The Madness Was A Man

You Seem Perfectly Sane To Me

"May I present Ms. Molly Hooper!" Agatha announced as the carriage door opened, giving way to a small and meek looking woman as she clambered out of the carriage and into the driveway. Sherlock and Mycroft were standing atop the stairs once more, in their usual arrangement. And, as usual, the woman walked first to Mycroft and introduced herself. Then she moved to Sherlock with a much keener look on her face, curtseying to him and sticking out a hand to kiss. She really seemed different than Irene, in more ways than just physical. Well of course Irene had the look of a block of iron, not easily moved by anything, and with eyes that might be used as blades in times of emergency. Ms. Molly Hooper looked anything but tough, with a rather pale complexion and smile lines etched into her rosy cheeks. She looked nice enough, if not rather timid in her actions and words. Sherlock smiled at her, feeling at once that she was going to be a lot easier to interact with than Irene had been.
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Hooper." Sherlock muttered, glancing over to Mycroft who caught his eye instinctively. It was nice to have someone understand him at last, to have someone who might catch the irony in this newly formed arrangement. Yet Mycroft didn't smile, in fact he made no motion to suggest that their conversation this morning had even happened at all. Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that with every minute passed Mycroft regretted his allowance, and yet he certainly couldn't take it back now. Once those words had left his lips there was no turning back, and now Sherlock had the permission and the newfound confidence to perhaps make a move, to say or do something crazy. It might put their friendship at bay, but with the off chance that it achieved the relationship he was now positively aching for, well it would be worth it. What did John say, about making the first move? Even if the suitor is revolting, their love should always be taken as a compliment? Well now it was time for Sherlock to make the first move, it was time that he just spat out his feelings, time that he just screamed them loud for all to hear. Gone were the days of being ashamed, gone were the days of tiptoeing around who he so dearly wanted to be. Tonight he would escape once more, and tomorrow morning he would wake up anew. Sherlock took Molly's arm and escorted her to the dining room, knowing now that there was at least one person in this audience that knew of his disinterest, one person who knew that no matter how courteous Sherlock was or how gentlemanly, that all of his politeness was wasted and faked in an attempt to keep the woman's good spirits. Yet the sad truth was that she really wouldn't be loved as he loved John, perhaps she would have to be the woman to fill the gap he was required to have in his life, but never would his heart love her as she would want it to. And Mycroft understood that, for whatever reason it felt so liberating not to have to put up a show for every pair of eyes in the sitting room. For whenever Mycroft looked at the two of them, sitting now on the love seat and arranging their tea, well he knew that on at least one side of that forced relationship there was a fraud.
"Was your journey alright?" Sherlock asked, feeling a lot braver around this girl. She seemed easy to talk to, easy to interact with. More of a friend than a competitor, as Irene seemed to be. For whatever reason Sherlock considered Irene's main goal was to be the top dog in the pack, she was always aiming to overrule anyone she came into contact with. If that meant marrying the most eligible bachelor just to overpower him with her own self-interest then so be it! Molly Hooper looked as though she was just looking for love. Even better she seemed to be happy to be here, as if going out of her comfort zone and meeting new men was some sort of challenge for her, a necessary one at that. She seemed sweet, as though she genuinely cared for others despite not knowing them too well. She seemed like a good ally, at least.
"Oh it wasn't bad." She assured. "At first it was raining, but it rather cleared up."
"I noticed the rain; I saw it from my window." Sherlock agreed. "I do love the rain."
"Do you? Oh I find it dreadful, all those clouds, everyone running to take cover. I like it best when the world is happy, and when it's raining no one ever goes out to enjoy themselves. The sun hides away, as if ashamed of what it can't control." Molly muttered with a frown. Sherlock smiled at her, taking a sip of his tea so as to give himself a moment to think of an intelligent response.
"I think rain reminds us all that all the most beautiful things have to come to an end eventually. It keeps life...real. In a sense. Without the rain who could appreciate the sunshine?" Sherlock pointed out. Molly nodded, staring into her teacup for a moment before nodding again, slower. She was contemplating that, in an impressed sort of way.
