The Madness Was A Man

The Dead Don't Cooperate

"John, what's happened?" Irene exclaimed, shutting the door and waving the carriage away in her urgency. The driver looked rather perplexed, yet when the horses didn't begin to move she turned on her heel and yelled a couple of words and vulgarities, reminding the driver just what would happen if he disobeyed a direct order. Before she even had time to turn back around the horses were starting their way in a tight circle, the driver mumbling his apologies all the while shaking from head to toe.
"Sherlock's missing, he didn't show up last night and there's no sign of him." John said finally, nearly wanting to give that foul woman a hug. It was so good to be listened to, to be able to speak freely! Yet the relief John felt did not match the worry of his listener, and for a moment Irene stood with her hands on her hips and donning the most disappointed look imaginable.
"Sherlock's in the house then?" she clarified.
"He should've been here last night; he should've come to the cottage! But he never showed up, his light wasn't even on! Something's wrong, I know it is." John muttered, nodding his head determinedly all the while wondering if his argument was even going to be strong enough to move Irene down the driveway. Perhaps she would think he was just as foolish as Mrs. Hudson thought? Well surely they didn't trust John's gut nearly as much as he did, yet he knew deep down there was something wrong.
"So he was supposed to meet you last night, and he just got cold feet?" Irene presumed. John sighed, sticking his toe into the dirt in some sort of shame.
"Well he wasn't supposed to meet me. But he usually does anyway. It's never scheduled, but he shows up nearly every night." John insisted, to which Irene's frown merely deepened.
"So the only urgent evidence you have for me is what? A whim?" she presumed.
"Pretty much. But something's wrong, you just have to trust me on that! I know him better than anyone; he would never just stay inside. He hates it in that house; he's always looking for an excuse to get out, even if it is just for a walk around the gardens in the morning." John insisted. Irene sighed heavily, looking down the driveway as if trying to get a peek at the house where it sat hidden behind the heavy foliage.
"So you two are together then? I thought as much." She murmured, with something of jealousy hinted in her tone. As if she didn't like the idea of not getting what she wanted.
"Yes, we are. That's why he should've shown up last night!" John insisted with something of a childish whine. Irene still didn't lok convinced, yet surely she had to at least stay and investigate as her carriage probably wasn't returning anytime soon.
"Fine, I'll help you. What's your plan?" she wondered, starting down the driveway and waiting for John to grab the horse and jog up alongside. The horse moved slowly, and so when at last they did catch up they had nearly walked a quarter of the length already.
"I don't have a plan, that's why I called you." John admitted. "You're a lot more conniving than me."
"Well that's true." Irene agreed, nodding her head and thinking for a moment. "So our theories are something to do with ghosts, I imagine? Probably this Victor Trevor fellow?"
"Ya, the butler. Maybe he's possessed Sherlock, or even killed him! I don't know what to think, and I'm afraid to let my imagination run wild." John admitted apprehensively, finally seeing the house come into view. The long windows looked so eerie from this distance, each of them glowing with a soft orange glow despite the full sunshine. Those windows held so much inside of them; even now they had their own mysteries stored up behind the panes. They knew exactly where Sherlock was, they knew if there was something wrong. But John certainly wasn't going to get an answer from the architecture, and so it was up to him and Irene to investigate what had become of their mutual friend.
"So we can only imagine if there is trouble that no one alive is willing to help. So that means that horrible aunt and the brother both are in on this undead agenda." Irene presumed.
"Maybe they just don't realize? Maybe Sherlock's door is locked?" John offered, to which Irene shook her head quietly.
"If they noticed something was wrong they'd find their way in. No, they're in on it too. And so now we ask ourselves why." Irene muttered.
"Here, don't walk in the middle of the driveway. Keep the horse between you and the house; we'll walk to the stables." John instructed, trying to keep Irene's presence here a surprise to anyone who might be lurking around any of the windows. She wasn't invited by the house, and so Agatha would surely know that there was a plot if she noticed the woman strolling casually by with the stable boy.
"Maybe they've decided they don't like him anymore." John offered, though he didn't really think that would justify any debilitating action that would keep Sherlock basically chained up inside the house, if he was alive at all.
"I know how that feels." Irene grumbled, though she shook her head all the same. "No, we need to find out what's wrong. And to do that, well we're going to need a distraction."