The Madness Was A Man

They'll Find Us And They'll Hang Us

Sherlock couldn't force out a word, his fingers nearly dropped the ring case as his entire body went numb in fear, well he could barely breathe much less force out a word! He was terrified, terrified not only of what Agatha was capable of but also what she was afraid of. At last she pulled away, stepping back and fixing her hair with a couple of pokes with her long, knobby fingers.
"My grandfather...did he love my grandmother?" Sherlock asked finally, now that there was enough space made between his aunt and himself. She stopped, looking back upon Sherlock with another threatening glare, one that read unmistakably 'don't ask questions that can't be answered'.
"He did." She said finally, which may or may not be a lie.
"Did he kill my grandmother?" Sherlock forced out at last. Agatha's eyes widened threateningly, flashing daggers in his direction.
"That is none of your business." She whispered.
"He's my grandfather, I have right to know!" Sherlock defended loudly, to which Agatha silenced him with a step forward, one which might had led to violence if Sherlock had not fallen backwards towards the mantle, stumbling against the stone and rattling the various knickknacks presented atop it.
"You have no rights in this house, Sherlock, save for the ones I give you. And knowledge is not one of them. No you will do as you're told, or I will have no choice but to take matters into my own hands. I will not raise a miscreant under my roof...I will not raise a criminal." She said flatly, and with that the woman stormed from the library, her heels clicking along the hardwood before finally disappearing down the hallway. Sherlock stood near the mantelpiece, frozen where he had been forced just a moment ago. He seemed too shocked to do anything more than gape at the spot she had vanished, wondering now just what might happen, what she might deep appropriate. She knew, did she not? She knew in her own way that Sherlock was a homosexual, she knew because he was forcing his hand. She was forcing him to conform to her own values, to marry a woman and ultimately prove that he was no different than proper society. That why she disliked John so much, that's why she wouldn't let him into the house. She knew that Sherlock was destined to share the same admirations as his ancestors, and she didn't want to let it spoil her house's good name. But what now? It put so much more at stake, for if John was found to be connected to Sherlock's so called rebelliousness; well what would Agatha decide to do? What would she deem acceptable, and what would be inexcusable? Sherlock was much too afraid to stay out in the open, in Agatha's reign of terror. And so he walked as quickly as he could through the house, climbing up to the second floor and hiding in his room until the sun came down. He closed his door and locked it, now very afraid of most anything that moved out there. The maids, the humans, the ghosts...everything seemed to have something against him. And so Sherlock waited at his vanity, perched on a chair as he opened up the ring box nervously. It was a gorgeous ring, a golden band with a great big diamond perched atop it; sparkling with every angle he positioned it against the lamp. It had sat on the fingers of so many Holmes women, his grandmother, great-grandmother, who knows how many before that? Long before the name of Holmes had been tarnished with madness, this ring had perched on their fingers as a symbol of power, riches, and love. It created families, leaves on their ever extensive tree, that family tree that held the gallows. But to give it to Irene, to make her his wife? Sherlock sighed, setting the ring down onto the table and staring at it some more. It just wouldn't look right on her finger, it wouldn't look proper. If this ring was his to give away, well then there was only one person who would be appropriate. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to get down on one knee before John Watson, to promise him not only this ring but a lifetime of riches and carelessness. John, who had to work his whole life through just to get by, how nice would it be if he could settle back and own a servant rather than be one? He deserved it, the sort of luxury this ring would offer him. He deserved nothing less than the entire world, and Sherlock could grant him that if only society would allow it. It wasn't fair, none of it. It wasn't fair that the best hearted people had to suffer through their existence, while the worst of the human race was longing in all of their riches. When beasts like Agatha sat atop a throne, and John Watson had to slum it with the horses each and every day. Sherlock paused, hearing faint footsteps outside of his door, the little trot of an approaching visitor. He froze, snapping the ring box shut and hiding it inside of his desk drawer while the footsteps approached the door, pausing right outside before trying the handle. The knob turned slowly without a knock or a call to be let in, as most any human visitor might attempt. Sherlock sat helpless on his chair, the sunlight still fading from the sky, while the knob turned ever so slowly this way and that. Someone was trying to get in. Sherlock thanked himself that he had locked it before he had sat down, for whoever this visitor was seemed to be thwarted by the deadbolt. After a moment the knob fell still, and Sherlock stared at it