"I suppose puddles are fun as well." She admitted with a little chuckle, to which Sherlock just smiled along.
"More fun when I wasn't expected to keep up appearances. Now if I've got mud on my pants I feel like someone would have to come and shoot me." he admitted.
"Oh! Well that's rather morbid." Molly exclaimed. Sherlock pursed his lips, not realizing of course that he was in the presence of a lady.
"My apologies, I think I forgot to keep my mannerisms up." he muttered. However Molly just giggled, leaning in a bit so that her next words might be kept secret from the adults who were sitting just on the couches beyond.
"To tell you the truth, I do love morbidity." She admitted finally. Sherlock sighed, for that was quite what Irene's confession was as well. Not that it was a bad trait, but it made Sherlock wonder just why these women were here. Surely it wasn't because of the eligible bachelors, but instead the past they had, the blood they carried. All these women were here for a ghost story, were they not?
"Well I'm afraid you'll find plenty of it here." Sherlock confessed finally, though trying to keep all enthusiasm out of his voice.
"I wasn't going to mention it until later." Molly muttered. "Though I am rather interested in the history of the property."
"And of the madness, I'm sure?" Sherlock presumed.
"That as well. But don't worry, Mr. Holmes. You seem perfectly sane to me." she assured, taking a little sip of her tea with a very dainty expression. Sherlock nodded, forcing a smile in response but feeling awfully disappointed all the same.
"Looks can deceive." He muttered, looking now over to where Mycroft sat as if trying to give him the 'let's move this party into the dining room' sort of look. Mycroft was sitting over with the adults, though he was looking rather lonely. Molly's parents were talking to Agatha about the good old days, while Mycroft sat with his tea cup and saucer, wiggling the cup around in the indentations and looking awfully unentertained. Sherlock almost wanted to add him into the conversation, though it seemed as though Mycroft was deliberately avoiding eye contact. Perhaps he wanted to alienate Sherlock with the woman as best as he could, as if he hoped that some alone time might change Sherlock's mind about his partner of choice. Oh Mycroft really didn't understand anything about love, did he? He didn't understand how complex it was, or how solid it was planted in a heart. Sherlock couldn't just let go of his love on a whim, not when such feelings had been growing inside of him for what felt like years on end! It was a seed, a seed that had grown roots over his heart and was just finally beginning to sprout a beautiful flower out of his mouth. The seed was the desire, the flower was the confession. What came next, well Sherlock's metaphor really didn't cover that part.
"Have you lived here all your life?" Molly wondered. Sherlock at least managed something of a sigh of relief, thankful to hear that Molly hadn't been researching into his family history as Irene had been.
"No, no my brother and I moved in with our Aunt only a couple of weeks ago. My father died, and we couldn't keep the house running on our own." Sherlock admitted.
"Oh I'm so sorry to hear that." Molly muttered, looking as though she wanted to pat his hand in comfort yet she was obviously not brave enough to do that so quickly. And so she just shared a pout, all the while Sherlock tried to think of the go to excuse that most mourning people just spewed out to quiet their audience down.
"It's alright, we were expecting it." he admitted with a sigh.
