The Madness Was A Man

They've Known For Centuries

"Oh...oh dear!" she exclaimed, dropping the lamp in fear as she set eyes on the ghost of William Holmes, now clutching to John's hand with both of his own, as if afraid now of breaking and entering.
"Mrs. Hudson, do you have a key?" John asked anxiously, not even bothering to introduce the two.
"John is that William?" the woman managed, in a voice so small that it hardly carried across the yard.
"Yes, it's him, but we can't get in!" John exclaimed.
"I have it, I have it!" Mrs. Hudson assured, walking very nervously as she pulled a large brass key from her pocket. She didn't want to come any closer than about ten feet, and so she threw it to John's free hand from where she stood, a good and safe distance away from the dead.
"Pleasure to meet you sir." She managed, though after a moment she found the need to still herself against the house, as if this was all becoming too much. John was worried that she might faint, yet there was nothing he could do about that now. There was only one thing within his power, and that was to save Sherlock Holmes once and for all.
"I'll see you when this is over." John promised her, and with that he forced the key into the lock and turned the knob, opening up the door to reveal the darkened Holmes house. Nothing stirred, yet John hadn't expected a welcome wagon. Any second someone would be drawn to the noise, yet he could only hope he got William up to the second floor in time. Once the ghosts saw him they would turn their attention to him, hopefully long enough for John to sneak around them and free Sherlock from his bonds.
"My home." William whispered, standing for a moment in the doorway and holding John back from climbing the stairs. Tear drops were forming in the corners of his eyes as he stared about the darkened rooms, those that were once so familiar to him when he was alive.
"Yes, I know. But we haven't got time for that, come on, second floor!" John insisted. "Victor's waiting so impatiently!"
"Victor, yes! Victor." William agreed, mounting the stairs just beside John and following him as quickly as he could manage with wobbling limbs. They moved at a snail's pace, though the man's footfalls were loud enough to wake the whole house in no time. Soon Mycroft would be roused, and Agatha would come prowling...though that was not her real name, was it? And so, along with her title, her power was just an illusion as well. She had no control here, and her repercussions could be ignored just as easily. Finally they climbed the stairs, finding that Sherlock's bedroom door was closed once again, and the hallway empty. The servants must be inside, that or they had dissipated to their own quarters for the night. Either way, this was the last chance. If John's plan didn't work then he would be forced to accept his failure, and die alongside of Sherlock at the hands of the ghosts who tormented him.
"The second door here, come on. Almost there, he's through here." John whispered, eyeing Mycroft's closed door apprehensively. He knew that the man would be woken easily, yet his alliances were still not clear. He should be here to help his brother, not to go along with Victor and Agatha's plans? He should be a big brother, not a jailer!
"This was my room." William managed in a very euphoric sort of way, as if reminiscing all the wonderful times he had behind that closed door.
"Yes, very nice." John muttered, pushing open the door and yanking his hand away from William's. It was just in time, too, for just as soon as the door swung open the eyes of the entire serving staff turned onto them once more. John rushed into the room, finding as he had hoped that the dead were completely preoccupied with their new guest. The ghost stood in the doorway fearfully, shaking now with the task of having to stare down each and every one of his murdered companions. Each and every one of his victims. Yet no one moved, no one except John as he slipped around the walls in an attempt to get closer to where Sherlock was lying. The boy was still, pale as a ghost, and completely unmoving. John couldn't see if he was dead or not, he couldn't determine yet whether his chest was rising or falling.
"William." Breathed the first voice, the voice which had been so hostile before. A voice which was now spoken like an angel's breath, so sweet and passionate that John couldn't place it to that accursed butler. "That can't be you." Victor clarified, pushing through the stone still servants as he moved closer to the ghost who lingered apprehensively in the doorway.
"Victor!" William exclaimed, hobbling forward yet stopping himself, unsure if it would be polite now to jump upon his long dead lover. John didn't care, he wasn't paying attention. Just as soon as the two reunited he pounced to where Sherlock was lying unguarded on the bed, jumping up next to him and patting his face urgently, slapping at his soft pale skin in an attempt to wake him from whatever sleep he had fallen into.
"Sherlock, Sherlock!" John screamed, holding the boy's face between his hands and pressing his ear to his heart, straining to hear a beat, trying to hear anything that would allow him to still be alive. For a moment there was silence, and then at last just the faintest little twitch. John didn't know if that was a heartbeat or merely his own breath, though he took it as a good sign, he took it as a promise for hope.
"Sherlock wake up." John whispered, untying one of Sherlock's arms just as fast as his fingers would allow him and yanking it down to the boy's side. A change of position might be enough to make his eyes open.
