The Madness Was A Man

Has There Been A Murder?

After a moment's recuperation they decided to head for home, saddling up and starting once more down the beaten path they had taken the night before. It felt like a very long time ago that Sherlock was afraid of John, it felt as though he had been second guessing his own affections decades ago. Perhaps that really was how long it was, perhaps they had been lying in that field for ten or so years, unaware that the world was still spinning all the while they slept peacefully in each other's arms. Sherlock would have preferred that, honestly. In ten years Agatha might have finally died, and all of his prospective wives would have forgotten their loves and moved onto other more available men. The house might have been redone, or maybe abandoned, and Mycroft might have gone off to live in a cheerful villa far from this crazy town. Ten years would have been a gracious privilege, yet as they emerged into the pasture once more Sherlock found to his disappointment that everything was just as they had left it the night before. The house stood just as forebodingly in its ancient foundations, waiting with the still windows for its heir to return to it. Sherlock was happy to see that the bedsheet rope had been taken in, hopefully by his brother who was smart enough to cover up his tracks. John took the reins as they entered into the pasture, knowing of course that they could be spotted if someone decided to cast their eyes in the direction of the stables. To compensate for this John kicked the horse, holding onto Sherlock and the reins so as to ensure neither of them fell off. The animal kicked it into high gear, galloping wildly across the grass until at last they had made it into the stall safe and sound. Sherlock was still shivering when he dismounted, the ground spinning as he blinked, his heart beating fearfully inside his coward's chest.
"Alright, if we've been lucky this far then we'll not have been spotted." John muttered. "But you're going to need an excuse."
"I was...oh I don't know. Out with a mistress? That's the closest thing to the truth." Sherlock suggested.
"And that would still get you into trouble. No, how about something like...like you had gone out on a walk and fallen asleep under a tree. You sat down to take a rest and next thing you knew it was morning." John suggested, to which Sherlock merely grimaced.
"Sounds fake." He admitted with a sigh.
"Have any better suggestion then?" John wondered, raising his eyebrows as if to encourage Sherlock to spill his own great idea. It was a defeat, to be sure. Sherlock really couldn't think of an excuse that might work, at least not one for the ever prying Agatha. Perhaps she would believe his lie about the walk, but then again if she didn't believe him then she really didn't have much proof to dispute it. Sherlock made a mental note to hide his rope where no one would ever find it; perhaps back in the attic where he could get it down once everyone had gone to bed. What Agatha didn't know wouldn't hurt her, and so Sherlock had to make sure she never found out.
"Alright then, I took a walk and fell asleep. Sounds like me." Sherlock managed finally, accepting now that he had no better alternatives to such a miserable lie. "And what are you going to tell Mrs. Hudson?"
"Oh she won't ask." John assured with something of a chuckle.
"Why not? She's practically your mother; she'll have noticed that you weren't home." Sherlock insisted.
"She won't ask because I'm sure she's already guessed. I don't keep secrets from Mrs. Hudson; I've got no need to." John assured, grabbing the saddle off of the horse and slinging it over the fence where he had found it.
"So she knows about everything?" Sherlock presumed a bit nervously. He didn't know the woman well enough to trust her, and although she did seem to be a good woman and a great confidant, well his secrets might carry a little more weight than did John's. John only had a job to lose, while Sherlock still had a reputation to protect.
"Everything up until last night." John agreed.
"And you'll tell her?" Sherlock asked with something of a gasp. John paused, leaning over the fence now and looking up at Sherlock in careful concern.
"Well if you don't want me to, I don't have to." He assured with a shrug. "I just, well I don't know. It feels good to tell someone something, usually."
"I guess you're right." Sherlock agreed with a sigh, thinking back to Mycroft and the thousands of questions that he might have at this very moment. Sherlock would owe him an explanation, a valid one at that. "You can tell her, I guess." He decided finally, knowing that it was no use being a hypocrite about it. If Mycroft was going to find out then Mrs. Hudson had the right to know, for it was no secret which one of those two was more reliable. Telling Mycroft a secret was like a shot in the dark; for you never know when he'll decide it's morally righteous to snitch.
"There's someone you're going to tell, I presume?" John decided with a little giggle.