anxiously. All was silent, yet still the footsteps had not faded away. BANG! A vicious knock at the door sent Sherlock flying back into the vanity, half way on his feet and half way sitting down upon the dresser. Another bang, softer this time...perhaps one of defeat. If it was Mycroft at the door he would've said something...and Mycroft was the only passive visitor that might have tried to get inside. Sherlock stared, yet it would seem as though the last knock truly had been the last. The visitor, whoever it was, seemed to have given up completely. Sherlock eased himself back into the chair, not allowing his sight to leave the door until at least five minutes of silence had passed. There were no footprints leading away, yet the door was undisturbed as of now. It seemed as though they had given up. Sherlock let loose the breath he had been holding in, checking his pocket watch to see that it was not yet ten o'clock, still an hour or so to go before it would be dark enough for him to make his escape. As anxious as he was to get out of this house he knew that he had no choice but to wait for Agatha to go to bed. No matter how urgent the matter was if she witnessed him darting across the yard she would have both of their heads. She knew now that there was a strong possibility that Sherlock's love was a strange one, all she needed now was a tiny bit of proof and they would both be sent to the gallows. He sighed heavily, finally turning his eyes away from the door and back to the mirror, where he had fully expected to see himself staring back. Yet it was not into his own eyes that he stared, instead blue eyes gazed back, and an ever familiar smile was curling right where his own mouth should be.
"Victor." Sherlock whispered, recognizing the beautiful face immediately. His blood ran cold and yet his heart lurched, he was caught in a battle between love and fear, and for a moment he could do nothing but stare.
"William." The butler purred, the first word he had spoken since his appearance all those days ago. Sherlock didn't have time to consider who William was, although he knew the answer perfectly well. William Holmes, the father of his father...the madman who swung. After such a proclamation Victor began to move, he rose up from the chair he was sitting in and grabbed ahold of the frame, his long arms yanking himself from the mirrored world and into the real one, his head passing through first, followed closely by his chest and torso. Yet just as soon as he let his hands fall onto the desk, pushing it down with very real weight, he slammed his face against Sherlock's and found his lips, kissing him once again with all the passion he could muster. Sherlock didn't know what to do, and so he let his autopilot take over, the part of his heart that took control of his brain until it was all he could do but ferociously kiss back. It was the part of his heart that craved nothing but affection, it did not matter from who, it did not matter that there was another deserving boy waiting for his now occupied lips. All he could do was kiss, and it would seem as though Victor shared the same intentions. The man emerged fully from the mirror, kicking off of the vanity and sending them both crashing to the floor, chair and all. With a thud Sherlock landed head first, crushed under the weight of his ghostly lover and tangled in the cracked wooden arms of the chair. Together they rolled, until at last Sherlock found himself on top of his admirer, and staring down upon the face he thought he would only see in his nightmares. Now here he was again, and here at his mercy. Sherlock set his arms down upon the boy's shoulders, pinning him now with all of his weight as he stared anxiously into his eyes. He finally came to his senses, realizing that he was not supposed to be kissing this strange figure, but interrogating him instead.
"Victor, you loved my grandfather." Sherlock whispered. Victor's eyes glazed over, though his smile was still poking through his raw lips.
"I never knew your grandfather." He scoffed. He must only be speaking after being spoken to, directly. That name must bring back a shred of his humanity and his responsiveness. Before Sherlock knew his name he never spoke a word. Yet he heard that, the thing they used to call him. The name that kept his existence in a firm grasp.
"I'm not William." Sherlock whispered. "My name is Sherlock."
"What are you talking about?" Victor growled, latching one of his arms onto Sherlock's neck and trying to pull him down for another kiss. Yet Sherlock fought back, shaking him off and holding him down to the floor even harder. Victor squirmed, yet that smile was still stretched upon his lips. He was enjoying this very much.
"You're dead, Victor. I'm William's grandson." Sherlock said flatly.
"If this is your attempt at roleplay, it's not very romantic." Victor whispered, bringing one of his knees up hard into Sherlock's stomach and giving him just enough power to flip over, throwing Sherlock to the ground and rolling on top of him securely. Sherlock gave a squeal of protest, yet he was unable to do much else than that. His legs were pinned, as were his arms, and now it was all he could do but stare into the eyes of his oppressor and hope the truth wouldn't make him violent.
"It's eighteen forty five." Sherlock insisted, wincing now as Victor's lips dragged along the side of his face, kissing him anxiously along the forehead and hairline.
