The Madness Was A Man

Who She Is And How She Died

The library was just closing as John arrived, just two minutes before the hour they shut their doors for the night. Thankfully he made it to the door just as soon as the librarian did, and for a moment they stood at a stalemate, looking at each other through the glass as her hand reached for the open sign, of course with the intention of flipping it to closed.
"Wait! Wait, please, it's urgent!" John begged, tying his horse just as fast as he could to the post outside before flinging the door open and finding him face to face with the stern woman. She was an older lady, with gray hair tied up in a great big bun as all stereotypical librarians did, with glasses that sat half perched on her long nose and her arms crossed without much enthusiasm.
"I'm sorry sir, but the library is closed." She insisted, grabbing at the door in an attempt to push it shut onto his face. Well thankfully John was much stronger, and her efforts were wasted.
"It's not closed; I've still got two minutes." John debated, pulling out his pocket watch to defend his rather weak argument.
"One minute." The woman corrected as the longer hand moved just a tad along the watch face.
"Well then, you have one minute to tell me where William Holmes is buried, and I'll be on my way." John said with something of a grin.
"William Holmes? The madman?" she clarified with a blink.
"Please, all I need is a record, a newspaper article...anything. It's urgent, incredibly urgent." John begged, fastening his foot into the door frame as he saw the watch face tick once more. Just as soon as his sentence ended the bells from the church began to ring, announcing the new hour and therefore the end of his conquest. That is, if the librarian didn't listen to his pleas and decided instead to ignore him. John managed his best look of desperation, which wasn't too hard to display because he was feeling nothing but desperate right now. Sherlock's life was on the line and here he was arguing with this old hag!
"Urgent you say? And why would that be?" the woman wondered. John opened his mouth, though he didn't manage any words. He figured that anything he said would be considered crazy, and the doors would be slammed in his face for sure.
"I um...well I'm not sure if you'd believe what I have to say. But someone's life is on the line." John insisted, trying to look truthful now, taking advantage of his big doe eyes with something of a helpless whine. The woman sighed, looking as if she didn't get paid enough for this, yet finally let her hand off of the door and retreated back into the darkened library.
"Thank you! Thank you thank you so much!" John exclaimed, nearly jumping up and down as he followed the woman to the desk, where she illuminated an oil lamp and started back to an old stack of wooden drawers.
"The death certificate of William Holmes, that's not a well sought after document at all." the woman admitted, seeming to ignore John's thanks. Perhaps she didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he was grateful, or perhaps she simply didn't need the praise. Maybe she was self-righteous, or hard of hearing.
"I just need where he's buried. If you've got a newspaper from that date..."
"Oh I have plenty of those. Though they all tell different stories." The woman admitted with a sigh, setting the lamp down on an oak desk as she pried open one of the drawers impatiently. The light cast a very eerie orange light about the tall shelves, sending long shadows dancing upon the carpets through the gaps in the book lines. John didn't want to consider the mobility of ghosts, for if anyone of them followed him from that house they were certainly in trouble. This was a very creepy building, perfect for storing the souls of long dead servants. Hopefully they were all preoccupied in Sherlock's cleansing, and were too busy to follow John around like mud on his shoe.
"Why do you think no one knows the true story?" John asked hesitantly, feeling a bit bad for interrupting the woman while she searched through her records.
"Well no one was allowed near the house! Not a soul alive to tell the real story, or perhaps not a soul willing." The woman said with a chuckle. "What members of that house did talk all told a different story, perhaps purposely."
"And which version do you believe, then?" John wondered. The woman sighed, pausing as she pushed through the folders as she thought of the question.
"I suppose the one told by the daughter of the housemaid, the one who escaped with the son." She admitted finally. That son must be in reference to Sherlock's father, the one who escaped the carnage yet never spoke a word of it again.
"And that is?" John clarified.
"That the man was crazy, that he was a raving lunatic. That he killed every single person in that house, including her mother." the woman admitted quietly, blessing herself as she spoke of the awful tragedy.
"With what motive?" John wondered.
"I'm not a psychic, boy! She didn't say anything past that." the woman growled, finally unearthing a very thick folder from the depths of the cabinet. "Death records, from that day."
"So many." John commented, rather awestruck at the density of the folder. Though it wasn't a surprise, really. If he had killed all of those servants then it was likely to be recorded in some way or another.
"Most of these are speculated, though the names were taken off a proper list. The whole of the serving staff are documented as missing, for no one could tell if they escaped or if they had been killed. No one was allowed inside of the house, not even law enforcement." The woman admitted.
"Because of the mobs?" John presumed.
"Well no, because of the family." The librarian sighed. "They claimed that the culprit had been caught, and by the time the police did force their way inside the house was spotless. One body was recovered, a butler. The rest vanished."
"When you speak of this family, who exactly was it?" John wondered.