"Oh you know, sometimes it's fun to brag a little bit." Sherlock agreed, shrugging his shoulders as if trying to make himself a little bit more innocent.
"And who is it then, that I need to avoid in the future?" John wondered.
"Mycroft." Sherlock decided. "So if you find me dead you'll know who to blame it on."
"You actually trust your brother? God, that man even looks like a snake." John exclaimed.
"Yes I trust him! I trust him enough not to throw us in jail, if that's what you mean. He's entitled to the truth; he's the one who's probably making my excuses right now." Sherlock defended. John sighed, looking as though he was at a loss for a decent argument anyway. And so he got to his feet and turned away to get the horses fed, leaving Sherlock to exit the stall and pat goodbye to their trusty horse on his own.
"Speaking of excuses, it's about time you got to it. They'll be sending a search party out soon, if we're not careful." John warned, bundling up a great handful of hay and starting over to the first stall. Sherlock interrupted him, however. He blocked his path with his hand, gently pressing a goodbye kiss onto his lips and hoping that it was only goodbye for a little while.
"You be good, alright? Don't get into trouble while I'm gone." John insisted, to which Sherlock merely chuckled, giving that smirk that said 'I'll do what I want' in clear and wordless annunciation.
"You too." Sherlock muttered. "I had a fantastic time."
"I did too." John agreed. Sherlock hesitated, knowing that there was a certain phrase that might have been necessary before they departed. Yet he was hesitant, for John was always so touchy about the destiny aspect. He didn't like thinking long term, and a declaration so meaningful (even though it had been slipped into careless conversation) might be something of a shock to him. And so Sherlock merely smiled, deciding to keep those three words off of his lips for John's sake, even if they were never more true than in this exact moment.
"And Sherlock?" John called back, just as soon as Sherlock had reached the barn door. His heart leapt, and he looked back with a foolish look of hope.
"Yes?" Sherlock squeaked in excitement. John merely smirked, knowing of course what Sherlock was hoping to hear from his mouth.
"Have a nice day." John chuckled, throwing the hay into the stall and leaving Sherlock to shake his head in exasperation. The words were translated nonverbally, or at least that was what Sherlock told himself. The words that were meant to be said had been said a hundred times before, in each and every kiss they exchanged. They were in love; no truer words have ever been said. And so they didn't need to be said, did they? They could merely be assumed, and all the sappy romanticism could be left behind and traded instead with logic and the powers of deduction. Sherlock sprinted up to the house, hoping that everyone will have been conveniently looking away as he headed up from the stables, a place which made it very obvious just who he had spent his night with. When he stepped into the house he was sort of expecting something more, something like a whole squadron of police here to arrest him, a great big iron cage falling from the ceiling in an attempt to keep him trapped in one place for the interrogation. It wasn't like he was disappointed when nothing happened, yet it was a little bit discouraging. He didn't want anyone to have noticed his disappearance, yet it would still be a bit insulting if he did get his wish. Sherlock walked quickly up to his room, finding that the door was closed and no one was waiting outside to trap him. Thankfully it was unlocked, and so he slipped inside and looked about his room for any sign of a trap. The rope was lying next to the window, as if someone had pulled it up with some reluctance, and the window was shut but not fastened. Everything was in order then. Sherlock sighed, practicing his speech in his head as he changed out of his clothes and wiped the dirt from his skin. He winced as the damp washcloth ran over top of the little nicks and cuts he had gotten from those horrible plants, yet he knew of course that nothing could be done about them, nor confessed to. Sherlock had been on a walk, that was all anyone would know and it was all they would need to know! Except for Mycroft, of course. Where was he, anyway? Where was anyone? When Sherlock had made himself decent he finally dared to walk into the hallway, knocking a bit on Mycroft's door before trying the handle and finding it unlocked. He opened it slightly, though he was met with no Mycroft. The room was empty. Sherlock swallowed hard, not allowing himself to get nervous just yet. Certainly Mycroft was off doing Mycroft things, perhaps he went into town, perhaps he was just in the library downstairs? But where were the servants, where was the Lady of the house? Certainly Sherlock couldn't be the only one here? Yet as Sherlock started down the staircase he noticed something, something stained scarlet against the wooden floors. Something that looked undeniably like blood. Sherlock stared at it, clutching onto the railing and telling himself that he must be seeing things. He was sleep deprived, delirious! Certainly there could be no blood inside of this house...or rather none that had been shed recently. His heart began to race as he realized the blood was leading somewhere, thinning out in some spots and disappearing entirely in others, yet it was unmistakable a trail. The way it was patterned against the floor made it look almost as if the wounded were being dragged all the way down the stairs with no remorse. As if they were cut and bleeding, but neglected all the same. A murder, perhaps? Sherlock hasted to follow the path, his mind jumping to the worst of all conclusions as he wondered just what happened while he was gone. Was it a ghost, a human, or a member of the house? A member of the Holmes family, with Holmes blood in their veins and therefore on the stairs? Sherlock almost let out a sob, breaking now into a run as he followed the trail down the stairs and down the hallway, turning sharply at the door where the servants go at night...When suddenly he was thrown off balance, feeling a hand grip his collar tightly and yank him into the room opposite, nearly letting him fall to the floor if it hadn't been for that iron grip that held him steady. The library door slammed shut, and at last it was Mycroft who he was confronted with, Mycroft who held him like a puppy who was about to get kicked.
