The Madness Was A Man

The Only One Who Still Cares

John stood for a moment, feeling quite like the dead as he stared at the door, straight through the wood to where he knew his beloved was tethered. He had to do something; he had to think of something! And yet force was not an option, being an idiot was not going to get him any closer to his end goal. He had to be smart about this...somehow.
"John?" asked a rather familiar voice, stopping the poor boy's heart as he looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see another spirit lingering just a couple of inches above the ground. Well he didn't know if he should relieved or disappointed to see Mycroft standing before him, peeking his head out of his door with the same rather glassy expression like he saw in the servants. Mycroft seemed...well he seemed a little bit off. Even after saying just one word.
"Mycroft!" John growled, stepping in closer to the doorway now that his conversation had the potential to flow down the stairs and meet the ears of the most unwelcoming hostess. "Why are you letting him stay like that, he's going to die!"
"He needs to be fixed, Mr. Watson." Mycroft muttered, holding tight to his door frame as if using it to support the entirety of his weight. His limbs seemed to sag, his eyelids dropping as if he was just barely awake. He was almost under some sort of trance, a spell of sorts. Well certainly there was no convincing him, and while John would like to stay and pound that stupid man's head in he decided that his own safety now must be considered. Irene's conversation couldn't last forever, and John was sure that they were running out of things to discuss. Sooner than later Agatha would appear back into the house, perhaps she would even find John as he was sneaking back through the way he came! And so he sneered at the older Holmes brother, deciding that he was not worth his time, and took down the stairs as quickly and as quietly as he could manage. 

 "John! John, slow down! My God I can't listen that fast, and you can't talk that fast!" Irene exclaimed, nearly slapping John now to get him to shut up for just a millisecond. He faltered his conversation, only coming to realize after she mentioned it that he had not been breathing for the entire time he had been reciting his story. There was simply too much to tell, all the while time was ticking! This had to be solved as soon as possible, the conclusion had to be soon or Sherlock would surely die of dehydration or starvation or just plain paranoia. His heart was probably working way past its limits, he simply wasn't built to be so afraid for so long! And to think what Victor was doing to cleanse him, well John didn't even want to consider it. 

"I said they've got him tied up, and all the spirits are around!" John exclaimed.
"Yes, yes I got that part. I got most of it." Irene admitted, shifting herself around the hay bale to make it a bit more comfortable as a makeshift stool. They had nowhere to plot except for the bar, where John knew he was safe from at least one of his adversaries. He didn't know how far the dead could travel, but at least here Agatha wouldn't dare travel. The problem was Irene, as she surely couldn't stay the night without rumors beginning to spread. They had to tread carefully now, or else their lives would be ruined in more ways than one.
"So we need to...well I don't know! We need to find a way to fight the dead." John admitted with a sigh, feeling rather silly just speaking those words.
"Well they can turn to air, can't they? No proper attacks would work." Irene muttered.
"Could we not just do something to their bodies? Carry them off of the land or something, force them away?" John suggested.
"Who even knows if they're buried here or not? Surely they're linked to the place that they died." Irene grumbled, shaking her head in exasperation.
"Well there's got to be something. We can't just leave him for dead!" John exclaimed.
"That's not what I'm suggesting! For God's sake John, just let me think!" Irene growled, getting to her feet now and striding about the loft in large and agitated steps. John quieted, knowing now that he had struck a nerve. He really didn't want to get on bad terms with Irene, especially if she was the only woman who understood the situation, and the only one who was willingly on his side. Irene paced for some time, tapping her finger against her chin as she pondered what they ought to do. John tried to think as well, and yet his critical thinking skills were admittedly lacking. The only thing he could think to do was fight the ghosts, but as far as that went he was perfectly clueless.
"Well then, well we need to find where they're all buried." Irene suggested. "And then maybe get a priest to bless the graves, to put them all to rest?"
"That could take weeks! Imagine that they're all buried on their family's land, well some of these people could be from days away! Sherlock hasn't got that long!" John debated with a whine.
"A priest isn't a bad idea though, maybe there's some sort of demonic activity going on here. Maybe a simple blessing could push all the bad spirits away." Irene admitted, though she didn't sound nearly as enthusiastic as they needed right now. John nodded, wondering now what the difference was between a good a bad spirit. Well all of these servants seemed to be bad; none of them were even attempting to lift a finger to help what might be the most innocent boy on the planet. But then surely there must be someone willing to protect him, if they had to use the dead to fight the dead then surely one of these ghosts might be able to be persuaded? Someone who would understand him, someone who would come to Sherlock's aid...
"William!" John exclaimed, jumping to his feet immediately. His face flushed with excitement, for at last he felt as though a match had been struck in his mind.
"William? The grandfather?" Irene clarified with a little blink.
"Irene, who's the one person we haven't seen on this property yet? Who's the one man who died here that hasn't shown his face after death?" John asked anxiously. Irene stared at him for a moment, knowing the answer but not knowing where he was going with it. Yet it was perfectly simple, was it not?
