Just as soon as dinner was over, Mycroft confronted Sherlock in the hallway, nearly dragging him off to a more private area where their interrogation could not so easily be heard.
"Why the sudden interest in Ms. Adler?" Mycroft wondered, keeping his brother up against one of the large clocks to ensure that he didn't squirm away from this interrogation.
"No interest in her, certainly. Just what she can do for me." Sherlock admitted finally.
"Such as...?" Mycroft muttered, his face getting rather red as he tried to figure out what sort of things Sherlock had in mind.
"Such as the answers about this house that I've been looking for. She knew more about our family's history than either of us do, and I want her to help me find the solid truth." Sherlock said flatly. Mycroft looked a bit disgusted, as if the idea of investigation was not very appealing to him.
"Why on earth would you care about that? It'll only scare you more; best leave the history behind us." Mycroft muttered. Sherlock sighed, wondering if he might divulge yet another secret to his brother's unwilling ear. Yet he figured the hallucinations were not something to scare the poor man with, as neither of them could do anything about the, and both knew just where they led. No, it would scare Mycroft too much; he would feel powerless and afraid to lose another family member to the disease that was inside of their heads. It was better not to bother him, for his own sake.
"Well I'm just curious, that's all." Sherlock muttered with a forced little smile. "It's our own history, might as well learn a little bit about ourselves while we've still got a chance."
"I don't think meddling is a good idea at all." Mycroft muttered.
"Good thing I didn't ask for permission then." Sherlock said with a grin, to which Mycroft merely gave him a very disappointed stare. Yet he released his little prison, stepping away and letting Sherlock sneak by without another word. Sherlock didn't want to linger for some more chatting, especially not when every second held the opportunity for Mycroft to ask a question Sherlock couldn't answer without a lie. And so he snuck up to his bedroom, sitting down atop his blankets and waiting for nightfall to arrive so that he could finally sneak out the window and tell John all about his new problems, as well as his new plan to fix them. For a moment Sherlock stared at the picture of his grandfather, where it still sat under his dresser, staring at him for the longest time. The picture was very old, yet the resemblance shocked him every time. They looked almost identical, close enough for a ghost to get confused at least. As soon as Sherlock spoke his theory out loud he knew that he was onto something, if not the whole truth than at least a fraction of it. That nightly visitor had to be a ghost, it had to be someone coming back from the days of Sherlock's grandfather, here either to avenge himself or to continue where he had left off. Who knows, maybe he didn't even know he was dead? And if he was indeed confused, that meant that Sherlock's grandfather had been having an affair, which would make the most sense as of now. Well certainly it could've been possible; certainly a beautiful butler would tempt any man, from whichever century. And if Sherlock had anything in common with his relative at all, well then mere temptation might have turned into a rather passionate love. Yet what happened after that, after love turned to anger, and anger turned to vengeance? Why did the butler end up dead, if he had been so intimate with the man of the house? There must have been a threat, blackmail perhaps, or maybe his death had been a desperate attempt to get rid of anyone who might be able to squeal. Mr. Holmes was a married man, with two children. If he was arrested they would go hungry, yet if he was caught they might leave him...certainly a fate worse than death. And so maybe he was protecting himself and his family by murdering his lover, so as to cover his tracks and start fresh. Oh but that was just one of many possibilities, perhaps the more scandalous and interesting of the bunch. There were so many less glamorous choices, like some bout of nasty fever, or a drowning in the pond, or even a suicide! Maybe this ghost's interest in Sherlock was just a coincidence, and he hadn't even known his grandfather. Maybe this ghost died two hundred years ago in the house by some freak accident, and never got any news coverage as a result? Or maybe he wasn't a ghost at all; maybe he was never even alive. Maybe he was just inside of Sherlock's head, a delusion that had festered and a longing wish that had been granted by the maddened section of his brain. Maybe none of this was real, and Sherlock was just so sick that he couldn't tell reality and fantasy apart any longer. Sherlock was happy to interrupt his pondering when at last it was time to escape down the rope, scooting expertly down the wall as he had already done many times before. He sprinted quickly across the grass, betrayed as usual by the light of the lamp, yet finally made it to the cottage without too much of a fuss. When he knocked on the door he found that it was unlocked, and so he let himself inside and up the stairs to John's room, as was their usual procedure these days. It hadn't been long since their original confessions, yet each night had been spent in each other's presence whether it was romantic or just silly discussions. Their days were still forbidden, and so their meetings must be kept secret by the Lady of the house, yet they couldn't stay apart for long. In fact they were practically inseparable as soon as the sun went down. Sherlock let himself into John's room, finding the boy seated at his desk and going over the alphabet with one of Sherlock's elegant quill pens.
"Sherlock! You're early tonight; usually you don't happen in until eleven!" John exclaimed, getting to his feet in his enthusiasm.
