The solution to Sherlock's external night terrors was hidden away in the attic, according to Agatha there might be some extra curtains shoved away in a box somewhere that he would have to find for himself. She claimed that she would love to help, but she was going down to the market for some groceries and would not be around to show him where to go. Sherlock was tempted to recruit a member of the staff, however he did not know any of them well enough to go digging around in an attic, especially if he proved to be a coward throughout the whole ordeal and abandoned the search just as soon as he saw the dimly lit place which rose above the house. Then again, it was fear now or fear later, and Sherlock decided that to be afraid in the daytime was much more preferable than being afraid at night. Besides, the hallway was well lit and cheerful. All he had to do was open the knob and climb up the stairs; certainly the attic was not as frightening as he presumed. He was constantly getting himself afraid for completely unnecessary reasons, he could not let other people's stories or stigmas poison his mind and make him afraid of anything which was dark or spooky. Ghosts were not real, only cowards existed. And so Sherlock marched towards the door, the farthest door from the third floor landing, and turned the old brass knob to expose a long set of wooden stairs. They led up into the attic, curving to the left so that he could only see darkness where they ended. Sherlock sighed heavily, balling up his fists to give himself strength, and stepping inside to find a light switch. There was just a little switch, ancient yet workable. When he flipped it there was a mere couple of bulbs illuminated at the top, casting a bit of a light so that he might be able to find his way about. Sherlock sighed, summoning up all of his courage to march up the stairwell and into the attic, finding of course that it was not nearly as bad as he had imagined. It was strange but...not bad. For starters there was a small grate which let in some sunlight, allowing for natural light to illuminate some of the boxes which were being stored inside. The bulbs fluttered and buzzed with the effort of producing light, but it was enough to cast out most of the shadows that would have been lingering around the mountains of stuff. And stuff there was, this attic was probably stretching the entire width of the house, with heavy beams of wood jutting out from the ceiling and floor for support. There were many things, yet the most curious of the entire collection was the bed which was sitting in the middle of the floor, almost like it was supposed to be the center of attention. It had the sheets still assembled, with a thick blanket being weighed down with a handful of pillows. There were hangings around it, thick curtain-like things which would fold around the bed for privacy. It was a curious thing, yet why it was hidden away in the attic instead of occupying one of the many rooms was all the more curious. Sherlock made a mental note to inquire after such a thing, if he ever remembered to mention it to Agatha. Besides the bed there were scattered bits of furniture piled against the wall. Old dining room chairs, a handful of empty dressers and wardrobe, and of course boxes upon boxes of all sorts of junk. And so Sherlock set off to find what he was looking for, much more easy in his mind now that he had investigated the whole of the attic and found nothing worth being afraid of. It seemed as though it was serving the purpose all attics served, to hold the junk that none of the family wanted any longer, relics of years gone by and styles that had long gone out of fashion. Sherlock took to the boxes, preferably those which looked filled with cloth. Well some held clothing, others held bedsheets, he found a handful of table cloths and even about thirty doilies, yet for the life of him it would seem that no one chose to store any curtains upstairs. Sherlock spent what felt like ages digging through boxes, throwing about all sorts of miscellaneous fabrics and garments to look for the thick material he needed. Finally, tucked away near the back of the attic, he found a box which contained a single pair of curtains. They were thick and a rather ugly brown, yet surely they would do the trick. Sherlock inspected the length, deciding that they would just be long enough to block out that horrible gaslight, and balled them up in his arms for transport. It was a rather awkward way to walk, for he waddled and tried to mind his step. This whole place was set up like an obstacle course, and so it wasn't too surprising when suddenly Sherlock's foot caught something it shouldn't have, one of the beams which jutted out from under the wooden floors. The curtains offered a soft place to land, for he threw them down before his arms could reach out to catch him. Nevertheless he hit the ground hard, chin first, and ended up rolling onto his side in agony. He touched upon his face, finding that despite the shooting pain there seemed to be nothing broken or bleeding. And that was when his interests spanned elsewhere, his curiosity peeked to such an extent that he nearly forgot about his aching face. He stared down at a photograph...well at first he thought it was a mirror! But of course it wasn't exact, for the clothes on the man were much older, and the expression was much too pleasant. That and the picture was sitting upright, all the while Sherlock lay on his side with a rather goofy expression of shock and recognition. Yes, the portrait was familiar. It looked exactly like him. Sherlock dragged himself rather shakily to his feet, feeling his chin pulse with new pain as the gravity took the blood down into the damaged veins. All the same he didn't think much of it; he merely went over to the framed portrait and picked it up gently, observing the very curious man which stared just to the left of the camera in an eerie, dramatic sort of way. It was a black and white photograph, undoubtedly taken very long ago for the man still looked very young though the frame itself was much older than Sherlock, or his father at least. The man displayed had a very effeminate look to him, with a beautifully proportional face, smooth white skin, and eyelashes that were especially evident from this angle. His hair was the most striking resemblance, for it was black and curly just as Sherlock's was, yet parted in the middle instead of down the side. Perhaps that was the style back then. He dressed in an older looking suit, and yet if the two stood side by side it would take a close relative to tell the difference or distinguish who was who. Certainly this must have been a relative, chillingly Sherlock considered the possibility that the man was his grandfather...the murderer himself. How eerie was the resemblance! So much so that Sherlock's presence throughout the town was sure to spark up unnecessary rumors, ones based entirely off of his looks and not on anything that actually mattered about a man. Sherlock took up the picture as well as the curtains, deciding that if someone went through so much trouble to leave his photograph in the attic then certainly it wouldn't be wanted or missed.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed as he tossed the curtains down on his bed and went over to where his brother was sitting with the door opened. Mycroft was sitting at his desk, tapping his pen against a piece of paper and looking at a complete loss for words. Sherlock lingered a bit in the doorway, despite his gleeful shout he realized that he had not been noticed. After a moment Mycroft dropped the pen, rubbing his hairline anxiously before rising to his feet, turning to see that he was being watched, and clutching his heart with a very over dramatic shout.