"I thought you had left us, I thought they had claimed you in Hell." Victor was saying, moving through the servants in some state of shock, all the while William in all of his deformed glory was standing and waiting for the approach. He was too afraid to make the first move, not in front of all of these witnesses. He was still stuck with the mindset that his relationship as secret, and that he was as innocent as a lamb in the eyes of these servants. He didn't want to make the first move; he didn't want to make a wrong impression... John managed the second hand, tucking it neatly against Sherlock's side as he pressed his ear upon his chest once more, this time hearing something that may be more convincingly a heartbeat. It was a small, faint thud, enough to make John go for the feet now, with the hope that they might still be able to walk.
"Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?" John exclaimed, slapping at his face once more, allowing his tears to splatter down Sherlock's cheeks as he hovered just overtop of his motionless body.
"I was lost...I was lost." William admitted in his broken voice, cowering closer to the butler who had stopped just short of him, just inches away. They stared at each other for a long moment, all the eyes settled on their emotional scene. Everyone was distracted except John, who threw away the last of Sherlock's bonds and picked him up into his arms, holding his still body against his chest in an effort to get the heart beating faster, to get the breath coming quicker...
"I was waiting for you. I was looking for you..." Victor admitted, raising his hands nervously to William's face, where it stood lopsided to where it used to be. Victor didn't seem to mind the rearranging, though William rather cowered away from his touch.
"They'll know." William warned, staring past Victor and to where the servants were watching unblinkingly, not a single man or woman twitching a muscle. They seemed fixated on the moment, though it was also possible that they were merely obsessed with the man who stood there, the man who had taken their lives all those years ago. Though whatever anger they may still harbor, they kept it back. Perhaps Victor was their leader; perhaps they did what he allowed them to do. And despite William's murderous rampage, well they were still in love after all of these years. Victor could forgive him, evidently.
"They've known for centuries now, William." Victor assured gently. "They've known forever."
"It's so good to see you." William exclaimed, his voice breaking off into a sob, and then breaking off into a kiss. Victor's lips found his own, and with a gasp William received him...and with a gasp Sherlock awoke.
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, pulling the boy's head up off of the bed and holding him thankfully in his arms, unable just how to process that state of relief that washed over his entire body. Oh, his Sherlock was alive. His Sherlock was breathing again. Though Sherlock didn't seem to realize what was happening, he didn't all together realize that the hands holding him were safe ones. He didn't realize that his arms were untied, and that he was free to move away. Instead of falling deep into John's embrace the boy just began to scream once more, shaking and twitching as if he was not in control of his body, nor any of his muscles.
"Sherlock calm down, calm down." John breathed, holding him even closer and trying to collect as much of him as he could into his arms. Perhaps if Sherlock felt the safety of his embrace then he would stop panicking. The biggest of John's concerns was Sherlock's waking the house, which honestly it was a miracle they still slept. Perhaps Mycroft had gone deaf, that or he had grown used to the screeching by now. Maybe he put in ear plugs, so as to avoid the sounds of his brother's pain. The ghosts were another concern, for perhaps as soon as they realized Sherlock had been released they would turn again on him and attack. Then again, perhaps they had grown uninterested with the flesh and bone Holmes. Perhaps they had grown to care only about their true murderer, the one who had cut them down many years before. John attempted to stroke Sherlock's back, to calm him in the only way he knew how. He kissed his forehead, he said soft words into his ear...and yet still the screaming persisted. Still Sherlock could not find the strength to calm down. He must have been delirious, then. He must still be in a sense of danger, unaware that he had suddenly been saved. He didn't understand that this was a rescue; he only seemed to feel the fear. And so John had to relocate him, somehow he had to sneak by the ghosts and the humans so as to get this boy safely to the cottage without interruption. The untying was the easy part...the escape would be where the trouble began. John looked towards the servants once more, finding that Victor and William were locked in their long awaited embrace, completely distracted by the other to notice that their captive was being moved. The servants didn't seem to move, their eyes were glassy and they were staring at the couple as if captivated. That, or they were simply dormant. Waiting for orders that would not arrive just yet. And so John would have to manage. He picked Sherlock up in his arms in something of a bridal style, admittedly concerned with just how light he felt. The boy had not gotten anything to eat or drink for as long as he had been held captive, and that coupled with the increased stress must have burned through all of his available calories. He was thin as a stick, and hardly weighed anything as John heaved him into his arms and started towards the door as quickly as he could manage. All the way Sherlock squirmed and screamed, though John had a tight grip and a determined mindset. Sherlock could fight all he wanted, yet if John didn't give in, if he didn't give up, the boy would be safe and sound in no time. All he had to do was persist. And so he held tight, holding fast to Sherlock's struggling body as he moved through the servants, those who were so preoccupied that John might have been able to push them each down like toy soldiers. They didn't even turn an eye, they didn't even notice! And the love birds were properly engulfed in each other, now off to the wall where they were kissing in a very violent yet overdue sort of way. They didn't care, they didn't notice, and so John darted with Sherlock in his arms out into the hallway, pausing only to kick the door shut and forget for now about the ghosts of Holmes past, present, and future. Yet just as soon as they crossed into the hallway Sherlock let his scream magnify, he let out such a blood curling shriek, almost as if he thought it was John who was trying to kill him. And with a great toss he managed to wriggle out of John's arms, falling to the floor with a loud thud. Well it was no surprise that moments afterwards, just as John was trying to scoop the boy back into his arms, that Mycroft arrived. The door flung open, yet the anger that had once been in the boy's eyes was missing. Instead he looked merely confused, as if he had no idea why Sherlock had fallen into such a manic episode, and why John was scrambling after him without having any control over the situation.
