The Madness Was A Man

Going Mad, Are You?

The roses were still cheerfully in bloom, and they looked very beautiful as they surrounded a quaint set of white chairs and a small table. Perched atop the table with some difficulty was a plate of sandwiches, a pitcher of lemonade, and the rightful seating arrangements for two diners. Sherlock was happy to see that they were going to be alone, for Agatha's involvement in his little scavenger hunt was absolutely forbidden. If she even got wind of what he was planning he might be chained to a wall and left for dead, merely because he began to meddle in things she deemed undesirable.
"I hope you two enjoy yourselves. The servants will be inside, but this bell here is loud enough to summon one of them if you need anything." Agatha said cheerfully, gesturing to a rather large bell which sat atop one of the benches near the edge of the garden.
"We'll keep that in mind." Sherlock muttered, taking Irene to her seat before pulling it out for her and tucking her nicely in. Agatha smiled proudly, obviously happy to see her nephew courting like the proper gentleman he was. With that she bowed her head and started back towards the house, yet the moment she vanished both Sherlock and Irene dissolved their illusion of posture and cooperation. Sherlock fell heavy into his chair while Irene grabbed at whichever sandwich she deemed most appropriate, and together they stared at each other with a very deep sense of dislike.
"Why am I here, Sherlock? Why after last time?" Irene wondered with something of a growl.
"It's not on romantic terms, if that's what you're worried about." Sherlock assured, happy that the main question was touched upon very early on. He had been worried that she thought he had a change of heart, and therefore would have been interested in any sort of love. Thankfully she never got that into her head, and so the disappointment wasn't going to be as much of a blow.
"Oh I know, I had you figured you out just before I arrived home that night. I figured you all out." Irene admitted, peeling the crust off of her sandwich and plopping it down onto her plate in a very unladylike manner. Sherlock smiled, wondering just how she would have managed that.
"Oh yes?" he muttered, doubting of course that such a sophisticated woman such as herself would be able to guess something which was so hushed up in the modern world.
"Yes I have. You're a homosexual." Irene announced finally, leaning forward with something of a proud grin, taking a bite out of her sandwich while Sherlock's smirk faded, and was replaced instead by a sickly pale complexion.
"What...what makes you think that?" Sherlock asked quietly, though his reaction alone was enough to confirm her suspicions. Irene smirked, shrugging her shoulders and keeping Sherlock in anxious suspense for a little while longer.
"Because everyone loves me, Sherlock. Everyone but those who can't." Irene muttered.
"So your own narcissism is what you call evidence?" Sherlock sneered, though it was a rather good defense.
"Go ahead and deny it, I'll listen to any excuse you have to offer." Irene offered, though Sherlock sat rather stooped in his chair, accepting his defeat at last.
"I can trust you not to tell?" he assumed in a worried little voice, looking up to her with his best available puppy eyes.
"You can trust me, Sherlock. I'm one of the few who believe love is not a crime." Irene assured, holding up her hands as innocently as she could manage.
"If only my Aunt could see it that way." Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head in exasperation before finally picking up a sandwich of his own. His appetite had been rather dulled by the surprise of it all, yet he managed a couple of bites before finally dropping the thing in defeat.
"Irene, I've called you here because I want to find out the truth about my family. You're the only one who ever expressed knowledge on it, or rather you're the only one who knows and is willing to share." Sherlock admitted, thinking back to his Aunt's panic attack on the porch. Irene smirked, nodding her head as if she knew there was something else in the works here. Some sort of plot that she had unwillingly become a part of. Oh it was a good thing she liked to get into trouble, for if Sherlock had made the wrong choice in confidant he would get them both into trouble, not only with his Aunt but with the law as well.
"Why the sudden motivation?" she wondered playfully, leaning back in her chair and sipping at some lemonade lazily.
"Because I'm afraid the past is catching up to me." Sherlock admitted in a very quiet voice, apprehensive now to trust Irene Adler with two of his most sensitive secrets. The woman could ruin him now, surely. He just had to trust that she wouldn't tell a soul, yet with her mouth Sherlock doubted that she could keep anything a secret long. He was treading in dangerous waters now, that was for sure.
"Going mad, are you Sherlock?" she presumed with a little giggle.
"I don't know...I don't know what's happening to me, or if anything is happening at all." Sherlock admitted with something of a sigh. "The only thing I want to know is why any of this is happening at all, what's the motivation behind our hauntings?"
"The murder then?" Irene presumed.
"The murder, the motive, the story behind it!" Sherlock agreed, shaking his head in defeat as he stared at the woman with a frown. "I've got to find out, so that I can stop this thing before it roots itself into my head."
"Sounds like it's already trying to, isn't it? Sounds like you're on the verge of going over, just like you father and grandfather before him." Irene muttered.