"It still hurts." Molly declared, as if she was thinking back to her own string of losses.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed finally, not bothering to play it up as if he was unaffected. "Yes but we move on. We have to, or else they'll take us down with them in the end." Molly nodded her head in agreement, yet never managed a response. As she took time to sip her tea a butler arrived into the sitting room, announcing that dinner was served and they could come take their place at the table. Sherlock got up first, placing their tea cups on the coffee table and taking Molly by the arm, so as to escort her in. It wasn't as painful to steer her about, she was a lot more manageable than was Irene. She allowed Sherlock to take charge through the house he knew better, where as his last potential suitor had decided to steer them wherever she chose, which of course meant a lot of misplaced footsteps and silly directions until at last they reached where they were going. Molly, on the other hand, allowed herself to follow each and every motion of Sherlock, and they made it to the dining room much more smoothly. Sherlock tucked her into her chair and took his place by her side, watching as Mycroft settled himself in across from the two of them, as if to make sure they were behaving themselves. That of course would be in the form of making sure Sherlock was being a polite host, and showing the interest that he was basically supposed to. Sherlock wondered if Mycroft thought he would just give up his whole normal boy charade after the truth had come out. What Mycroft didn't know was that Sherlock had felt like an outcast for as long as he could remember, and putting that difference to words did not change his expected mannerisms. He would be polite, he would be courteous. Yet all the while he took Molly's arm or laughed at her jokes his mind would forever be wandering off to the cottage, where there might be a disgruntled John Watson sitting over his own dining room table. The food was very delicious, and the conversation was polite and formal. Thankfully Mycroft joined in, and the three of them talked rather effortlessly for the entire course of the meal. They discussed topics that were very low impact, things like the local gossip, family members, and weather patterns. All things that would keep someone just entertained enough not to zone out, and just knowledgeable enough to contribute their own views. Yet nothing too heavy so that they were staring into their pudding and wondering the meaning of the cruel lives they led. When at last the plates were cleared Sherlock was the one to offer a walk, knowing of course that he would be forced to spend some alone time with the girl anyway. Surely it would be a lot less embarrassing if one of them suggested it, rather than a family member pushing them out the door and making some poor excuse to alienate themselves together. And so Sherlock was the one that initiated it, he took the girl's arm as he was supposed to and led her out the front door. Together they crunched along in the gravel, admiring the sunset that was just beginning to appear over the horizon. Sherlock looked back only once at the house, on something of a whim at most. Yet he felt as though they were being watched, and with some satisfaction he noticed that there was indeed a pair of eyes in the window. It was a maid, presumably watching to fulfil her own curiosity. Yet what bothered Sherlock the most was that the maid's eyes seemed to be staring at him from his own bedroom window. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, though the maid didn't seem to notice him staring back. She didn't even finch, she merely stared with unblinking eyes, and at last it was Sherlock who forced himself to look away. Oh surely she was just in there to clean, or to change the bedsheets before he settled in for the night. There were a million reasons she might have invited herself into his room, yet Sherlock could think of a great many possibilities he did not like. For a split second his mind remembered the piece of paper, that evidence that might get him arrested if ever it was discovered. Well he had hidden it to the best of his abilities; he smashed it into a composition book of all things, and tucked that book among his others in the shelf. No one would find it unless they were looking...
"What a beautiful property you have here." Molly muttered, her eyes drawing towards the large tree that stood at the center of attention.
"Haunting might be a better word for it." Sherlock sighed, knowing of course that she knew the significance of the tree.
"May we take a closer look?" Molly breathed, her feet gravitating towards the tree without Sherlock's consent. Oh but what choice did he have, really?
"If you would like to. Honestly I've kept a wide perimeter around that thing since I've been here." he admitted, yet Molly didn't even seem to hear him. She broke away from his grip and dashed up to the tree, racing right up to the trunk and examining it with eager fingers. At last she turned her attention to the branch, the rather obvious branch which stuck out lower and more accessible than any of the others. The entire tree sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine, just setting his foot upon the ground that his grandfather wanted to stand, where his feet just couldn't touch...
"A mob did it then? Not the police?" Molly clarified in owe, reaching up and just brushing her finger tips against the lowest hanging branch.
"I suppose so." Sherlock admitted. "I'm told a lot of versions."
"That's the one I heard." Molly admitted. "That he killed the butler and was hanged for it."
"I just heard that it was a servant." Sherlock admitted, though the idea that it may have been a butler got his mind turning some more. It made its way back to the butler he knew most familiarly, the butler with no name, no voice, and no control. Perhaps he was a ghost, and not some hallucination? Perhaps that man was the one that had fallen under his grandfather's wrath all those years ago?
"I've never heard any suggestions for motivation." Sherlock admitted finally. "Everyone's tried to tell me what happened, but never why."
"That's the part that gets confused, you see. I've heard so many versions, none of which sound the least bit convincing." Molly muttered, standing up on her tiptoes now and just clinging to the branch above. From where she locked her grip and hung by her fingertips, looking quite entertained now as her toes hovered just above the ground. It all made Sherlock feel rather sick, and he couldn't understand the pleasure she got from being in that man's place. It was almost as if she enjoyed the history behind the murders, rather than feared it.