"Alright, so he's resting in his grave. Surely we don't want a psychotic man prowling about anyway." She muttered.
"No, but say he's not psychotic? Say he's just...he's just desperate! The man might not have been crazy at all, the only reason he's rumored to be is because he slaughtered the whole house..."
"That's reason enough." Irene murmured.
"But no one ever knew about his affair! No one ever knew that he might have had a proper reason to do it. To defend himself, in his own grotesque way. Now if he's willing to defend himself, then why wouldn't he defend his grandson? Maybe this isn't about pushing spirits away, but inviting the right spirit to come." John suggested.
"And have the dead fight the dead?" Irene agreed quietly, nodding her head as she pondered the move in her head. This seemed like an overly complicated game of chess, one in which they were trying to put the other player in checkmate all the while having their own king captured. They had lost, yet now they were going in for another try. They were retaliating, quite against all logical rules. The universe might scream to stop, and yet John wouldn't hold back until he was holding Sherlock again in his arms. Until that fragile boy was nestled into his chest, muttering words unheard into his neck while he trembled. All Sherlock needed now was a helping hand, a comforting shoulder to cry on. And all John wanted in the world was to be the one to supply him with it. It broke his heart to be sitting so casually in this loft, all the while Sherlock was forced to cling to life underneath the devil reincarnate.
"I mean what other choice do we have? Unless you want to kill me now, and let my ghost go and fight him off." John muttered, to which Irene shrugged. She didn't look as if that was the worst idea he's had, which was honestly a bit insulting.
"What if this guy is crazy? What if he just wants to kill again, he'd have the power." Irene pointed out.
"But his own grandson? Someone who looks just like him? I mean the best case scenario is that all these spirits realize they've been mixed up, when they see William again they might just leave Sherlock alone." John muttered a bit hopefully, though he knew of course that would be a long shot.
"Perhaps." Irene grumbled, though she didn't sound very convinced at all. Yes, this was all just what if's and best case scenarios, but in a situation in which they were dealing with a world completely separate from their own what choice did they have? Ghosts weren't predictable; they seemed to be mere shadows of human life, reflections almost. Lacking all humanity, lacking all brain power. They were just mindless beings of wrath, perhaps stuck inside of their same timeline because they haven't yet realized they were dead.
"So we have to summon the dead, shouldn't be hard." Irene muttered doubtfully, all the while John could only sigh. He didn't know what to suggest, yet there was nothing a good book couldn't solve.
"We should find where he was buried, dig up a skull or something, and drop it on the front porch. Maybe that would aggravate him enough to go wandering around." John suggested.
"And where is Agatha in all of this?" Irene wondered. "She won't take lightly to our inviting ourselves in, especially if she gets wind that I'm helping you in this plot. She likes me as of now, but that could change all too quickly."
"It's Agatha I don't understand. In all of these cases, they have a reason to keep him chained up, to keep him suffering. The dead think he's William, his brother thinks he's sick...but why Agatha? Why would she just leave him for dead so suddenly?" John wondered, looking up at Irene for the answer she had no hope of supplying.
"Maybe she thinks he needs this spiritual cleansing too." she offered.
"But why? What are they cleansing from him that she doesn't approve of? How is she working alongside Victor all of the sudden?" John asked.
"Well Victor is certainly trying to clear his head, keep him from going insane. If Victor was killed by William then maybe he thinks by fixing his brain he won't want to kill again. And if he knows it's Sherlock, well maybe he just want to prevent such desperate measures?" Irene suggested.
"He loves William, that much I know. He loves him in his own devilish way, but he seems only to want the best for him." John admitted finally. "If only he could realize he has the wrong person!"
"He must understand by now." Irene insisted.
"And Agatha? What, does she want to keep Sherlock tied up to keep him pure? Maybe she's suspected our relationship, maybe she's worried that her master marriage plan isn't going to work out the way she wants it to." John guessed, though those were some pretty weak reasons for murder.
"If she's so passionate about extending the Holmes family tree she really ought to get Mycroft preened up and wedding ready." Irene suggested, to which John could hardly smile. If everything wasn't going wrong in his life then maybe he would find such a cruel joke to be entertaining. If he was holding Sherlock in his arms he may have laughed, but for now it was all he could do but nod and stare hopelessly down at the ground, his heart feeling heavy and his limbs feeling tired. It was hard to raise his head, knowing still that Sherlock was tied to that bed and unlikely to escape without his help.
"Well then we have to get this started, if we're going to save him there's no time to kill." John decided finally getting to his feet with his stern dedication all the while Irene checked her watch and sighed.
"It's already too late for me to stay." She grumbled. "I'll have to come back tomorrow morning; my parents would scalp me if I don't show up."
"Just say you're working on a project!" John suggested, as that was about as close to the truth either of them could get without spilling their own rather crazy escapades. To claim that they had to recuse Sherlock Holmes from the clutches of the dead inside of his own house sounded enough to get them sent to the penitentiary as lunatics. Oh this was maddening, was it not? This was all too much to handle. This house seemed to spawn insanity; it seemed to offer it up to anyone who stayed inside its perimeter for too long. Before this week John didn't believe in ghosts, and now here he was organizing the appearance of one! Now here he was, with a ghost as his last chance to save the love of his life.
