The Madness Was A Man

Threatened Within The Walls

"So there really is a bed up here." John muttered, his eyes drifting to the attention grabber right in the middle of the floor. Sherlock sighed in agreement, leaning up against one of the low hanging rafters and staring at the very innocent thing. Though no matter how relaxing and care free it seemed, Sherlock was sure it held some sort of bloody past, a mystery and a tragedy that had taken place right on top of its comforter. Or maybe right below.
"We could only theorize about that one." Irene muttered, walking up to where a book shelf was shoved away in the corner. It seemed to contain all sorts of novels and books, yet after she flipped through a couple she deemed the entire shelf unworthy of her time.
"Seems like a whole room has been relocated." John admitted, pulling open a trunk to reveal a whole bunch of old clothing, all very stylish for the time period they were recovered from.
"All my grandfather's things, I can imagine." Sherlock presumed.
"Didn't want to disrespect him by burning it, couldn't sell it...to the attic it goes." Irene agreed, kicking one of the boxes that was filled only with decorative pillows. "It's all a bunch of junk."
"Well let's think, what exactly are we looking for?" Sherlock muttered.
"Letters, folders, documentation of any kind." John listed, revising their main objectives that had been set upon in the front yard.
"And where might you put that sort of thing, when you were alive?" Sherlock wondered.
"A desk." Irene said immediately, though whether she was announcing what she had discovered or answering Sherlock's question it really was not clear. Either way it was something of a victory, for Sherlock would have never noticed that desk huddled away in the corner unless someone else had pointed it out for him. It was an awfully shadowy spot, too far removed from the light bulb and the tiny rays of sunshine to be seen very clearly. It wouldn't be a place Sherlock focused on for too long, for fear that he might see someone staring back. The three of them huddled around as Irene yanked open the first drawer, not even bothering to be gentle. The entire desk rocked and Sherlock flinched, trying to figure out how to tell Irene to be more careful without actually offending her. Well of course he wasn't brave enough to attempt such a feat, and so instead he stood quietly while she ruffled though multiple papers and notebooks, finding nothing of apparent value.
"Bank statements, mortgages, pay stubs." She muttered, throwing handfuls of numerical papers onto the desk and letting them stack up into a great big pile.
"If we could find a diary we'd be golden." John presumed, though Sherlock wasn't going to hold onto hope for that one. A diary kept by his grandfather would solve all of their secrets, yet a more distinguished man might not be so stupid as to immortalize his sins and dishonesty. He was probably much too smart to put his affair down onto paper, if an affair did happen at all.
"Just more documents about nothing." Irene complained as she filed through the second drawer, working with such carelessness that the entire desk was strewn about with unorganized papers from most of the drawers combined. It was all compiling into nothing, which may have been predicted before they began this hopeful little investigation. There were no words, no clues even, or at least not until a particular shape caught Sherlock's eye, a sketched image on the back of one of Irene's seemingly useless tosses.
"Wait, there!" Sherlock exclaimed, snatching to the paper before it even fluttered onto the desk to join the pile of rejects. He flipped it over to reveal a sketch, oh just the smallest little face drawn up in the corner of the parchment. Yet it was enough to prove that Sherlock was right, it was enough to put a connection between his grandfather and this butler, as it was that beautiful face depicted in lead, that face of the illusive butler who only Sherlock could see up until now.
"That's him." he announced finally.
"That's the butler?" John muttered, his voice faltering a bit as he looked upon the ever apparent beauty, so accurately depicted by a few well sketched lines by an ancient and long dead hand. Sherlock nodded, sighing heavily in some satisfaction while the three of them stared at it for a long while.
"That means there was a connection, or at least one enough to put that man in my grandfather's mind! They were overlapping in some way, whether the butler was dead already or not, there was something between them. Something that made him preoccupied enough to sketch that face on his bank statement." Sherlock insisted.
"I mean, love does distract you." John agreed quietly. "I've learned that over the past couple weeks."
"Oh how sappy." Irene complained. "I'll take this as confirmation that they met, but I'm still not convinced on the affair. I mean there are a million reasons why someone would sketch another."
"Alright, well that's at least more than we had before. And if he really was a butler, well then his name had to have been Victor Trevor, because that's the only man documented who we don't recognize. You said Sherlock that he's not in the staff, you're sure of it?" John clarified.
"Well you tell me, but I'm certain I've never seen him. You haven't either?" Sherlock wondered, holding the picture up again to John's face so that he could see more clearly. The boy shook his head, and collectively they nodded, agreeing at last they had a face and a name to match. Victor Trevor...well the name did sound terribly evil. It sounded terribly fitting.
"Sherlock's mystery man, at last solved. So what do we do now, find a death record for our Mr. Trevor? Find any documented proof of his death?" Irene presumed.
"That's a library thing, or even a city hall thing." John admitted with a sigh. "It'll get a lot more complicated from here."