"Where have you been?" Mycroft growled, finally releasing his brother and throwing him away in disgust.
"You know where I've been! I've been with John!" Sherlock defended, regaining his balance and pulling at his collar to correct it.
"Do I even want to know what happened?" Mycroft hissed, his face writhing into an expression of pure disgust.
"What happened with me? What about what happened here? Why there's blood all down the stairs, were you attacked? Where is Agatha?" Sherlock asked anxiously, rushing back to the door so as to continue his investigation. Yet Mycroft stopped him once more, stepping in front of the door and blocking his path with all of his well-earned girth.
"There's no blood, you're talking crazy! Why weren't you home last night, why'd you leave me to make your excuses?" Mycroft growled. Sherlock stepped back, realizing with worry that Mycroft was now in the way of the only exit. If he was the murderer then this would have to end in a fight, and surely not a fight that Sherlock could win. Yet there was no blood on his clothes, nothing to suggest that Mycroft had been butchering any other members of the house.
"You didn't see it? It's being dragged all down the hallway; it's leading into the servant's hall! Did you hear anything, any shouting?" Sherlock insisted, trying again for the door but finding that Mycroft was entirely inflexible. That was not a good sign, confinement. Either Mycroft wanted to keep Sherlock safe and away from the carnage or he wanted to keep him a prisoner, to wait here until he could come back and finish him off for good.
"Sherlock, stop. I'll let you look for yourself if you want, there's no blood. I want to focus on the main problem; I want to focus on what it was you were doing with that horrible boy all last night! Don't you realize it's nearly ten o'clock?" Mycroft growled. Sherlock nodded, finally pushing Mycroft out of the way and opening the door just a crack. He peered outside, worried that he might be witnessed by whoever had made such a mess...Yet there was nothing. He opened the door wider, so as to check that his eyes weren't deceiving him. The hallway was clean, not a trace of the blood he had witnessed as he descended. Not a trace...
"See?" Mycroft muttered, pushing his brother away from the door and closing it with a final snap. Sherlock felt crestfallen, rubbing his forehead with his hand so as to make sure his head was still in one piece. No, there was certainly blood along the floors. There had been a whole murder scene!
"Mycroft I saw it, I saw blood." Sherlock whispered, nodding his head a couple of times so as to reassure himself. "I'm not crazy."
"I'm not saying you are." Mycroft defended, though he did look a little bit worried. This had been the second episode he had witnessed, in which Sherlock was seeing things that weren't there. Yet it had been the fifth encounter with delusions, at least by Sherlock's rough estimate. It had been the fifth time that his eyes were playing tricks on him...or were they really? Were the tricks owed instead to something much more powerful, and much more dangerous?
"I imagine you slept with him." Mycroft said right off the bat, to which Sherlock merely nodded numbly, more worried now about the demons within him than around him. Suddenly Mycroft's judgment didn't seem too bad, and Agatha's retaliation felt like mere child's play. There was something more sinister stirring inside of his, something that was telling him to see carnage when there was none, and faces when he was quite alone.