"John, that's a terrible excuse. Even if it is the truth. Now come on then, walk me down the driveway where I can meet the carriage." Irene insisted, brushing the hay off of her skirts before starting down the ladder like a woman on a mission.
"You'll be here tomorrow morning?" John clarified, following her down the ladder and at last finding himself on solid ground.
"As early as I can manage." Irene agreed, though that was a very vague promise indeed.
"Well it might be over by then. I won't wait, if I can spawn that ghost tonight I will. If I can save Sherlock tonight, I'll do it." John insisted, to which Irene just smiled, folding her arms and looking at him in a very impressed sort of way.
"I see why he loves you so much, John. You seem to be the only person in this whole house that cares." Irene admitted with a little smile, as if they had time for sentiment at all.
"Well you care." John defended, feeling his cheeks go a little bit red at the compliment. Thankfully he could busy himself with untying one of the horses, for he would need it if he was going to town on urgent business.
"I don't count, I don't live here. But you, John you were the one who raised the alarm in the first place. If you didn't sense that something was wrong, well he might've died." Irene pointed out.
"He still might." John grumbled, wincing now as the realization came crashing down upon his head once more. Sherlock still might die, and his ghost will be forever stuck in the dismal halls of his ancestors. He would be the third Holmes to lose his life to 'insanity' even if his mind had never suffered at all.
"Maybe you could just take a compliment once in a while?" Irene growled as John pulled one of the horses out of its stall, leading it down towards the door where they could walk together down the driveway. The sun had set, and thankfully it was dark enough that they didn't have to sneak around anywhere. Besides, Agatha was probably preoccupied enjoying the screaming from her nephew's bedroom.
"I don't like compliments much." John admitted finally. "They make me feel as though I have to live up to them."
"You live up to them just fine. Just pull this off, somehow, and you'll be golden. You'll be immortalized forever in his heart." Irene muttered, though her voice rather lagged as she forced out those last couple of words. It was rather obvious what her main concern was, as she undoubtedly still had feelings for that poor boy. Even after she discovered the true workings of his heart, well it was impossible to forget a love that had spawned almost on accident! Irene had been summoned to the house originally to be a bride, not some sort of hero. Yet now her purpose had changed, and instead of loving Sherlock as she intended to she would be helping his true soulmate rescue his soul from hell on earth. She was an invaluable player in a game against the underworld, in which they had to save the one boy who held a special place in their hearts. John didn't feel the need to apologize; in fact he didn't think he needed to comment on that at all. It turned out to be the last words exchanged, for after such a declaration there seemed to be no other conversation necessary. They knew what was at stake; they knew what they had to do. The plan was unfolding nicely, at least in theory. Now they had to take a gamble, and John had to learn the dark arts in the matter of hours, if he was going to be in time to rescue Sherlock from his paranormal captors. The carriage was waiting at the end of the driveway, though the driver was asleep up on his chair, obviously having waited a long while for Irene to return. She woke him with a yell, and the poor man stumbled about in the seat and muttered his apologies, though his beady eyes were turned suspiciously on John as if he was blaming him for the girl's tardiness.
"John you be careful, alright? Save him, but not at the expense of your own life. If you can help it." Irene muttered, shaking her head as if she didn't really know what else to say. "I want to be there, but if it all goes down tonight, well just be a hero, alright. You can pick the definition of that, whichever you need it to be. But live up to it, save his life. Save him for all of us."
"I'll do my best. I'll fight tooth and nail, and if I can't save him well..."
"Then nobody can." Irene assured, and with that she threw her arms around John's neck in what could only be a rather desperate hug. As if she was clutching to him for what she suspected might be the last time, just to give him encouragement, just to give him hope. John hugged her back, though she was not nearly what he needed right now. The only hug that would fill the hole in his heart would be offered by Sherlock, once he was rescued from that bedroom and restored to full health. Until then John could never be satisfied, and as Irene pulled away he was almost thankful.
"Good luck." Irene said finally, to which John nodded a bit glumly, taking better hold of the horse's reins as Irene clambered into the carriage and smacked the roof as hard as she could, as if to take her aggression out on the driver. John watched the carriage ride away into the night, feeling now lonelier than ever. And yet there was hope, hope burning so minutely inside of him that it may as well be a mere ember. And yet there was a flame yet to be ignited, all he had to do was find the right book, the right burial place, the right ritual. Sherlock would be back in his arms soon enough, all he had to do now was ensure it. All the power of life and death fell onto John's shoulders, and he could think of no better bearer than himself. If you want something done right, if you want someone saved properly, then well you better just do it yourself. And that's what John intended to do. So he swung up onto the back of the horse, kicking it wildly and starting down through the darkened twilight, racing off to town to save the suffering boy who was left farther and farther behind with every stride.