"The youngest son, and the mother." the librarian admitted after a thought. "Though she died shortly afterwards."
"What of the daughter?" John asked anxiously, realizing now that Agatha's name had not yet been brought up. A small tingle of fear began to press into him, as something began to feel amiss. Of all the stories he had heard, this seemed to be the most convincing. Yet still no mention of the daughter who was raising her brother's children poorly inside of the house.
"The daughter of the maid?" the woman presumed. John shook his head, snatching the folder from the woman's hands and shuffling through it anxiously, seeing name after name. All of them were familiar, and most all declared missing. Certificates from before he was born, bearing the names of the serving staff he had nearly grown up around. The serving staff who used to be so kind...
"Victor Trevor, yes I know him." John muttered, snatching that one and pushing it off to the side. The librarian busied herself with inspecting it, declaring that he was buried at his family's farm, miles away from where he was killed.
"William Holmes." John said again, pushing that one aside now as he unearthed the final document in the folder. The one bearing the name that was, out of all of them, the most familiar to him.
"Agatha Holmes." He whispered finally, pulling the document and staring at the name typed there in large, bold letters. Agatha Holmes...and so she was dead.
"Oh poor dear. Only six years old." The librarian cooed, looking over John's shoulder at the document that he was inspecting by the poor light of the lamp. He paused for a moment, shaking his head as things began to fall apart once more in his head. These servants, all of them were immortalized at the age they died. None got older, none withered away as they should if they were aging properly. If ghosts aged then Agatha wouldn't be an enigma, for she seemed to be old enough to have lived through such an event. Though if she was classified as six years old on the time of her death...why did she look nearly sixty?
"That's not right." John muttered under his death, scanning the document now, so awestricken that he had nearly forgotten the task at hand.
"Some say he was killing to defend a secret. Others say he was killing because he thought they were plotting against him. He had a sick brain, poor fellow. But the townspeople wouldn't stand for it. Just as soon as they heard the screaming they came for retaliation." The woman muttered, though John was only half listening.
"Yes, yes! William, where did they burry him?" John asked anxiously, snatching up his certificate and looking through it desperately. "Buried on the property. Well that's not very specific, is it!"
"I think the family was the one to cut him down and put him to rest, in the family cemetery." The woman presumed.
"And that would be...?" John insisted.
"Oh I don't know that much. I've never been there myself." She admitted with a little wince, as if the very idea of walking near that house was enough to spook her.
"Well I have, and I've never seen a cemetery." John muttered. "Can I keep these?"
"Those are historical documents, surely I cannot let them leave this building!" the librarian protested, though John was already folding them and tucking them into his jacket pocket. The woman opened her mouth again, though she seemed so shocked that she could hardly get a word out. Certainly no one had ever directly disobeyed her in such an outlandish way. Though John need these, if not for proof to show to his friends then at least for proof to show for the people themselves. If he was going to meet William Holmes tonight, well certainly he would need to explain himself partially. And if Victor was still unaware of his own death, he would need to see the documentation to prove it.
"Like I said, it's terribly urgent. Now if you'll excuse me, thank you so much for your help, but I need to get back." John muttered, nodding his thanks before turning and sprinting off down the rows of books.
"What are you going to do, young man?" the librarian called back to him, her old voice croaking forcefully.
"I'm going to raise the dead!" John admitted finally, and with that he untied his horse and saddled up just as quick as he could, kicking the thing to go faster and faster through the abandoned streets of town. He reached the cottage in about three minutes, a new record for him as far as he could tell. As he slammed through the door Mrs. Hudson came racing down the stairs, obviously having heard the telltale signs of horse's hooves down the drive and came to investigate.
"John, where have you been? All I can hear is screaming, something's happening at the house!" Mrs. Hudson insisted, her face streaked with tears and her face white with fear. She grabbed onto him like a child, though John really didn't have time for comforting. He knew that she was afraid, and he had to admit now that he was allowing fear into his heart as well. Though there was no time for it, just as soon as he let doubt take over his mind they would both be finished! Just as soon as he caved, well there was at least a single life lost, perhaps more!
"I know, I know. It's Sherlock; they've got him tied up." John admitted miserably.
"They what?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, racing to the door and listening again to those screams, just audible now that the night had quieted and the birds had all ceased their singing.
"Agatha's insane; or rather she's not Agatha at all. The servants are all ghosts, Victor Trevor is brainwashing Sherlock to the point of death, and I'm going to dig up William from somewhere in the yard." John admitted finally, pushing past Mrs. Hudson to get a lamp before starting out back into the yard for a shovel.
"John Watson, get back here now!" Mrs. Hudson cried, chasing him out the stone walkway and grabbing him by the back of the collar. "Explain yourself, what is this nonsense? Why is Sherlock being tortured, we should be helping him if nothing at all!"