"Perhaps I am, but that's why I'm trying to do something about it! I don't want to die like that; I don't want to waste away, afraid of the backs of my own eyelids." Sherlock defended, shivering now as he remembered the vegetable state his father was in, the paranoia that was coursing through his very veins! He wanted nothing to do with that, he wanted to have full control of his mind, not give it up to a ghost who was a little bit too friendly.
"Do you have a theory then? Do you have any symptoms at all?" Irene wondered, her eyes now sparkling with the utmost curiosity. It was almost unnerving, how interesting she found the whole ordeal. Sherlock was sure that he could stoop over now into a fit and she would just gape, trying to record the whole thing to memory rather than lending a helping hand.
"I see a man, a boy rather. He's dressed in a butler's uniform, and he creeps into my room at night. I've seen him four times, twice as a whole person and twice as just a glimpse." Sherlock admitted, noticing now that the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, as if he noticed a presence which had just appeared into this otherwise empty garden.
"And what does this butler do? Just stare at you?" Irene wondered, clicking her long nails against the lemonade glass for a long while before at last setting it down onto the table again. Sherlock sighed heavily, rubbing his temples and praying that he wasn't giving himself and his entire soul away to Irene unwillingly. She would have the best blackmail on him, that was for sure. He could only hope she never thought to use it.
"He kissed me." Sherlock admitted. "The second time he got rather...psychical. When I yelled for him to stop he never did, and my brother was attracted to the screaming. But as soon as Mycroft walked in the butler disappeared, he never saw him, and I couldn't find where he could've gone."
"Oh Mycroft, poor man." Irene said with a chuckle, not seeming to have taken anything out of that story that she should've.
"Well what do you make of it? My theory is that he's a ghost, and that he was my grandfather's lover. Have you ever seen a picture of my grandfather, he looks just like me." Sherlock pointed out.
"So your theory is that your grandfather was a skinny little homosexual just like you?" Irene presumed. "And this ghost has come back because...why? Because he wants vengeance, or he wants love?"
"Well if I'm right, then maybe something happened. Maybe he's the one my grandfather killed all those years ago, and he's come back to torment his offspring. My second guess was that he's confused, and he's come to me because he thinks I'm my grandfather." Sherlock suggested. Irene nodded, looking very thoughtful now as she stared rather anxiously into her lemonade.
"Interesting theories." She admitted. "But we won't know anything for sure until we find out who this man was. Do you know where we might get serving records from back then?"
"I know where we could try." Sherlock admitted, thinking to poor Mrs. Hudson.
"Let's first check for any names that ring a bell, then we could try for newspapers or something at the library. Then the attic, perhaps? All love affairs include documentation, so far as I'm concerned. I'm sure we'd find a note or something of the sort." Irene decided finally. Sherlock nodded, feeling hopeful now that they had somewhere to look, a game plan of sorts. All this digging would surely prove useful, so long as they could uncover the truth once and for all. The real question was what did they do afterwards? Once they were armed with knowledge, what then?
"Alright then, follow me." Sherlock decided, getting to his feet and refusing to help the lady out of her chair. Thankfully she proved able enough to get to her feet by herself, and so they started off across the yard and towards where the cottage was puffing cheerful clouds of smoke into the bright blue sky. It was a beautiful day, warm enough to enjoy the sunshine but with a cool breeze that allowed you to still wear the ridiculous layered getups gentlemen were expected to wear these days. A multilayered suit was all fun and games until you were going to an outdoor garden party in one hundred degree heat, oh the pain of it all! Socialization will certainly be the death of him some day. Sherlock looked back at the cottage, hoping that Agatha wouldn't be witness to his scavenger hunt with Irene and therefore would not think to ask about what they were doing creeping around in the yard when they could be enjoying their sandwiches in the garden. As they passed under the hanging tree Irene craned her neck towards the lower most branch, looking very interested before at last following Sherlock all the way up to where the cottage sat on the edge of the forest, as cheerful as could be and therefore looking very out of place. Irene put on her posture again, regaining her expected composure as Sherlock knocked at the door. In an instant it was opened by none other than the woman of the hour, Mrs. Hudson herself. She looked at Sherlock with the most welcoming smile, though she glanced at Irene and a spark of confusion flashed upon her face. Now whether she was confused as to who the woman was or instead what she was doing with Sherlock, that was still yet to be seen.
"Mr. Holmes, are you here to see John?" she presumed, looking behind her as if to summon the boy who was within earshot. Sherlock felt his face glow a little bit red, knowing that Irene was smart enough to figure out just why Sherlock would usually have to see John. Well, there goes secret number three.
"Actually Mrs. Hudson, we're here to see you. May I introduce Irene Adler; she's here to help me on some business regarding my family history." Sherlock explained, gesturing to Irene as if to clarify who exactly he was talking about.
"Lovely to meet you." Irene said with a little curtsey.
"Oh darling there's no need to curtsey." Mrs. Hudson assured, though she looked delighted to have been addressed in such a way nevertheless. Irene grinned, perhaps she had always had the intention of getting what she wanted by flattery. It wasn't necessary in Mrs. Hudson's case, though it did ultimately get them through the door.