"Was there any concerning the butler? What he had done to deserve such a fate?" Sherlock wondered, now investigating his own theories. If his visitor was the butler that had been killed (which he prayed was not, that would be a very bad scenario indeed) then certainly he had a reason for dying, and a reason for coming back. Yet why would he get so intimate, and was this intimacy with men a developed trait from the afterlife? Sherlock couldn't help but remember the similarities between himself and his grandfather, similarities so striking that someone might get confused...
"Oh I don't know. I think it was said that he had made a mistake in the old man's clothes, or maybe he had broken a vase. Those of course depend on your grandfather's self-control being held together by mere spider webs. But other versions...well they're a bit more racy." Molly admitted finally.
"Were they having an affair?" Sherlock spat out, rather stupidly on his part. Molly blinked, finally letting herself fall down to ground level. Her face looked a bit mystified, as if she was trying to contemplate what it was Sherlock was getting at.
"Your grandfather and...and the butler?" she clarified, her mouth nearly dropping open in shock.
"Well yes, it's possible is it not?" Sherlock muttered, now feeling rather silly for having admitted to his own knowledge of homosexual affairs. His own inquiry might lead her to believe that such thoughts entered his mind daily, and that what should be underground knowledge of the most scandalous nature was instead something of a common thing to him. Molly looked a bit uncomfortable, for she pulled her arms around herself and managed something of a shrug.
"I suppose it is. But I've never heard that version before." she admitted finally.
"Oh well...well I'm sure it's not true. It's just a version that I heard in the village, that was all." Sherlock lied quickly. "Certainly whatever the reason was it was covered up really quickly. It's shameful for the family, you see? And now with the rumors of the madness being hereditary..."
"You don't think it is?" Molly asked immediately, now seeming a lot more interested in her host than she had been previously. Her excitement moved very quickly from landscaping to actual family trees right as soon as the word madness was brought up.
"No! No that's just crazy! It's a mental illness, it can't be passed down." Sherlock insisted.
"Well who knows? Perhaps it can be, perhaps you're just one of the first families to experience such tragedy." Molly suggested, walking up to Sherlock and examining him rather carefully, as if waiting for a particular muscle to spasm, or his eyes to turn black. Instead Sherlock looked back in a bit of a defensive way, so as to make sure she knew that he didn't like to be examined so closely. Well, all the while this was happening something else caught his eye. His senses were on high alert of course, and so it was not surprising when his eye caught something moving just along the tree line, something moving slow and steady with something of a swagger to it, walking off towards the barns yet staying in the shadows as if intending to remain unseen. Sherlock's heart leapt, for of course he could recognize that figure anywhere!

"John!" he exclaimed finally, to which Molly jumped, clutching her heart in surprise. Perhaps Sherlock's little outburst might have been better had she not still been locked in with a determined stare, yet all the same he had to make himself known someway. Oh surely Agatha couldn't be mad if she saw all three of them talking! Sherlock could spin it, and make it sound as though Molly had taken interest in their working class. The figure stopped, looking over and managing a wave. Now that he was stopped Sherlock was sure it was him, the build and height were the same, as was the awkward little motions he made when he was put in a rather uncomfortable position.
"Who's that?" Molly wondered as Sherlock began to beckon him, waving his arms urgently. Perhaps it was not the best time and place to reconnect, yet it felt almost silly to disregard John's presence entirely. Not when Sherlock had already been counting down the hours until he would be blessed with that boy's face once more.
"It's John, he's our stable boy. I'd love it if you could meet him; really he's one of the best people I've ever met. I'm teaching him to write, you see. He's teaching me how to ride a horse." Sherlock said excitedly, not remember ever haven spoken of something with so much enthusiasm before. Maybe he wasn't being subtle enough, maybe he was supposed to keep his tone mundane, so as not to admit to his strong and passionate feelings. All the same he just couldn't help himself, for John was making his way through the yard to meet them! Oh how lovely it would be to see him in the sunset.
"Oh, alright then." Molly muttered, though her disappoint may have been as evident in her voice as was Sherlock's enthusiasm. They weren't very good at hiding their true feelings, were they?