The Mad House

Thankful For The White Wine

For a moment they were quiet, for John turned to pat Rosie on the head in greeting. The baby didn't seem to care much that he had reappeared, and so he turned back to Sherlock and gave him something of a little smile of encouragement. Sherlock nodded, shuffling his feet a bit uncomfortably and turning his gaze back onto Mary, who was just now uncorking a new bottle from the rack.
"So what was this business then, this great trip you went on?" Mary asked as she handed Sherlock a glass, and then one to John. They were quiet as they took their first sips, yet John shortened his appreciation of the flavor so as to be the first to answer.
"We were tallying the salamander populations in the woods. Sherlock's project is on their effects of the salamanders in the soil's chemistry." John explained quickly, happy to have been able to tie such a project back to chemistry after all. That way Sherlock would be a better equipped liar.
"Oh wow, that's...fascinating." Mary managed, although she didn't seem to have another word to describe it. Perhaps she didn't quite understand the connection, or care to explore any farther.
"It shall be more interesting once we finally get out of the woods and into the lab. Biology is your husband's profession, yet I very much prefer substances to creatures. Counting little salamanders...well it's a cross I have to bear all the same." Sherlock admitted with a grin.
"So you're a chemist, then?" Mary presumed.
"Aspiring to be, yes." Sherlock agreed.
"How very distinguished." Mary said with a proud little smile.
"Well I appreciate your enthusiasm. But it's only a distinguished profession in school, I'm afraid. Come my professional years I'm sure I'll be stuck in some run down old lab testing cleaning products." Sherlock admitted with a little huff.
"But as you said before, you'll work your way up. All careers are a pathway, not a permanent position." Mary assured with a little nod.
"Very well put, Mrs. Watson." Sherlock said appreciatively, lifting her glass towards her before taking another sip. John sighed, worried now that his wife might be taking credit for the intellectual in the family. Certainly he couldn't allow Sherlock to prefer her over him. Thankfully the oven beeped just as John was going to open his mouth, and so the conversation was changed all the same. While Mary went to tend on the meal (chicken parmigiana, one of John's personal favorites) Sherlock wandered over to where John was standing, leaning against the counter and observing Rosie with a very curious look on his beautiful face.
"What a very pretty child." Sherlock said, for obviously he didn't really know how else to pay a baby a compliment. The way he stayed back, as if afraid, really demonstrated his inexperience with children in general.
"Well thank you Sherlock. I'm proud to say that I had some input." John said with a little smirk. Sherlock nodded, forcing a little laugh because he wasn't sure what else to say. John cleared his throat a bit shamefully, for he realized now that was something of an obscene joke to make with such a man. John couldn't help but think this whole night was just a very rude way to shove his family into Sherlock's face, Sherlock who might have loved him at one point in their past lives. It was almost rude, really, to force him to come to grips with the fact that he was too late to properly recreate the past. And the way he was acting, around John's wife and child, well it made him wonder constantly what might have been the context of Sherlock's dream this afternoon. He had to wonder if it had anything to do with this failed opportunity. The dinner went just as John might have expected, that is perfectly acceptable yet awkward all the same. He wasn't sure if that feeling of uncomfortableness was present in the whole of the table, yet for him specifically he found it rather difficult to concentrate. He knew that with every word out of Mary's mouth John was afraid she might say something that would embarrass him, whether it be something about his history in America and his fall out with his parents, or instead something more recent, like mishaps with Rosie or the neighbors. And when Sherlock responded back he was afraid that he might mention the house, that a slip of the tongue would lead them down that road, the road with would undoubtedly begin with Mary questioning how Sherlock even knew about the house in the first place. There was a double blind here, presumably. Mary didn't know about Sherlock's involvement with the house, for of course she didn't know there was anything peculiar about the structure at all, and in turn Sherlock didn't know that Mary didn't know. Perhaps he was under the false impression that husbands and wives tell each other everything, but considering that was not the case in this household John could only hope that Sherlock didn't betray him and this great big conspiracy. Mary's knowledge of the house wouldn't corrupt anything of course, but it might just make things more difficult. It might blend these two worlds more than John would have liked, and force his wife to linger a bit too much into his past. He had a feeling the house wouldn't appreciate meddlers, especially if that meddler was the very person who was keeping Sherlock and John apart. If they had a past romance, or even a past life at all, well certainly the house wouldn't like Mary's interference in what might be considered destiny. When finally the dishes were cleared and Sherlock made his compliments to Mary's cooking, John found himself alone in the sitting room with his acquaintance. Well, they weren't entirely alone, for Rosie was crawling about the carpet after having finished her minuscule little bites of chicken. Yet considering she was not a proper witness, John considered himself safe to talk freely. Mary was washing the dishes in the other room (Sherlock offered his assistance, yet Mary insisted that the boys go and talk their professional business), and so it was just the two of them sitting here with their half drained wine glasses. Sherlock was on what was presumably his third glass, for he really didn't want to say no, and Mary didn't like seeing an empty glass at her table. While his cheeks were getting a little bit flustered he didn't appear to be feeling the consequences of such overconsumption, in fact he seemed perfectly calm. They sat here in the calm quiet of the crackling fire, one which was actually a fake fireplace which spewed out heat and the occasional crackling sound effect. Yet it did the trick, enough so that it could set the mood of relaxation.