"Sherlock, what on earth are you doing lingering about?" Mycroft growled, looking towards his brother with a very disappointed look in his eyes.
"I was waiting to show you something, but if you get a question then I suppose I do as well. What were you writing?" Sherlock asked instinctively, nodding his head at the paper that was left untouched but clearly set out with the intention of writing on it. Mycroft sighed a bit guiltily, looking towards the paper with a frown.
"I set out to write an advertisement, but I thought better of it." he admitted finally.
"Advertising what?" Sherlock wondered.
"Our house. I thought maybe we ought to rent it out, keep some income flowing." Mycroft muttered.
"No you can't do that, they'll mess everything up! Besides...no one wants to live in a house where father died. Surely the word has spread, and to sleep in that bed..." Sherlock shivered, shaking his head in disgust. "Well I couldn't do it."
"Well we can get rid of the bed." Mycroft offered, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes. Then he remembered the bed in the attic, pausing with a short shiver to wonder what sort of tragedy it had hosted to get it removed in such a fashion. Perhaps that's why it was hidden away?
"What was it you wanted to show me?" Mycroft wondered, wandering closer to his brother as if he was feeling out of place in his own room. He certainly did look a lot worse than at home, perhaps that was based entirely on the fact that he had lost his total grip of power over the establishment. Ever since their father fell ill Mycroft was not taking orders from anyone, and he very much preferred it that way. Surely he was a little bit taken aback when he was told to do something, especially from a woman he didn't know existed just a week before.
"I found this in the attic while looking for some curtains. Remind you of anyone?" Sherlock asked with a little chuckle, raising the frame so that Mycroft could see it properly. The man's eyes widened immediately, and he looked rather gapingly at the thing as if he could not quite process it.
"Well that looks just like you!" he exclaimed, which of course was the first and most obvious conclusion.
"Well, not exactly. But close enough to make it creepy." Sherlock observed.
"It's probably William." Mycroft presumed. "Our grandfather." He added after seeing the lost expression on Sherlock's face.
"Oh ya, ya. That's what makes it so unnerving." He agreed with a grin.
"I'd say so." Mycroft agreed. "I don't think Agatha would like that up here again, I'm sure it was hidden away for a reason."
"I can put it back later, if you so insist. Then again it's rather nice to have firm proof that we have connections to this old place after all. Sometimes I think that it's rather unorthodox, following a woman we had never met before and just absent mindedly accepting all of her stories." Sherlock admitted with a shrug.
"What choice did we have, Sherlock? Oh besides, here's all the proof you need. Welcome home Sherlock." Mycroft growled a bit defensively, as if he took Sherlock's comment to be nothing more than a personal offense of his judgment.
"Yes well, nothing bad has happened yet." Sherlock said a bit too firmly, for even as he spoke those words he figured that some sort of ears were listening, deciding that the irony was too tempting. Surely Sherlock should watch who he challenged, for the moment he returned back to his room the house felt slightly colder, as if it was preparing to make sure he realized the true meaning of terror. 

Sherlock stood on the bank of the pond, staring down into the mess of algae and wondering just what sort of things it hid in its depths. Who knew how deep the pond was, or what sort of creatures dwelled in its pool? It was a large enough pond so that he could see the other side, enough to maneuver a little boat around in, but that was about the end of its firm purpose. It sat on the edge of the property, near a little cottage that looked so cheerful against the forest which stretched for the remainder of sight. The trees were thick and untouched, some so large that they blocked the sun at a certain angle. Certainly those trees had been here for as long as history would have them, and certainly they were not going to be touched for a century longer. No one would have any interest in building a house so close to the murder house; certainly these woods would not be interrupted.