"I'm not crazy." Sherlock whispered.
"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock you seem to be heading in that direction. Sneaking off at night with some boy you hardly know, risking your reputation and your life on a mere stable boy! What if he blackmails you, what if he tells to make an extra buck? The newspapers would love a good scandal, and not to mention the police!" Mycroft exclaimed.
"I love him, alright? That's the only answer I'm willing to give you, and I'm sure you can fill in the gaps from there." Sherlock snarled. Mycroft merely shook his head, messaging his temples for a while as he tried to figure out what to do with his constantly rebelling brother. Sherlock knew that Mycroft's only intention was to keep him safe, yet that task was becoming a lot more difficult as Sherlock began to test his boundaries, finding them all quite easily surpassed. Finding that he could escape the common place values, if only he allowed himself to rebel against the only authorities he was ever taught to fear. 

 Sherlock was beginning to feel that something had changed, something not just inside of him but in his environment as well. He was beginning to feel a presence, something entirely impossible to get rid of. It wasn't someone he could see, rather someone who was staying unseen, yet watching constantly. An invisible menace, perhaps? The ghost of the butler? It was a constant feeling, and Sherlock was beginning to feel completely unnerved. Some moments he would see something that wasn't right, he would see the blood dripping from the ceiling above, he would see a face in the mirror that was not there when he turned around, he would hear screams echoing through the stairwell, screams that went unheard by the undisturbed house. Sherlock began to wonder what was wrong with him, if not the usual grievance felt by all members of the Holmes family. Perhaps the madness had finally been passed down, inherited from his father and settled nicely into the brain of its new unfortunate host. Sherlock never knew how the madness started, nor did he know the expectancy of it. Yet he knew that there was something wrong, and he was trying to figure out just how to stop it. He was trying to ponder if there was anything within his power at all, if he could do anything to prevent what ultimately might be the death of him. Unfortunately the only option he could figure was to call in an expert, someone who might know more on this subject than he. Someone who heard the gossip, heard the facts, and memorized them all as some sort of pastime. Oh he hated to call on that obscene woman again... 

"Agatha?" Sherlock muttered over dinner one night, looking up to where his Aunt was sitting straight backed in her chair, prim and proper as she always was. She never did find out about Sherlock's escape, thanks to his brother's quick thinking.
"Yes Sherlock?" she muttered, buttering a roll rather lazily as she glared unfavorably in his direction.
"I was wondering if you might invite Irene Adler over again." Sherlock suggested, to which the jaws of both his acquaintances dropped in surprise. Mycroft definitely wasn't prepared to hear that, for his shock was one of absolute and unrivaled disbelief. Agatha seemed a mix of shock and happiness, as if she assumed that finally a woman had made herself favorable to her youngest nephew.
"Well certainly, but why the change of heart?" Agatha wondered. Sherlock shrugged, looking over to Mycroft who was certainly looking perplexed.
"Oh I don't know, really. Perhaps meeting Molly Hooper made Irene look all the more favorable." Sherlock muttered, though it was hard to spit out the words 'Irene' and 'favorable' all in the same sentences. Unless that sentence was 'It would be favorable if Irene never comes near me again'. Oh well, that was the tragedy with desperate times. They call for desperate measures indeed. Even now Sherlock felt the eyes on the back of his neck, so close that every mere breeze began to feel more like a breath on his skin, as if his followers was creeping right behind him and breathing with sick anticipation.
"I can arrange something right away!" Agatha agreed, smiling now as if Sherlock's request made her very happy, as if she presumed he was finally coming around. Yet even now, as he sat and talked of women, his mind was straying farther down the lawn, to where a certain stable boy was tending the horses.
"Wonderful." Sherlock muttered. "I'm looking forward to it." Agatha nodded, her enthusiasm with the dinner returning as she picked up her fork and began a rather robust conversation about the weather patterns. Sherlock looked towards Mycroft, who waited until Agatha was properly distracted before he gave him the very strangest of looks. Sherlock merely shrugged, going back to his dinner and feeling a little bit better about his chances, considering now there was someone on the way who might be willing to help.