"Do you think you had all this back then?" Sherlock asked finally, looking towards Rosie as she crawled about on the carpet. John sighed heavily, taking a sip of his wine but sighing in a defeated sort of way.
"I can't say for sure either way. But I have a strong inclination to say no." John admitted.
"Yes, me as well." Sherlock agreed quietly.
"You don't think you had a family?" John wondered.
"Just as you said, I have the strong inclination to say no." Sherlock repeated, forcing a sad little smile before turning his head away. "I don't know what our lives were like after that house, if we ever made it out alive that is. But I can guess that place wasn't made for people who had the capability of families. I don't think it was made for...well I guess people like you."
"Like me? What on earth differs us now?" John asked a bit offensively. Sherlock sighed heavily, setting down his wine glass on the coffee table so as to lean forward onto his knees, almost as if he wished he hadn't said anything along those lines. Evidently this was not a question he was yet prepared to answer.
"Well...well I mean I don't know if you knew this before, like I mean I don't know if you might've guessed at it or not." Sherlock started apprehensively. "But I'm...well I'm gay."
"Yes." John said with a quick blink of his eyes, feeling the color drain out of his face all the same. Well he didn't know if he had known that or not, he didn't know if internally he had settled upon an option. Of course he had speculated it, due primarily to all of these dreams he had been having of their past selves. But that confirmation then made things look a little bit bleaker now, for if Sherlock really did have an interest in men then that was making John's dreams seem all the more realistic.
"You knew?" Sherlock presumed, sounding a little bit apprehensive but relieved all the same. Perhaps he thought that John's preparation would have lessened the blow. He was wrong, for at the moment John felt that breaths were coming quite difficulty, and his expression must have at least displayed some sort of worry.
"I did." John agreed, although he wasn't entirely sure if that was a lie or not. Sherlock nodded, yet a bit of an awkward silence persisted between them. Thankfully Sherlock found it within himself to continue on, for he was going somewhere with this argument. John couldn't think of a thing to say, and he was still nodding at regular intervals, feeling his knees become clammy and his grip tighten on his wine glass. But he wasn't afraid; no he wasn't afraid of Sherlock one bit. He was more afraid of himself, and what this confession might do to that little voice in the back of his head, the one who might dare to say that it was okay now.
"Good. Well, like I was saying, I feel as though that house catered more to, well to people like me. I told you that I had a dream this afternoon, something that felt so real? Almost like it had happened before?" Sherlock pointed out. John nodded, although he wasn't entirely sure he had heard everything Sherlock just said. He was still rather caught up on his previous confession, all the while Sherlock didn't seem to think that it was a big deal. Why did John have to lie, just to make himself look a little bit more observant? If he had admitted to not knowing a thing about Sherlock's love life then he might've had more time to process, and would be following Sherlock's words instead of just staring at his lips while they moved and formed syllables. Those lips that may have been kissed by men, those lips that wouldn't all together protest if John just leaned over now, and...
"You're following?" Sherlock clarified, obviously noticing now John's rather glassy stare.
"Sorry, no I'm just...no what were you saying?" John asked again.
"I said I had a dream, this afternoon. I think the house fed me that dream, but I saw myself with a man." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"Who?" John asked anxiously, now suddenly very interested in what Sherlock had to say. He could almost hear it now, Sherlock's final confession, as that one single word rolled off of his tongue, the one word John was expecting...you.
"I don't know." Sherlock admitted, to which John felt his shoulders shrug in disappointment. "But it was much too racy for me, I mean it was...when I say with a man I quite literally mean with."
"Sleeping with him?" John presumed, to which Sherlock's face went really quite red.
"Yes." Sherlock admitted quietly. "But I simply mean to defend my original point; I'm not quite sure what purpose that house served. But I know it was no host for anyone with the capabilities of producing a family. I could hardly imagine there was a single woman who ever stepped foot inside, save for the maids."
"You're saying it was like some sort of...some sort of brothel for men?" John presumed.
"Not just that, no there may have been something more dignified. Maybe I had loved that man, maybe we had a relationship. But there was something incredibly crude in the act. Something that made it seem like...like there was no real meaning in it at all." Sherlock admitted quietly.
"That's upsetting." John admitted quietly.
"Well yes, but it makes me wonder what you were doing there at all." Sherlock admitted finally.