"I am trying to help him! I broke in today, he's tied to the bed, and all of the servants think he's William! They're too strong, I can't get through to save him, and Victor Trevor is on top of him talking about scrambling his brain!" John exclaimed. "They're all ghosts, and they're going to kill him if I don't move fast!"
"Then walk and talk, but I'm getting an explanation whether you like it or not." Mrs. Hudson insisted.
"Well keep up then!" John insisted, picking up his pace towards the barn to get the tools he needed to dig up a body. Mrs. Hudson did her best; she was basically jogging alongside in her slippers and nightgown, looking quite out of place in the cold grass as she stood outside in the escaping light of the barn. The horses were restless, no doubt because John hadn't fed them their dinner yet. Yet the horses weren't his main concern, they could wait just a night longer. Sherlock...well Sherlock may not even have until morning.
"Yes, we covered the servants, we covered their mistakes...and Victor is a creep. All bases covered now, except for Agatha? And William, you're really not going out there?" Mrs. Hudson whimpered fearfully.
"You know where he's buried?" John clarified, hoisting the shovel and pick onto his back like some sort of want to be miner.
"Yes, oh that horrible graveyard. I never go there, it sends..."
"Where is it?" John interrupted, not having time for any poetry.
"Other side of the property, in the woods behind the house." Mrs. Hudson said finally, to which John nodded anxiously.
"Then that's where we're going!" he exclaimed, letting Mrs. Hudson lead the way (she had now settled into a run) as they headed back towards where the woods stretched up far behind the house.  

"Agatha died when the servants died; I have her death certificate with me! But ghosts don't age; I don't know who she is, or what she's doing with those boys. I don't know if she owns the house, I don't know what her plan is. But Mycroft is brainwashed and Sherlock's captured, so whatever it is I know it's not good." John explained as he ran, to which Mrs. Hudson could only let out deeper breaths of exclamation. She was properly winded as they made their way around the house, listening to the mangled screams of poor Sherlock even closer than before. Though they were left behind, now that they were nearing the darkened woods, the one patch of land on this property that John had never properly explored. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson knew where she was going, though as soon as they hit the edge of the woods she stopped herself and caught her breath, heaving rather dangerously now as she took the lantern and started her way down a very narrow, very overgrown pathway.
"The graves are back here, surely William is among them." Mrs. Hudson presumed, shedding the light around all of the trees and searching for any silhouettes that seemed rather like gravestones.
"I've never been down here before." John admitted quietly, feeling shivers running up and down his spine as he peered through the dim oil light to try to find the graveyard. Honestly dead bodies were the last thing he would want to find in such a place, where the trees were thick and the moon was shining silently. It seemed like the perfect place for a horror novel, though John rather suspected that any author would love to hear and dramatize his story to fit the reader's attention span. This was indeed turning into something of a drama, and even now as he searched through the trees he felt as though his adventure was not over yet. Certainly the worst was yet to come, the climax if you will.
"Here, right here." Mrs. Hudson announced, finally unveiling a handful of very old, very eerie graves tucked behind a rusted iron fence, all twisted out of shape due to the thick overgrowth. The graves themselves were covered in a myriad of different plants and vines, all covered up and crumbling as they were left at the mercy of the elements. Surely no one has been down here taking care of the place, perhaps because no one knew it existed. John pushed through the rusted gate and tore some ivy off of one of the graves, gesturing for the light to be shone upon the engraving. It was nearly impossible to make out any words, and being as though this was the biggest and most impressive stone John had to imagine that a very ancient ancestor was buried beneath his feet. And so he moved on, scratching through the vines to uncover one of the smaller stones in the lot, one which bore the rather recent engraving of Agatha Holmes.
"My God." Mrs. Hudson muttered, blessing herself nervously as she stared upon the very familiar name.
"Like I said, something much bigger than expected is going on here." John muttered, finally unearthing the grave with the name he was looking for, buried in the back of the plot in a lonely and rather isolated grave. Well it served him right, really. No one would want to bury the father so closely to the daughter who died from his own hand.
"Here he is, William." John announced. "Mrs. Hudson, would you mind standing closer to here, with the light?"
"Why exactly are we digging this man up?" she wondered apprehensively, following John into the graveyard with very dainty steps, as if she was very afraid to disturb one of the dead Holmes in their graves. Well that was the point, at least with one of them.
"He's the only one we haven't seen, and most likely the only ghost that can set the record straight. If we can convince the dead that Sherlock's not the enemy, well then surely they'll leave him alone." John muttered, grabbing the shovel off of his back and digging the first little patch of earth. This was going to take a long while, wasn't it?
"That's a very risky plan, John. What if it doesn't work? What if William rises up with murder on his mind?" Mrs. Hudson asked apprehensively, looking rather afraid now that John was disturbing his grave even more.
"Well then, we'll all die together I guess. But at least we'd have tried something; at least we made an effort." John growled, continuing his task with some grunts of effort.