"John, what on earth are you doing?" Mycroft scowled, stepping in to pull John aside from his scrambling brother, almost as if he was finally coming to the boy's aid after a long two days of screaming a struggling. At last perhaps he now cared about Sherlock's life.
"Trying to get him out of here!" John explained shortly, though Sherlock had taken to crawling back to his bedroom door, and was now cowering against the banister opposite.
"Sherlock, Sherlock you look ill!" Mycroft exclaimed, racing to his brother's side to which the boy merely hissed, swatting him away like an annoying fly and crawling away desperately. If John wasn't mistaken, it would seem that Sherlock wanted to be back in captivity. He looked afraid, yet more of them now than anything else.
"He is! Mycroft where have you been for the past two days? He's been tied to his bed, guarded by ghosts!" John growled, pulling the idiot man away from his brother so they could at last think rationally.
"He what?" Mycroft spat. "John you're talking in riddles."
"You've been brainwashed, or something of the sort. You've been put under a spell, this whole house has! And it's Agatha's fault, that horrible witch." John growled.
"Agatha has been nothing but helpful to us! She took us in when we were..."
"Mighty helpful, is Agatha Holmes, considering she's been dead for fifty years!" John exclaimed, ripping the death certificates out of his pocket and presenting them to Mycroft in a frenzy. "Long story short, we've got to get him out of here."
"This can't be right." Mycroft breathed, staring at the death certificate with his eyes opened wide, his face paling. "No...no she's not done us any harm!"
"It's right, she's not who she says she is. Now hurry up, or she'll catch us before we can get Sherlock out of here." John growled, snatching back the papers before they fell from Mycroft's trembling hands. He looked down the stairs now, as if searching for the woman of the house and wondering exactly what sort of life he had been living up until now. As if he was looking back on their time spent in this house, now with a very cynical tint. He seemed delirious, which any one would be if they had missed two days of their life.
"He's been tied up?" Mycroft clarified with a breath, looking back upon his starving brother, that poor frame of a boy who was clinging harder to the banister than he was to life. Sherlock was trembling, so sickly and pale, and yet he didn't seem to understand that there were people here to save him. He wanted to crawl back to his prison, though for the moment he was just clinging to the railing, his fingers clenched tight against the wood as he tried to decide which path to pursue. Perhaps he was under a spell as well?
"Yes, and kept under guard by Victor and your undead servant army." John growled, wondering what sort of magic these ghosts possessed to make a caring brother so painfully absentminded.
"That makes no sense." Mycroft admitted quietly, shaking his head though figuring there was nothing he could do about the past. He only had the power to influence the present, and therefore make the future brighter.
"It doesn't have to make sense, but that doesn't matter. What we have to do now is get him out of here." John insisted, turning back to Sherlock and daring a step forward. The boy trembled, his beautiful eyes staring so blankly up at John, eyes that shone with no light at all. Eyes that were just as lost as those of the ghosts. Perhaps Sherlock was dead...perhaps he wasn't even here at all. Not in the flesh.
"Yes, yes. Get him out before..." Mycroft silenced himself, for they both heard the undeniable sound of a barrier coming down on their escape. They both heard the telltale sign that their night had gotten a lot more complicated. The opening of a door, and the soft patter off feet ascending the stairs. Just as soon as Agatha's presence was known Sherlock began to scream once more, though in fear or as a cry for help they really couldn't tell. Maybe he thought she of all people was here to help him, though in reality her only purpose was to thwart his only chance at survival. Her only purpose now was to prevent his saviors from going far.
"John Watson, what do you think you are doing in my house!" Agatha exclaimed, standing tall and wide between the boys and their only method of escape. She appeared like a specter, rising above the stairwell and draped in a white nightgown, contrasting now the darkness of the house like some angelic presence. The staircase was blocked, and now the only way out was through a window, if they were daring and clever enough to escape with an invalid from the second floor. John didn't know whether to be more or less frightened of the woman now that he knew that she was false, just a pretender dressing up as a distinguished lady from a respectable house. Yet with her power gone she had no restrictions, no guidelines nor reputations to uphold. Now that he knew hers was not the name of Holmes, well then she was limitless and lawless. She was lethal.