"Yes well, I'd rather speak my thoughts than think about them on my own. They're growing more troubling by the hour." Sherlock admitted bleakly, allowing John to walk over and press a quick kiss of greeting onto his lips. Yet Sherlock was not in the mood for romance (which was hardly ever the case, mind you), in fact he was much too worked up about his ghost friend and the problems he presented. John sensed that something was wrong, for just as soon as he pulled their lips apart he let his arms dangle around Sherlock's neck, looking into his face with that everlasting motherly concern.
"What's wrong Sherlock?" John muttered, patting Sherlock's cheek before finally drawing away and letting Sherlock have his space. The boy sighed heavily, sinking down onto John's bed before at last sprawling onto his back and staring miserably up at the ceiling. John stayed standing, for obviously he was unsure if this was some dramatic act or rather a serious issue that needed to be addressed.
"John, I'm going mad." Sherlock announced finally.
"Surely you're not." John muttered in reply, sitting down next to Sherlock and rather prodding him in the stomach in an attempt to cheer him up. Well of course that got Sherlock to giggle, but just as soon as the giggle had escaped his lips a frown reappeared.
"I saw blood all over the floor when I got back; I was running down the hallway and when Mycroft found me I was spewing nonsense, asking who was killed, what had happened..." Sherlock let his voice trail away, shaking his head in defeat. "I was convinced of it John, it was there!"
"You were probably just tired, or maybe your eyes were playing tricks!" John suggested with a shrug.
"No, nothing of the sort. I've seen too many things to blame it on mere coincidences, not when so many before me had fallen prey to their own imaginations. I'm getting sick, I know it. I feel it." Sherlock announced miserably. John finally lay down beside him, turning his face so that they could stare each other in the face once more, so that Sherlock could see the dedication and the cool stability that lingered within John's kind eyes.
"Even if you are victim to your mind, you can't let yourself accept it. If you have to fight back against yourself, well the first thing you need is a positive attitude." John insisted. Sherlock allowed himself a small laugh, for those words mirrored that of any rambunctious school teacher, one who thought a smile could cure all. Oh how matronly John was in times of emergency!
"Spoken like someone who really doesn't have a clue what to do." Sherlock commented, to which John merely frowned, running his fingers along Sherlock's hairline in the most comforting way he could manage.
"I haven't got a clue, I admit it. But I have no interest in letting you go mad." John admitted with a little smile.
"Me neither, in fact I've asked Irene Adler to join us sometime soon." Sherlock muttered, to which John's face fell into a look of major concern. Certainly that name meant competition, and while he shouldn't worried about a miserable rich girl taking his place he still seemed just a tad bit worried about the motive behind her summoning. "Don't worry John; I don't have any interest in her at all. But when she was here she spoke about my family's history, she seemed to know so much more about it than anyone else. Most importantly she seemed to know fact from fiction, and that's just what I need. If I want to figure out what's wrong with my head, well first I need to find out what was wrong with my grandfather...and what happened next."
"Must you dwell in the morbid? Why not research sunshine, and daisies?" John suggested.
"Because that won't get me any closer to finding out how to beat this thing. I've seen my father degrade; I've seen him spiral into madness he couldn't control. He probably saw the signs and did nothing, but not me. I'm going to fight back; I'm going to defend my sanity. I have so much to lose now that I finally found a purpose in life." Sherlock insisted, letting his fingers creep up and trap John's underneath, pressing them up against his cheek with the intentions of making them stay a little longer. John smiled, running his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip, as if presuming that he wanted a kiss more than anything else right now. Well he would presume right, of course.
"A purpose in life, hm?" John muttered. "And what might that be?"
"Astronomy." Sherlock teased. "And the strongest desire to make my Aunt proud of me."
"Sounds reasonable." John muttered, rolling over now so that he could pin Sherlock underneath him, holding onto his face still, so as to command his undivided attention. Then again, Sherlock could never look away when John's eyes began to sparkle, and when his legs were pressed so tightly around his torso.
"Let's see what you've learned in the past couple of days, Sherlock." John whispered, leaning over ever so slightly to press a kiss onto Sherlock's neck, a very quick and gentle one that made Sherlock's skin turn hot and numb, his lips parting in anticipation.
"What I've learned?" Sherlock muttered curiously. John nodded, sitting back up once more and allowing their eyes to meet.
"What does it mean, when someone pins you to a bed?" John asked quietly, allowing his fingers now to undo the first button on Sherlock's shirt, more for play than anything else. Sherlock sighed, allowing himself now to melt at John's touch, allowing his heart to race as fast as it would like to.
"It means they want to make love to you." Sherlock recited, the very same answer that was granted to him in the days where they were too afraid to touch each other, too afraid of their own intentions to consider the other's just as eager heart.
"Correct." John agreed, descending now so as to trap Sherlock's lips within his own, therefore initiating what might be considered more maddening than any hallucination a mind could create. Perhaps this was what started it all, the forbidden kiss and the love that was never mentioned in the poetry. Perhaps the love between boys was what sparked the flame that ignited into murder, yet in this moment alone Sherlock might very well take that chance. He might even make that trade. For there was no taste sweeter than John's lips, no touch more tempting than his soft hands, and no love more powerful than the one which grew between them as they entangled themselves together in the silvery light of John's quiet bedroom.