"Shut up, William. Just shut up." Victor growled, tightening his grip on Sherlock's head now as he kissed him fully once more, so agressivley that his teeth grabbed a hold of one of Sherlock's lips. He seemed as though he might tear it right off, yet Sherlock gave an anxious croak and tried to wiggle away, he tried to fight. Yet he found himself helpless, trapped by the weight of the mere memory of human life.
"Victor, listen to me!" he exclaimed as best he could given his current situation. Victor didn't stop; he didn't seem willing to listen to what Sherlock had to say. He reverted back to that primal state, the unresponsive one. And once more Sherlock found himself in this desperate situation, unsure what to do once more except scream as best he could.
"You're dead!" Sherlock screamed. "You're dead; you've been dead for sixty years!" There was no response, only the scraping off teeth against his cheek, and a tight grip around his neck in an almost strangling position. He began to find it hard to breathe, suddenly there were fingers encircling his windpipe, as if Victor was taking his age old hostilities out on an innocent soul.
"MYCROFT!" Sherlock called out desperately, beginning to kick and fight, trying to roll either way to shake his attacker off. "Mycroft HELP!"
"Sherlock?" came his brother's voice, oh that well timed oaf. He must have run from his room just as soon as he heard the commotion, for in no time the handle began to twist. Mycroft began to pound on the door, yet just as the spirit had found previously...the door was locked.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock screeched, though he was silenced abruptly as Victor's hand came to clench his jaw shut. He could only squirm now, summoning all the voice he could yet it never made it past his lips. It was merely a whine, unheard by his brother on the other side. Thankfully Mycroft wasn't giving up; he pounded and pounded at the door like the impatient man he was. Yet there seemed to be no getting in, there seemed to be no help from the outside world. Sherlock let his hands fall around Victor's forearms, trying to pull them loose all the while his feet kicked and kicked at the ground, trying to get a knee or a foot in to yank himself free.
"William, they'll find us. You must be quiet" Victor whispered anxiously, so close to Sherlock's ear that all the hairs on his neck stood up. "They'll find us, and they'll hang us."
"Sherlock!" Mycroft screamed, finally planting a perfect kick to the lock of the door and sending it flying open, taking a hunk of the wall with it as it flew nearly off of its hinges. Victor didn't react quick enough, Sherlock yanked his head aside in relief, just in time for Mycroft to stare horrifically at the butler who was holding his brother to the floor, holding his mouth shut, holding his neck as tightly as one hand could manage. And just as the two made eye contact Victor was gone, Sherlock could move his mouth, he could breathe, he could roll over onto his side and cough with the sudden effort of breathing once more.
"Who was that?" Mycroft exclaimed, rushing to his brother's side and grabbing him up in his protective arms, scooping him like a child up onto the bed so that he could sit on the edge of the mattress and recollect himself. "Sherlock who was that?" Mycroft whispered, in such a fearful voice that it trembled with the effort. He stroked against Sherlock's face, as if to make sure it wasn't harmed in anyway. A tear was beginning to form in his brother's black eye, a tear formed as he began to realize that there was more to this house than he wanted to admit.
"Mycroft, if I told you would you not be upset?" Sherlock whispered, shaking as he scanned the corners of the room for his attacker. He didn't know what to do with his hands, he wanted to clutch onto Mycroft like a child once more, he wanted to cling to his brother for safety like he did after a nightmare. Back when he could run through the halls, unafraid of the shadows, unafraid of the things which moved.
"Of course not, of course not." Mycroft assured, pulling his brother into a hug of relief. Together they both scanned the areas behind their siblings, using this excuse to search the shadows that may have been left unchecked. Yet just as soon as they pulled apart the sound of high heels echoed through the halls. She was drawn to the screaming, and had come to offer so more. Here came Aunt Agatha.
"What on earth is going on here?" Agatha exclaimed, walking in through the damaged door and examining it with tightly pursed lips. "Breaking my doors, are you now?"
"I had a nightmare." Sherlock whispered, though it didn't take a genius to realize there was something much more devastating going on here. Mycroft wouldn't break down a door for a mere nightmare, nor would Sherlock scream uninterrupted for so long. Unfortunately Agatha came to that same conclusion, for she marched over to Sherlock and knelt down beside him, examining his face as she pushed it this way and that. Sherlock tried to be cooperative, and yet Agatha's skin was as cold as ice, and her eyes were very difficult to look into at such a close proximity. He winced, pulling away from her just as soon as he thought it was acceptable to do so.