"Looking to go fishing?" called out a familiar voice, one which made Sherlock turn abruptly and embarrassingly on his heel. His knee gave out, and he sort of stumbled where he stood until at last he could regain his posture and composure. It was John, of course, that boy was trotting up from the cottage with a radiant smile on his face, something soft and welcoming.
"Is this your property?" Sherlock asked nervously, realizing now that this cottage may be an entirely separate home than the manor which sat some ways off down the driveway. John shook his head, coming closer to stand on the bank as well, looking at Sherlock for a moment before entertaining himself with picking up stones to toss.
"No of course not, this is all your Aunt's. I just live here with the maid, Mrs. Hudson." John admitted. He took a particularly smooth rock in his hands, running his fingers along its face before skipping it expertly across the water. It skipped about four times before it sank heavily into the pond, leaving great big ripples to disrupt the ever still waterlilies that were floating at the rightmost edge of the pond.
"And you're the stable boy?" Sherlock presumed.
"And you're the heir." John agreed with a little chuckle. "Funny you could even speak to me."
"My brother's the heir." Sherlock corrected. "He's got seven years on me. I doubt I'll ever touch a cent."
"Oh surely not. The first one to marry will get it all." John insisted.
"You think I'll marry first?" Sherlock wondered. John looked up at him with something of a guilty smile, shrugging his shoulders as if trying to defend himself nonverbally.
"I mean, through my powers of observation I'm sure the women will favor you." John presumed. Sherlock found himself blushing, though in the moment he felt more like he had been hit in the stomach with a mallet, rather than just swooning. That was a compliment that meant much more to him than just flattery; well any string of words that could compliment him and insult Mycroft at the same time was sure to do the trick! How impressive John was already.
"I suppose I should thank you." Sherlock muttered.
"You don't have to do anything of course. I'm not the one here to give the orders." John assured. Sherlock blinked, not entirely sure what to make of John's snarky attitude. He couldn't tell if that was just how John was as a person or if he was being purposely confrontational, if Sherlock had wronged him in anyway. Well of course Sherlock couldn't pinpoint any moment which he had been rude, unintentionally or otherwise, and so he merely set back into himself and turned a bit more meek than usual.
"Okay then." Sherlock agreed quietly. John looked off into the pond, sinking his hands into the pockets of his overalls and grinning rather guiltily.
"Do you like the house? The servants and all?" John wondered. Sherlock nodded, wishing there was a bench which he could set himself on. His knees were wobbling for whatever reason, even when John's gaze was turned away from him he felt as if he was being watched.
"Everything is very nice." Sherlock managed.
"Certainly not everything? Don't you get chills down your spine just walking those halls? Every time I'm in there I feel like I'm never alone." John admitted. "Feels like someone's watching me, constantly."
"It's only scary if you let it be." Sherlock offered, though not very confidently. He knew where John was going with that, he knew exactly the feeling.
"That's true. I don't believe in ghosts, surely not. It's just an uneasy feeling I suppose. The history of it all...like it or not there was blood spilled." John admitted.
"What story do you believe? What version of it all?" Sherlock wondered. John looked back at him curiously, his hazel eyes narrowing in some thought.
"Well I suppose there are dozens of versions in town, but the one I stick to is just that he killed a servant and was hung outside by the townspeople. That's all I've ever asked about it, and that's the most rational explanation I've been offered." John admitted.
"Does anyone know why he killed the servant? Or who the servant was?" Sherlock wondered. John merely chuckled, shaking his head as if he really didn't want to have to delve into such ridiculous tales.
"I couldn't tell you any logical explanation, though there are plenty floating around nonetheless. Ranging from wild affairs to God's work, you pick. As for the identity of the servant, that's been lost to gossip as well."
"You'd think I'd know all this stuff, being part of the family." Sherlock mumbled.
"I didn't want to accuse you outright, but now that you mention it yes, it does seem that you are rather uninformed." John agreed with a chuckle. "I'm sure you could make up any version you wanted, and it'll be gospel by the time you recount it."
"Don't give me such power." Sherlock warned with a grin. "Besides, my father didn't like to talk of it. He always thought the more we mentioned our past, the quicker it would catch up to us."
"And what happened to him then?" John wondered. Sherlock sighed, looking off into the grove of green maple leaves and shaking his head rather disappointedly.
"Went mad, and killed himself." Sherlock admitted finally. "They say it's a disease...say it's inherited."
"I'd hate to think that they're right. Surely you shouldn't listen to gossip. Maybe his brain wasn't where it should've been, maybe he was traumatized." John offered in some condolence.
"I don't know what to think, I don't even know how to process any of it. I haven't even cried for his sake yet. I've cried for myself many times, but not with any regard to him, and the pain he's gone through. I'm more afraid of what's going to happen to me, rather than what happened to him. Nothing like a tragedy to bring out the worst in people." Sherlock grumbled.