 The only downside of getting Agatha involved in the planning was just that...Agatha was involved. And so she took everything much too seriously, she too a mere summoning as a sign of something serious blooming between her nephew and some random woman she had asked here weeks ago. She thought that Sherlock's request of return was to be taken seriously, and so about ten minutes before Irene's due arrival (this time alone, and for a more casual luncheon of sandwiches in the garden) she took him aside so as to discuss what she thought might be very serious business. 

"Now Sherlock, we already have an engagement ring chosen for you, if you might need it in the future." Agatha said very excitedly, lingering along one of the railings of the front porch while Sherlock stood rather miserably near the stairs.
"I won't be needing an engagement ring. I'm not going to propose." Sherlock muttered.
"Well of course not! Not today at least. I'm just telling you just in case the day does come and you're worried about expenses. No we have the ring your grandfather had given to his bride, a ring that goes back centuries in our family!" Agatha said excitedly.
"Whatever did happen to my grandmother?" Sherlock wondered, turning to face Agatha now so as to gauge her reaction to such an abrupt question. The woman looked troubled for just a moment, before at last she composed herself and straightened her posture.
"What happened to her? Well she died, of course." Agatha insisted, though rather hesitantly.
"Of what cause?" Sherlock asked, to which the woman's face paled a bit more.
"Illness. She was a very old woman, and her immune system was so weak with the shock of things that...well it wasn't long after your grandfather passed that she followed." Agatha muttered, adding in just enough believable details to make the entire lie almost seem like the truth. Yet Sherlock didn't believe her, he didn't believe her based entirely on the fact that her left hand was twitching alongside her handbag, her fingers clenching and unclenching like some sort of nervous little tick. She looked strained, as though this confrontation was beginning to feel threatening.
"Was it a happy marriage?" Sherlock wondered finally, this time going for a direct hit. And it struck; it struck a bullseye if ever Sherlock saw one. Panic, that was what happened along the poor woman's face. The absolute panic of being asked the question she couldn't answer, the one answer she wanted most to forget.
"Why yes, yes of course." She insisted with a trembling voice. "All marriages are happy."
"No they're not." Sherlock corrected immediately, thinking instantly to his own prospective wedding. He knew that he would never be able to marry his one true love, and so there would at least be one unhappy wedding in the mix. Now taking into consideration all the other poor souls who longed for what society deemed unacceptable, well then there were guaranteed hundreds of unhappy couples out there now, longing for the strength to tell their partner of their true desires, and to run to freedom and the open arms of their forbidden lovers.
"Sherlock I don't want to hear any more of this." Agatha managed with a shutter, nodding her head as if congratulating herself on her method discipline. "And I don't want you speaking a word about it to Ms. Adler! We are to make a good impression, for God knows we already have some making up to do."
"She surprised me, what was I supposed to do?" Sherlock growled.
"You were supposed to kiss her! Like any normal human would have!" Agatha exclaimed, her voice rising to such a level that she shivered in the strain of it all, and Sherlock slinked farther into the railing in defeat. She had never raised her voice in such a way, never so unprovoked at least. He had obviously struck a nerve, one which would certainly not be hit on again without proper warning.
"Alright, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Sherlock managed, looking away down the driveway and sighing in relief as he saw the carriage pulling up through the gravel. Agatha sighed, composing herself as best she could while the horses trotted their way down to the porch. John appeared just as soon as the horses halted, patting them and calming them while the driver got out to open the door. Neither John nor Sherlock was brave enough to even cast a glance in the other's direction, for Agatha's eyes were more observant than an owl's, and she would surely notice whatever look of longing that was passed between them. She was ever observant, and ever so willing to deal out a harsh consequence on no grounds but suspicion. the door opened and out clambered Irene Adler, that smirk still the same as she descended onto the ground in a rather dramatic entrance.
"Sherlock, how nice it was to hear from you again!" Irene announced happily, swooping up to him and sticking her hand out for a kiss. Sherlock obeyed reluctantly, allowing himself a mere glance over her shoulder to where John was now discussing plans with the driver. The look of the stable boy was enough to get a smile onto Sherlock's face, a smile that appeared to be one of enthusiastic welcome instead of rather ironic love.
"And how nice it is to see you again." Sherlock agreed with that same smile, one which was returned with a beaming white smile from the lady.
"We've set up a nice spot for you both to eat in the garden, something of a private luncheon." Agatha announced before anyone got too friendly (that anyone being Irene, of course, as Sherlock didn't want to even look at her any longer than he absolutely had to).
"That sounds wonderful." Irene said with a grin, holding out her arm for Sherlock to take. He linked arms with her rather reluctantly, and together they strolled into the garden, following Agatha as she bustled along in a ridiculously oversized hat.