"Sherlock, I must declare that you have lost your mind." Agatha whispered, letting loose a very maddened sounding chuckle, one which made her sound much more crazy than she claimed Sherlock was.
"I haven't lost my mind, I've regained it!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You've been lying this whole time, keeping the truth from us while setting us up like pigs on display!"
"You must get rest, you must mend that mind of yours before you let it get out of hand!" she exclaimed.
"Agatha, he's perfectly well." Mycroft insisted, though he didn't sound entirely sure. He sounded, well, reluctant. As if suddenly he was remembering all of the strange things Sherlock had done and said over the last couple of months, all of these behavior changes and mood swings. As if he was realizing now that the house had changed his brother much more than he had at first realized.
"In bed, Sherlock. Get to bed!" Agatha insisted, turning to the closet and taking up the bedsheet rope in her ancient hands.
"I'm not going to bed, I'm healthy! I'm not crazy...YOU ARE!" Sherlock screamed, though just as soon as his voice raised an octave Mycroft took him by the shoulders, staring him into the eyes with some unprecedented urgency.
"Sherlock, maybe you ought to do as you're told." He recommended softly, brushing the curls from his brother's face and trying to help him up to his feet.
"Oh don't be such a kiss up Mycroft. I'm not insane." Sherlock growled, slapping his hand through the air yet finding it deflected just as quickly. He tried to fight back, yet he found himself ultimately powerless.
"But sleep would do you well." Mycroft insisted anxiously, patting Sherlock's hair once more, as if that was supposed to calm him down or something. As if that would lower his defenses enough that he might cooperate with his Aunt's devilish plans. Even now she was unknotting the rope, though keeping the sheets twisted as if with the intentions of reusing them for her own purposes.
"Get into the bed, Sherlock, and we'll make sure you get proper sleep." She whispered, her voice now just a mere breath through her disheveled makeup.
"She's going to kill me." Sherlock exclaimed, now scooting as fast as he could away from his brother, who seemed now under some sort of spell. He seemed to have the intention of helping that devilish woman, instead of helping his brother escape! Could he not see that she was plotting something, could he not see that she was going to kill him? Yet just as Sherlock tried to escape Mycroft grabbed onto one of his legs, pulling him as furiously as he could towards the bed. That man was a lot stronger than Sherlock gave him credit for, for even as hard as Sherlock kicked and fought he kept pulling, until at last Sherlock was dangling off of the bed, with his limbs just perfectly exposed for the first of the knots to be tied. His arm was tied off first, to the bedpost nearest to the door, so that he was to lie backwards. All he could do was protest; all he could do was screech. Yet Mycroft had joined in the fight, he was holding Sherlock down with all of his immense weight while Agatha pulled the first knot so tightly against Sherlock's wrist that it dug painfully into his skin.
"NOOO, MYCROFT GET OFF OF ME!" Sherlock screamed, kicking and gnashing his teeth, though they managed to restrain one of his legs as well, so that all he could do was whip around with one half of his body while the other remained perfectly immobile.
"You've fallen under the same spell as your grandfather, you've spoken that name and surely he's coming for you. Surely he's already been here." Agatha whispered, pulling Sherlock's arm and tying it off on the other side, so that his limbs were stretched around him in an X shape, stretching him hopelessly thin and exposed. This was just what they were waiting for, was it not? This was what the spirits wanted with him, complete helplessness, completely at the mercy of whichever paranormal visitor wanted the first piece.
"You're afraid of what I'll become, aren't you?" Sherlock growled, thrashing against his bonds but finding them quite secure.
"I'm afraid of what you've already become. I'm afraid of how many footsteps you had taken along the path of your ancestor." Agatha whispered back, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Mycroft stood beside her, his eyes glassed over as he stared upon his helpless brother, now screaming and fighting against the thick ropes with all the strength he could muster. Yet it was a hopeless battle, and even now he could hear that laughter coming from the corner of the room. He was defenseless, now it was time that the spirits came to play. 