"Oh that just adds more of a thrill, does it not?" Irene sighed, replacing all the papers roughly to the place where she had found them. The one with the sketch Sherlock kept, folding it very gently and sliding it into his pocket for further reference. Who knows, maybe it would aid in their investigation in some way down the road? It wasn't like he wanted to have to see that face again; God knows he's seen it too many times these days. Yet something about the sketch made this Victor a lot more enticing than before, simply because there was a clear link. Like it or not, Victor Trevor was the thing which was now gluing Sherlock to his ancestor, bringing them together not only by looks but by lovers as well. Sherlock never had the luxury of considering his grandfather human, for he was always painted in a criminal light whenever he was discussed or even thought about. That man's life was defined exclusively by the way it ended, and it seemed as though no one would consider what he was before he got strung up, before he lost his head and his heart. Perhaps he was a romantic, perhaps he was charming. Perhaps he sat at this desk months even years before the incident, his mind perfectly at ease and his heart perfectly elated as he sketched out the face which he had only recently fallen in love with. Oh, at one point that man had been human, perfectly so! And yet all he would ever be remembered as was a mad man. As would be with Sherlock's father, and so would be with him if he wasn't careful. No one would ever remember john Watson when they spoke the story of Sherlock Holmes. They would only remember the madness, the names of the victims he had taken with him, and the fateful end of a boy whose head broke inside of his skull.
"It's nearly time for me to go. Agatha will come looking soon enough." Irene decided, snapping her pocket watch shut with a regretful sigh.
"If she finds us up here she'll kill us." Sherlock presumed.
"If she finds me anywhere she'll kill me." John agreed, shuttering a bit with the idea of being caught by that wicked woman.
"Then we'll sneak you out the back door. But Irene's right, we ought to get going." Sherlock agreed, patting John on the back and starting the way down the staircase. That name, it was going through his head nonstop, that name which had just been settled with the face. Over and over again like a chorus that would not halt, Victor Trevor, Victor Trevor, Victor Trevor... thankfully John was able to sneak out just as soon as Agatha's heels began to parade about the floors. Sherlock quickly had to make up a reason to be in the back of the house, and so he immediately set to trying to make any story up about the vase that was sitting on a rather ugly pedestal by the boot room. If Irene was supposedly here for house history, well this was the only legitimate reason to be lingering near the back door like a bunch of teenagers up to no good.
"Ms. Adler, your carriage outside." Agatha announced, sounding rather upset to have to break up their in-depth conversation about supposed pirates having stolen this vase from Chinese traders, only to have it stolen by the English and sold at an auction to a very distant Holmes cousin. It was all complete rubbish, and perhaps Agatha picked up on that, yet Irene pretended to be ever so interested and so the woman could not think of a complaint against her nephew quick enough. As far as she knew, this courting was going splendidly.
"I'll walk you out." Sherlock suggested, looping his arm around Irene's and starting her out the front door like the makeshift gentleman he was.
"I had such a lovely time today, Sherlock. Please tell me you'll take me to town soon!" she begged in that girlish voice she used when she wanted to be classy. Irene pulled rather hard on Sherlock's arm purely for the urgent effect of it all, and thankfully their show seemed to draw Agatha's attention quite successfully.
"Sherlock would love to have you back of course!" Agatha agreed, not realizing of course that she was offering Irene another free pass into the hushed up side of her family's history.
"Oh what about Wednesday? That's only two days away!" Irene suggested with a little giggle, one which made Sherlock wince a little bit. That woman wouldn't be caught dead with a giggle on her lips, not unless she had a serious show to put on.
"That sounds great!" Sherlock agreed immediately, before Agatha could protest with something that seemed to be more important. Thankfully she held her tongue, and Irene threw her arms around Sherlock's neck in a falsely enthusiastic hug.
"Kiss me on the cheek." She whispered urgently, directly into his ear while they embraced.
"What?" Sherlock asked a little bit too loudly, pulling away a bit abruptly while Agatha looked in with some confusion. Irene merely sighed, looking Sherlock in the eyes with a pleasant smile and demonic eyes. And so he complied, though he didn't quite like it. He leaned in and placed a rather weak kiss onto her cheek, for dramatic effect and Agatha's sake alone. Nevertheless it did the trick. Irene giggled and turned red, all the while his Aunt's face lit up in the most successful exclamation.
"You'll be late for your parents, dear. Come along now." She insisted, steering Irene away from Sherlock and towards the carriage that sat in wait. "Where is that bloody stable boy?" Sherlock heard her whisper angrily, for John's absence left her to be the one to help the girl into the carriage. She winced as if such courtesy might injure her, yet all the same Irene made it into the carriage unharmed.
"Until next time, Sherlock!" Irene called from the window, waving her hand elegantly out the window as at last the horses began to take up a quick trot. Sherlock didn't say anything in response, for he had already shuttered away onto the porch wall, as if attempting to hide from the persona of Irene Adler that he liked the least. Oh all of this attention might lead to a forced engagement! This whole plan had the capability to backfire very badly, for while Agatha wasn't aware of their plans they were at the same disadvantage. While Sherlock and his friends unraveled the past family tree Agatha was planning out the next branch, and together their declarations might overlap at the most inopportune time. Well then, it was just a race for time now. A race for the liberating truth, one which had the opportunity not only to free Sherlock from his Aunt, but from his family's history and his own blood as well.