"Sherlock!" John said rather excitedly, getting up from his spot at the lunch table just as soon as Sherlock strolled through the threshold. "And Ms. Adler." John added with less enthusiasm as Irene made her grand entrance.
"Oh Sherlock, you really do follow well in your grandfather's footsteps." Irene muttered with a little chuckle, to which John looked a little bit confused. Sherlock sighed, turning towards Mrs. Hudson now so as to explain why exactly they were there.
"We were wondering if you had a staff registry, one that spanned back to my grandfather's time?" Sherlock asked, trying to make that sound about as normal as he could manage. Mrs. Hudson thought for a moment, before at last she nodded her head and bustled along up the stairs. This left the three of them alone, and of course this was the first time John and Irene were to see each other face to face. John knew of her purpose here, as Sherlock had informed him the night before. Yet still he seemed to get a little bit defensive, which was encouraging enough for Sherlock at least. His worry means that he cared, which was certainly a confidence booster if nothing else.
"So John, what's your purpose here?" Irene wondered, keeping on her polite voice in this new environment. Sherlock didn't mind his own composure, for John and Mrs. Hudson both knew the worst of him by now.
"I'm the stable boy." John admitted. "And I care to most everything else outside."
"Ah yes, a good worker." Irene chuckled. "I can only imagine that you and Sherlock are very good friends?"
"Irene, please try to be a little..." Sherlock began, yet Irene interrupted him with a sharp shush, as if to make sure John got his chance to talk.
"We are acquainted, yes." John agreed.
"I'm sure you are." Irene smirked, looking back to Sherlock with that look of knowledge once more, the look of knowledge that she really wasn't supposed to have.
"Oh you are such a bother." Sherlock grumbled, to which John grinned a little bit. Obviously he liked to see Irene taken down a notch, even if it was just by a snarky little insult. It reassured him all the more that he was the only one in Sherlock's heart, though he really should just rest assured. He was the one and only man for Sherlock, the only human at that. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson appeared, arriving with a very dusty old book which was bound in thick red leather, looking as though it hadn't been touched for as long as either of them had been alive.
"Servant's log, from who knows when? I'm sure this lists the workers who built the house, rather than the staff who work here now." Mrs. Hudson chuckled, clearing away what was left of their lunch dishes as she smacked the book hard down onto the table. Sherlock, Irene, and John all huddled in behind her, watching as the woman pried open some of the first pages and read the dates eagerly.
"Sixteen thirty two!" John announced excitedly, pointing to the date atop one of the first pages in the register.
"The house was built in twenty seven." Mrs. Hudson agreed, flipping farther into the book throughout the centuries. All sorts of names were listed, names of maids, butlers, cooks, and stable boys. All of their predecessors were logged in by a careless hand, someone who did not take into consideration the immortality of it all. Someone who did not realize that there might be people two hundred years in the future, bent over their names and looking upon it in amazement. Neither the person who wrote this, nor the people whose names were printed in delicate cursive, ever for one moment considered their own life to be an awe inspiring thing. They took it one day at a time, surely. And the names here had only the goal of money to care about, and the job to complain about. Never did they imagine that one day they would die, not when they were feeling as though their life could only drag on and on forever. Death was something for another person, was it not? Surely not them.
"Here we go, just around your grandfather's time." Mrs. Hudson muttered, flipping towards the very end of the seventeen hundreds and finding that the log ended abruptly. No names were filled out after the last page had been filled half way, meaning either they had halted employment all together or another book had been made up to replace this dusty old thing. That, or someone had forgotten to care about their records.
"It stops." Sherlock said obviously, looking over some of the last names printed in the book. The handwriting was different of course, yet legible enough to make it out.
"Yes well, judging by the dust on this book it hadn't been touched since the old days. Though this date corresponds to your grandfather's death. Yes, here we have some of the most recent hires in his time." Mrs. Hudson announced. "Elizabeth Thomas, Rosanna Clemson, Arthur Butler, Victor Trevor, Alice Davenport..."
"Arthur Butler, I know that name." John muttered, pointing to Arthur's name in some excitement. Though just as soon as he thought deeper about the connection his face paled, and he looked to Mrs. Hudson as if for clarification.
"Yes. Yes, this can't be right." Mrs. Hudson agreed, shaking her head and checking the date once more at the corner of the page. She and John both looked rather worked up, as if they had read over something seriously incorrect. Of course neither Sherlock nor Irene seemed to get the message, and so they waited silently for the servants to figure out what it was that seemed to be the issue. There just seemed to be names listed, nothing too important or awe inspiring.
"What's the matter?" Irene asked suddenly, while Mrs. Hudson flipped through the rest of the book with some agitation. The rest of it was blank, she made sure of that.
"The names, they're the same as our current staff." Mrs. Hudson admitted finally.