John POV: John had expected a visit that night, if not for pure romance than at least to discuss their findings of the day. He sat near his clock, watching as the hour hands crept slowly but steadily around the smaller numbers, until at last he decided that Sherlock simply wasn't coming. There were a lot of reasons for Sherlock's absence, a lot that he could list at least. There were best case scenarios, such as Sherlock intending to surprise John in the daylight the next day, or his being preoccupied running away from the house and preparing an engagement. Yet to counter these fantastic possibilities (those which were quite unlikely, mind you) there were also some very bad options that clouded John's mind all the while he sat in the oil lit darkness. Sherlock could be dead, which was probably the worst case of them all. That or he may have fallen in love with Irene Adler, something that would break John's heart in more pieces than two, something that would break the whole of his existence in shards. He would have no purpose; he would have no future, no heart...no soul. If Sherlock had decided that suddenly he was in love with a woman as he was meant to be John would have no choice but to accept his decision. He knew this romance was undoubtedly just a phase, Sherlock loved him for now, but what would happen when someone better happened along? Not even a woman, but a respectable man? One that he could make his husband and only be shamed for one aspect of the marriage. No, John struck out on all fronts. He was poor, he was a servant, he was a man. No one would support their union, much less there acquaintanceship! Sherlock just loved him because he was available, that must be the case. John wasn't usually a pessimistic person, nor was he an optimist really. He preferred realism, and he hated to accept that the facts were stacked up against him on all fronts. Though he had also thought such a way when he first fell in love, when he realized that he wasn't just interested in the boy, rather he was attracted to him. Every ounce of common sense in his brain told him that it was a hopeless dream, and yet look at him now! He had a man on his arm, a very well-polished one at that. A beautiful boy, and he was all his. Or rather he used to be. John took to pacing the last couple hours of the night, pondering now what could be the matter. Periodically he would sneak to the downstairs window to peak at the window so far off, seeing if there was a rope or at least a light from Sherlock's window to signal that he was on the move. Perhaps he had fallen asleep; perhaps the events of the day had drained him so much that he couldn't even make it out of the window. Or he was captured, trapped by the army of the dead as they realized he knew too much about them. Maybe they retaliated, and took his mind for their own. John shuttered at the thought, imagining now the poor boy with his mouth hanging open in a pitiful gape, saliva dripping down his chin and eyes staring blankly in front of him. A possession was another worst case scenario, yet he hated to admit that these scenarios were much more likely than were the best ones. They were dealing with forces they couldn't begin to understand; well surely they couldn't have thought they would get away with it so easily! Who knows what ghosts are capable of, once they find out their grand plan was threatened? Yet the question then came to be what was their great plan, and why were they bothering to stick around so long to carry it through? Were they confused, unaware that they were dead? Or were they intending to retaliate, were they going to take their anger out on the remainder of the Holmes family once and for all? Was that what happened tonight, the ghosts fought back? When the sun rose John didn't know what he was supposed to do. Should he go on with his chores, and just forget everything had happened? Should he try to contact Irene, try to get her to the house so that she could help him investigate? Or should he investigate on his own, at the risk of his job and his livelihood? Well the first step should be as it always was when a good plan was involved: talk to Mrs. Hudson. And so John dressed for the day (or rather changed out of his clothes from yesterday, so as to give the appearance that he had a full night's sleep) and ran down the stairs to the kitchen table, where Mrs. Hudson had merely made them both oatmeal and was beginning her own while bent over yesterday's copy of the newspaper.
"Mrs. Hudson, there's something wrong." John announced ominously, sliding into his seat at the table yet staring down at his oatmeal repulsively.
"A problem?" she confirmed, folding the newspaper down so that she could look at John properly. She did him the honor of looking interested, yet John could tell that it was far too early in the morning to be weighing her down with the minute details of his own love life.
"Sherlock wasn't here last night; there wasn't even a light on in his room." John admitted, which of course made it sound like a very meaningless problem. Mrs. Hudson didn't look too concerned; however she set aside the newspaper and gave this conversation her full attention.
"Did he say he would be there?" she wondered. John sighed, shaking his head while his listener's attention began to dwindle.
"He didn't say so, but I expected he'd want to! After chasing down ghosts all day I thought he'd want to at least go over the facts one more time!" John insisted.
"Chasing down ghosts? Was that really what you crazy kids were up to?" Mrs. Hudson chuckled, shaking her head as if she found that preposterous.
"Well not ghosts per say, but humans. We found the butler, Victor Trevor! We know what he looks like, we know his name." John said excitedly.
"The butler? Did Sherlock not mention a butler who was giving him...well a rather tough time?" Mrs. Hudson muttered, her cheeks flushing a bit red as she remembered what she had overheard in her kitchen table amidst the squabbling bunch of teenagers.
"Yes, he's been aggressive. But that's what worries me; if we found so much out yesterday then maybe we provoked something! Who knows who's back from the dead to give that poor boy trouble? I mean if they all think he's his grandfather then he's going to be the receiver of all their vendettas, and all of their long repressed anger!" John exclaimed nervously, shaking his head and straining his eyes towards the house once again. It looked silent, certainly not the grounds for an evil spirit. He felt as though if a true tragedy occurred they would've felt something, or heard something. That was mere superstition talking of course, for if someone died of a stab wound they would be none the wiser from all the way over here. Might that have been what happened? Had a ghost, even a family member, turned on the youngest member of the house? Had Agatha's revenge finally been released?
"So now you believe in ghosts?" Mrs. Hudson presumed.