"Me? Well you never know, Sherlock, I mean what my past life was like. You never know that I don't have the capabilities of loving men." John defended, feeling rather offended that Sherlock could count him out without a single thought. Sherlock merely blinked, for obviously he picked up on John's immediate (and rather angry) offensive tone.
"I mean no offense, Mr. Watson. Only that you're married now, to a woman, and I could only imagine that sexualities rather come along with the soul. If we really are the same people then..."
"I could be bisexual." John offered. Sherlock nodded slowly, looking now very confused.
"Yes, are you?" Sherlock asked. John took a shuttering little breath, taking a sip of wine with an uncomfortable little jump.
"I don't know!" he exclaimed. "I don't know! God Sherlock, you expect me to know every crevice of my own soul, every little whim of this overactive heart of mine? Who knows what I liked then, who knows what I like now! It's just rather offensive that you don't seem to imagine me having the capabilities to be open minded!"
"I'm not saying your close minded at all, I'm just suggesting theories!" Sherlock defended.
"Well your theories are ridiculous! That house wasn't just a cesspool for homosexuals; it was something more than that! Just because there was one pair of you doesn't mean the whole house was lining up waiting for their turn in your bed!" John exclaimed in a shaking voice, feeling as if he was rather losing control of his words and body. He felt as though he had no other choice but to burst out into a fit of anger, simply because he felt as though anyone who was not so conflicted as he would see Sherlock's theory as a personal insult. Surely any married man would jump with claws raised at anyone who might suggest they were gay? Is that not what he was now expected to do?
"John, I'm not saying that everyone was with me, I'm merely..."
"Well that's not even an argument that we have to have, is it Sherlock?" John asked with something of a little wince. "That's a question that's already been answered!"
"What question?" Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowing now in some sort of offense, as if he found John's new wild mannerisms to be rather insulting.
"That you were a slut." John growled, releasing now a little maniacal laugh. Sherlock got to his feet immediately, his jaw dropping in defense, now looking ready to smack John across the face in his defense.
"Don't you dare use those kinds of words with me!" Sherlock exclaimed. John laughed again, laughing with his own madness. He knew that he had to stop; he knew that he had to stop talking now. Yet just as anxious as he was to burst into tears and apologize, there was another part of him that was rising up in anger, trying to ensure that he wasn't the only one in this room who felt disgraced. So he got to his feet as well, knowing full well that he didn't have it within his power to stare Sherlock into the eyes, yet knowing just the same that it was worth a shot to try.
"Well it's true, ya? It's true! You saw that photograph, well as I. Who knows who was behind the camera, who knows who was watching? Who knows just how many men held that picture in their hands and filled their pockets with coins so as to have the pleasure of your company?" John growled.
"Are you calling me a prostitute?" Sherlock growled.
"You're not the only one with dreams, Sherlock. Not the only one." John pointed out. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, taking a defensive step forward, his face now so flushed in anger that he looked as though he might burst. Yet just as he opened his mouth, just as he poised that accusing finger...
"Now what is all this yelling about in here? Really one would think you were having an argument..." Mary's voice trailed away when she finally saw the state the men had been left in, standing now about ready to get in a fist fight. Mary gasped, putting her hands over her heart so as to make obvious her drastic surprise.
"Mrs. Watson, I'm sorry for my rudeness." Sherlock said finally, standing up straight once more and pulling his jacket tightly across his chest. "But really I must be going."
"Sherlock I do hope my husband hasn't been upsetting you!" Mary exclaimed in some shock.
"I've only been telling him things he already ought to know." John grumbled.
"Mr. Watson, I thank you for your hospitality. And for your...enlightening conversation." Sherlock grumbled. John stared at him, stared with that madness in his eyes, that little smile curling about his lips as if daring Sherlock to say another word.
"Oh we were so ever grateful to have you." John said with a little grin. "I'm sure everyone was grateful to have you."
"And I'm sure everyone here is grateful that we have been drinking white wine tonight." Sherlock agreed.
"Why ever would we..." Mary was cut off when Sherlock picked up his glass, gave a quick toast to the hostess, and proceeded without any hesitation to splash whatever was left in the glass directly into John's face. Mary gasped; all the while John could do nothing but spit and seethe in his anger.
"That's the last time you'll ever disrespect me like that, Professor. And it's most certainly the last time I try to help you in any of this. You're on your own from this point forward." Sherlock growled, and with that he stormed out of the room, not waiting for a goodbye out of his host because he knew that he would not get one. Mary rushed to escort Sherlock away (he hadn't exactly planned his lack of transportation accordingly, for he couldn't have the last laugh if he had to ask for a ride home) yet John stayed put. He didn't care how Sherlock was getting home; he didn't care about any of it. For right as soon as that boy disappeared from his vision he gave a great cry, feeling all of the anger leave his body so quickly that he became light headed, and with a little gasp he fell back onto the couch in a cold faint.