entire argument! Mycroft shouldn't be punished for the stories he had been told, he shouldn't be punished for being a good nephew, and a reliable son! It wasn't for any old woman to strut in here and call out the wrinkles in the stories they were offered, it wasn't for her to make up her own version of the truth and use it to rebuttal the facts. She wasn't being fair to anyone here, especially when it was their legacy that was in question.
"I do my research, Sherlock Holmes. I suggest that maybe you do your own as well." Irene snapped, and with that she sat back in her chair and regained her princess composure, picking up her fork as daintily as possible and beginning on her meal as if nothing had changed between them at all. In contrast Sherlock dropped down his fork, slouching as much as he would be permitted to and pouting very obviously. He didn't like this girl, not one bit. Yet this girl was the one he was stuck with, wasn't he? This girl who wasn't John Watson. Who didn't even come close to anything he might find to be angelic... The ending of dinner might have been a relief if Agatha hadn't intervened, deciding that it might be in everyone's best interest if Sherlock and Irene take a stroll about the garden, where the moonlight would make everything more romantic. Surely she could see that Sherlock wasn't interested in getting to know Irene any better, certainly not in any sort of romantic atmosphere? Oh but he had to comply, it was the gentlemanly thing to do. And so he donned his top hat and coat, taking Irene's arm and steering her out the front door while Mycroft waved tauntingly in the hallway, though whether his smug attitude was aimed at his brother or his new sister in law, it really wasn't clear. Sherlock took one last longing look at his brother before the door slammed in between them, and all of the sudden he found himself stranded with the one woman he didn't want to be alone with. Almost immediately he made an excuse to get her arm out of his, descending down the stairs and making the ploy of fixing his top hat before he finally settled his hands into his pockets, taking a couple of nervous steps sideways so as to ensure she wouldn't make any sort of move.
"You're new to this, aren't you?" Irene wondered, looking a bit lost without an arm in her own yet finally tucking her hands behind her back like a proper lady. Sherlock blinked at her, wondering if that was intended to be an insult or not.
"I'm just beginning with the whole bride search, yes." Sherlock agreed. Irene nodded, looking as though that wasn't very surprising.
"You almost seem afraid." She commented. Sherlock didn't try to hide it any longer, he allowed himself to nod in agreement.
"I've never been, well I suppose I've never talked to a woman very much before. I'm not used to them...or rather you. All women I guess." Sherlock muttered, feeling as though his words were tripping over themselves as they escaped his mouth. He didn't want to sound like a jerk, and most importantly he didn't want to hurt the poor girl's feelings. The more he discovered her personality the more he realized that she was just as human as he was, a human girl with a perfectly breakable heart. Sherlock didn't want to be the one to tear her down; he didn't want to be the one responsible for her woes. But he hoped among all of the stars that she would realize his disinterest and let him be at peace for the rest of his days.
"What about your Aunt? Is she not womanly enough to have experience?" Irene wondered. They set route for the gardens, which were planted not far from the stables. In fact Sherlock was sure that their voice might carry, and may just alert a certain stable boy out to investigate.
"I don't talk to her much, to be quite honest. She's very distant." Sherlock admitted.
"It's nice of her to take you boys in." Irene pointed out. Sherlock nodded, yet he felt almost like countering that one with the classic "I'm old enough to take care of myself". Yet he thought that rude, and instead kept his mouth shut.
"She was very insistent on securing our futures." Sherlock admitted.
"Perhaps she thinks you boys can restore the name of Holmes." Irene pointed out. Sherlock sighed, knowing already that such a legacy would be impossible if he was the one put to it. He would grow up to be a disappointment, no matter his youthful beauty and his cunning brain he knew that if ever he wanted to be happy he would have to tarnish his good name for as long as he lived.
"I think perhaps she will be disappointed." Sherlock admitted, though without intending to give any context.
"You're not as bad as you try to be." Irene warned. "In fact I still rather like you, no matter how distant you are."
"I'm not intending to be..." Sherlock faltered, deciding that nothing he said was going to defend himself against what Irene had ultimately deserved. She was a woman who spoke gospel, that was for sure.
"I suppose I'm just not enthusiastic about this whole thing. I was never paraded around like an animal in a zoo before; I was never thrown into the world with such force." Sherlock admitted.
"It's a transition, but eventually you start to like the attention. You seem like a boy who likes a compliment, and I'm sure the people your Aunt introduces you to will have plenty to say." Irene assured, patting Sherlock's shoulder as if to encourage him in a way. Sherlock didn't respond for a little while, pondering what that could mean and how shockingly it did relate to him. He wondered why Irene knew so much about him, before finally coming to the conclusion that she must have lived through the same experiences herself. Surely this wasn't her first appointment with a gentleman. They finally sauntered together into the rose garden, pausing for a moment to appreciate the beautiful red flowers which crept so quietly up the fences and the gates, shining with moonlight upon their magnificent petals. Sherlock always loved roses; he loved the irony of them. They were the most romantic of all flowers, the ones which signified love and beauty and all things desirable. So beautiful to look at, yet armed with thorns right below the surface, so when the admirer comes to claim their prize they instead end up wounded. It was an irony of nature, a natural defense system. Perhaps adapted when Mother Nature realized her most beautiful creations were being plucked too soon, so that they could not grow and blossom to their full potential. The most beautiful things must have a weapon, so as to ensure that they stay beautiful for as long as they could.