"Who was in here with you, Sherlock?" Agatha growled, standing up once more and staring down disappointedly at Mycroft, who shivered away from her immediate grasp.
"Mycroft came in." Sherlock whispered, touching upon his own face and wondering just what Agatha had seen within its crevices.
"No, I meant who else? I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. Your lips are puffy, your neck is raw, your hairline is caked with saliva. You've been kissing someone." Agatha insisted. "Now, don't let me have to guess."
"I haven't...I told you I had a nightmare!" Sherlock exclaimed, though his voice trembled with the effort of it all. He felt as though he was being interrogated under a strong light, with his Aunt staring deeply into his eyes to try to find a hint of guilt, a mere speckle of doubt! Something that might lead her to her ultimate conclusion, that he was a liar.
"A very intimate one then." Agatha growled. "Now admit it, where is she hiding?"
"There's no one here." Sherlock insisted weakly, though his breath came easier now that Agatha had presumed the wrong pronoun. She was not going to find a woman, no matter how hard she looked. Then again she wouldn't find a man either, for Victor had disappeared at his own leisure after Mycroft had walked in. Agatha walked up to the vanity, noticing that most all of the brushes and bottles had been disturbed. She hummed to herself; meandering over to the wardrobe and throwing the doors open and scanning through the multiple hangings for any sign of life. She checked under the bed, she checked behind the window curtains. Finally she checked the closet, yet Sherlock realized too late that there was indeed something incriminating hiding in there. There was no boy, yet there was a rope. That rope of bedsheets, the presence of which would immediately lead her to the ultimate and correct conclusion. Sherlock started a yelp of protest just as soon as she threw open the doors, and for a while it was a stalemate of stares. Sherlock found himself on his feet, cowering closer to his brother for protection all the while knowing there was nothing Mycroft could do to protect him. He had fallen victim to his own sloppiness, to his own rebellion, and here was the price he had to pay.
"Sherlock." Agatha muttered, stepping into the closet and picking up one end of the rope, feeling along the fibers for the specs of brick dust it had accumulated while being pressed up against the edge of the wall. "Have you been sneaking out?"
"Who's Victor Trevor?" Sherlock asked at last, spitting out whichever words came to mind, whichever might be distracting enough that his Aunt completely forgot the last thing on her mind. Well the good thing was it worked; the bad thing was...well it worked. She turned to face him now; and her eyes seemed to glow like red embers.
"Where did you hear that name?" She growled, swooping onto her nephew like a gigantic bat, grabbing him by the throat and holding him nearly at his tiptoes. Sherlock didn't need any more trauma to his neck, and as he stood there swinging he was able only to get a few gasps of panic out, all the while Mycroft began to yell in protest.
"Stop, Agatha stop!" Mycroft exclaimed, though yelling was about as far as he could go with his own disobedience. The man had no backbone when it had to do with authority, and he lived to impress his only living relative.
"WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT NAME!" Agatha repeated again, using all of her force and throwing Sherlock nearly half way across the room. The poor boy stumbled over his own feet, falling backwards into an awkward little flop and cowering against the wooden floor.
"The rumors from town, they said that he was involved!" Sherlock lied quickly, not bothering to pick himself up and staring at Agatha like a cowering dog, about to get beat. 
"No, you're lying. You're lying no one knew of him. NO ONE KNEW!" Agatha roared, stamping her feet upon the hardwood in a misplaced demonstration of rage. "TELL ME NOW!"
"He loved my grandfather, my grandfather loved him! That's what you won't tell us, William wasn't crazy, he was a homosexual!" Sherlock exclaimed, and with that Agatha stormed right up to him and planted a very well placed kick to the side of his head. Sherlock's skull erupted in pain, and instinctively he curled into a little ball on the hardwood, trembling like a child yet pondering now what Agatha's reaction might mean. He was right, wasn't he? He was right about everything.
"Stop, stop hurting him!" Mycroft exclaimed, falling to the floor between his brother and his Aunt, holding up his hands in defense now ready to defend any attacks that might come flying his way. Yet Agatha paused, she retreated like the coward she ultimately was. Her anger turned to fear, and she began to run her fingers anxiously through her usually neat hair. Now it stood lopsided upon her face, at such an angle where all the hidden gray was exposed like the rotten underside of an old piece of fruit.