"I do. I think. Well I don't know! But if Sherlock believes, then I suppose I've got no choice but to go along with it. Especially if they're the key to keeping him sane." John admitted finally, slumping down onto his elbows and frowning at an empty spot on the table, feeling awfully nervous all of the sudden. There was a lot that might have gone wrong, and yet he realized that he had so much to lose, so much at stake! Who cared about his job, who cared about his house, Sherlock was on the line! And if he didn't have Sherlock, well there really was no point in living any longer.
"John, I know you'll do the right thing. But I don't think there's anything to worry about just yet! There's a thousand reasonable reasons why Sherlock didn't show up, especially to an unplanned event! Surely he just thought it best to stay away, just for the night. Maybe he was too tired." Mrs. Hudson suggested, to which John mumbled his halfhearted agreement.
"It just isn't like him." John admitted finally.
"And do you really know his habits that well, so as to judge them with such certainty?" Mrs. Hudson wondered, to which John sighed once more. How could he argue with such rationalism?
"I guess not." He muttered finally. "But if I don't see him by lunch time then I'll know something's wrong."
"Doesn't that boy sleep until lunchtime, at least?" Mrs. Hudson chuckled.
"Not all the time." John muttered a bit apprehensively, for he really didn't know the answer to that question. Sometimes he didn't get to see Sherlock all day, usually due to that rich boy's sleep schedule. Oh if John could ever sleep past the sunrise he would think himself a truly lucky man, and here Sherlock was undoubtedly taking for granted the luxury of laziness. Oh what a spoiled boy he was, yet what a beautiful one all the same.
"Do what you think is best. I'm really not in the position to tell you what to do anymore; you're way too old for that. I'm here as guidance, not as a drill master." Mrs. Hudson assured, finishing off her oatmeal and getting up to wash the bowl. John stared at his breakfast for a long while, his stomach turning apprehensively before at last he managed a couple of bites, just to be sure he was partially fed to go about his day. John decided that he should at least take care of the horses before he let his anxiety take over, and so he went about feeding and watering the animals before he began to stare curiously up at the house. What was there to do, really? He wasn't allowed inside; no if he was found even lurking in a close diameter to the house then he would be fired on the spot. Agatha had a grudge towards him for whatever reason, a strong dislike that started just as soon as he began to fraternize with Sherlock. As if she knew where their so called friendship would lead. The only thing John could think to do was get a rational second opinion, and of course that could only come from the only other person who knew what was going on. Irene Adler, well of course John had no idea where to go to find her. She was probably tucked up away in some sort of fancy estate, eating melon balls and drinking champagne. She couldn't be bothered directly, yet a telegram might do the trick just fine. And so John took his lunch break in town, riding one of the faster horses down the dirt roads and kicking up a fine layer of dust under the hooves, galloping as quickly as he could to send an urgent message to the Adler manor. John tied his horse outside of the post office and paid for a wire to be sent to the Adler house, a quick message reading simply Urgent, something's gone wrong. Irene, get here ASAP. John Watson. He knew the message would be passed along through many members of the Adler family, presumably all with questions about who he was, where she was going, and what could possibly be so important. Well John didn't care the logistics of it at all, his main concern was waiting for the woman to show up and help him through what may just unfold into a crisis. Then again, it could also unfold into nothing extraordinary at all. Yet surely John would rather face the embarrassment of being wrong than the fear of being right, for if he was correct in assuming that Sherlock was in danger then he had to act quickly so as to make sure his own love story was guaranteed a happy ending. He couldn't just let Sherlock fall into the hands of his grandfather's victims, he couldn't allow that ghastly Aunt to tuck him away and hide him from the world! John couldn't let Sherlock suffer, especially not if there was something he could do about it. Now was not the time for second guessing, now was the time for action. Now was the time for reinforcements. John waited without lunch at the beginning of the driveway, walking in great circles all the while his horse munched happily on some grass at the end of the gravel road. He couldn't think straight, he couldn't even conceive a plan that did not involve one of them going into the line of fire. All he could think about was Sherlock, where he was, what he was doing, and if he was okay or not. As the minutes changed to hours the last one became less and less probable, and when at last a carriage disrupted the serenity of the wooded drive all John could say was thank you. For Irene was going to have a much more rational brain, and she could undoubtedly devise a plan that would get the three of them safe and sound without many issues. They weren't just fighting the clock, they had Agatha to worry about, the butler to avoid, the ghostly servants to investigate...oh their task seemed an impossible one! John halted the carriage anxiously, waving his hands in the air so as to make sure it didn't drive down the driveway and alert the lady of the house. Where Mycroft was in this whole mess of things John could only guess, but he probably wasn't in a position of help even if he could be useful. That man was a kiss up, and would surely follow instructions to the letter if he thought it might benefit himself to do so. The carriage door opened and Irene clambered out immediately, not even waiting for the driver to give her a proper exit or a hand down the stairs.