The Madness Was A Man

Different Men, Same Crimes

"It's not your house, Agatha. Dare I call you that." John growled, to which the woman blinked with some surprise. As if wondering how John could ever have discovered her age old secret.
"You've had Sherlock tied up for two days?" Mycroft interrupted, turning his black eyes on that woman and staring at her with an inexcusable and unescapable stare. As if he was staring deep into her soul, and only now realizing just how rotten it was. He didn't seem to care much about the woman's identity, no it seemed as though her abuse of his brother was more keenly on his mind.
"Boys I will not tolerate this behavior. Watson, you are dismissed from my service. And Mycroft, get into your room before I tie you up as well!" Agatha demanded, trying to regain her control over what she could only deem her subjects. She looked nervous, her finger trembled as it pointed towards them, trying to cling to whatever fear tactics she still possessed. And yet as she stood there, looking so pathetic even in her own house, well John realized that he didn't feel a lick of fear. He didn't care about his job, or his reputation...no he didn't even care about his life. Revenge, oh that was what was on his mind. Revenge...and he wanted it to be sweet.
"You're not Agatha, you never have been. She's dead, in the cemetery. She's been dead for fifty years, died at the hands of her father. And so, stranger, I ask who are you?" John growled, stepping in on Agatha and sending the woman stumbling away from him, clutching onto the banister of the staircase as her heels hung off the topmost stair, clinging to balance while not wanting to cower away.
"I am not answering you, these are ridiculous accusations! Mycroft, Mycroft please explain to him, explain that..."
"I saw the death certificate; my Aunt has been dead this whole time. Answer John's question!" Mycroft growled, swooping in up next to where John stood poised and ready to strike, feeling all of the anger that had been pent up inside of him just now beginning to bubble. All those years of abuse, and all these weeks of ill treatment. The woman's hatred for the lower class, the woman's despise of abnormal love...perhaps it was necessary for her to pay the ultimate price. Perhaps it was necessary that she lose her life where she was meant to, and let her blood spill over the floorboards that already held uncountable tragedies.
"I'm...I'm not answering to you. To either of you. You have no power in this house, in my house!" the woman exclaimed, though she didn't sound too confident in her own answer. She claimed they had no power, yet she seemed afraid all the same.
"I'm not afraid to hurt a woman." John warned. "Not when a woman has done unspeakable things, terrible things to the people I love the most."
"I have done no such thing!" Agatha screamed, her entire body wracking with the effort. As if she was trying to force her desperation into her words, and it was taking all of her might just to keep herself from exploding. Her castle was crumbling, her reign was ending. She could feel it.
"Keeping the house under a spell, keeping the ghosts under your command...tethering them no doubt. Making them do your bidding." John growled.
"There is no such thing as..." Agatha (or whoever she was) didn't get to finish her sentence. She didn't even get a chance to realize what was happening, for she was just as shocked as the rest of them when a figure barreled past, a dark shadow of a thin and sickly boy, pushing what little weight he had into that woman's chest and sending her tumbling backwards down the wooden staircase, falling with a scream and a sickening thud before gravity was able to drag her all the way down to the first landing. Sherlock stumbled himself, teetering over the edge and threatening to join that mysterious woman before Mycroft clutched onto him, grabbing his arm and pulling him into his embrace desperately.
"Sherlock." Mycroft breathed, holding the boy like a child now as Sherlock cowered into his chest, whimpering as if the consequences of his actions were just now beginning to surface. John, on the other hand, ran to the aid of the woman who was lying sputtering on the first landing, pooling in a puddle of her own blood and opening and closing her lips as if she couldn't find a word to say. He felt no pity, yet he cared about answers now, more than he did about his revenge.
"Who are you?" John demanded, kneeling over the woman and tilting her head forward, allowing her to cough up any of the blood that may have been choking her. The head which was once held tall and proud was now shattered, bleeding at a rate which could of course lead to one thing. No doctor could get here in time, and no one in this house would care enough to save her.
"Clara..." she breathed desperately, coughing and spluttering over her white nightgown, now stained red. "Clara Davenport."
"Your mother...she was a maid?" John presumed, just now remembering the story the librarian had told him, the one of the girl who had escaped the carnage with the son, Sherlock's father.
"She was killed. Killed by a Holmes..." the woman snarled, still looking angry even as she bled out on the stairs. John shook her, seeing now that her old eyelids were fluttering shut, she was giving up. She didn't care to live any longer.
"You wanted revenge?" John guessed urgently, trying to find out all he could through the only woman left who could provide him with answers. She was the only one alive her had the story, and if he let her die without knowing the truth they would forever live with a question, the entire time spent here in this house as just a big, confusing blur.
"I wanted justice for the world. William...he was seen. Seen with that horrible butler, and the gossip spread through the servants hall." She managed, pausing with a cough all the while she shuttered under her ghostly pale skin. She looked unable to go on much longer, yet John needed for an explanation, he needed the true story! "He killed them all, it was his interrogation process."
"He wanted his love to be kept a secret." John realized finally. "And so he killed them all, to keep it that way."
"It's a disgrace! For the name of Holmes, a name my family had served for years!" she groaned.
"Why raise the boys, why keep them here? Why pretend?" John growled. Agatha managed a smile, even through her bloodied teeth she managed to look just a tad bit pleased. As if she still thought her life work was noble, despite her evil ways and her trickery.
"To cleanse them." she said simply, though her words were becoming more like gurgles. "To ensure they never turned out...never turned out like him."
"Well you failed." John told her, trying his best now to wipe that smile off of her face. "You failed, you hear me? Sherlock loves me, I love him! He's loved me for weeks now, and you could do nothing about it! You couldn't cleanse him, you couldn't change him! He's mine, you hear me? He's MINE!" Though he wasn't entirely sure she heard any of it, in fact the smile didn't move at all. The blood began to pour from the gaps between her white teeth, her body gave a final shutter and then relaxed, falling to the ground in a motionless heap. The blood began to puddle and collect, pooling now from the still body who never realized it had failed. And so John pushed it away, letting the corpse tumble down some more stairs as he shook his head, trying to clear his brain before he had to be back to action. Before he had to come to the aid of the one person who mattered now, and the only living murder who stood among them. True to the Holmes name, no doubt. Resembling his grandfather now not only in looks, but actions as well.