The Porcelain Doll

American Royalty

John POV: There was no bell to announce the end of the school day; none save for the small whistle of the schoolmaster to call the children's attention away from their books or mathematics and towards the clock which was ticking noiselessly upon the wall. John's whistle was sharp and crisp, one he had perfected in his military days and one that still came in handy when dealing with much smaller opponents. It was delightful to see just how brightly their faces could shine, each one sprouting a smile to know that they were finally released from the stuffy confines of the old wooden schoolhouse. John stood in front by his desk, leaning against the wooden frame as he called everyone back to their seats, demanding their attention despite their increasing urge to pack all of their things into the small backpacks. After a short congratulation on their progress today, for they were just beginning to master long division, John sent the children on their way with his usual dismissal. A short goodbye, followed by a small warning to avoid strangers on their walks home, and with a wave the classroom erupted from the collective obedience to a whirlwind of youthful chaos. Each one of them struggled to get their books and pencils into the backpacks, racing towards the door as if they were afraid to be locked in with John and the rest of his multiplication worksheets. The sun, which had been shining so mockingly through their dusty windows, finally illuminated the schoolhouse once the doors were flung open, the natural light seeping in to match with the soft, gentle oil lamps that John used for the darker corners of the small room. Off the students raced into the school yard, some wearing polished shoes, others wearing borrowed sandals, some wearing no shoes at all. Despite their footwear they all ran with as much excitement, kicking up dust in their wake as their backpacks swung madly across their shoulders. Their teacher sighed, arranging his desk for a moment before following the last of the stragglers out into the yard, overseeing their departure with the same concern he always up kept for the smaller, more vulnerable children. In his seven years of teaching John had not had incidents from the wanderers on the streets, though these days the streets of New York were getting rougher, and who knows when their first tragedy would strike? There was unrest these days, and with such struggles as money and illness, who knows what a broken man might do? There was a small crowd of parents waiting near the fence, most of the faces recognizable from their previous visits and some that blended in with such innocence that John had to imagine they truly belonged in the horde. The parents were a diverse group of people, most fitting into the usual mold of their small, struggling town. Handmade clothes, patched in the more vulnerable spots, grease stained fingers and frazzled hair. All seemed normal today, all except one particular man which caught the schoolmaster's interest quite suddenly. John was used to strangers appearing in the schoolyard, though for some reason this particular man stood out even among the unrecognizable faces. The way he stood in the midst of the crowd of parents, looking quite like a God among mere mortals, made John stop in his short trek to greet some of the more familiar parents. His shoes caught quickly within the dusty grass, almost as if he needed permission to approach. The man was at least a head taller than the best of them, his posture straight and his fingers curled around the silver head of a long black walking stick. His clothes looked expensive, legitimate luxury as opposed to the cheap replications the middle class families wore around this side of the city. His top hat gleamed in the sun, shone and dusted as if by professional hands, and his face was lean and smooth. The stranger appeared never to have worked a hard day in his life, for his complexion would never be quite so radiant had he been exposed to the sun without an umbrella held out for him. John studied the flow of the children, trying to determine if this stranger in the schoolyard was here to pick one of them up, perhaps he was an uncle or a close friend of their parents. Though the children were racing around each side of him, running with their little heads down and not sparing the man a passing glance. Most children raced into the arms of their parents or caretakers, others went running around the side of the fence to make the short trek home, but none of them bothered to approach the stranger. No one seemed tall enough to even notice just how unique he was. John, on the other hand, stopped for a moment to study the stranger, not bothering to consider that he was blatantly and almost rudely staring. In this position he was not the one in the wrong, considering this strange man was trespassing upon a territory that he dared to call his own. He was allowed to gawk at any visitor for as long as he liked, despite how unmannerly it might seem. John felt a strange, almost threatening energy radiating off of this stranger, so much so that he stood up to his complete height in an attempt to make himself look a bit more threatening. Considering the size of this strange man John was sure he could take him out quite easily. Despite his height he was not gifted in the rest of his build, for even his well-tailored suits could not hide the lean, almost frail body that was hidden behind the expensive fabrics. As the rest of the parents began to vanish the stranger held fast, his heels dug into the dirt and his eyes scanning the scene around him, watching the parents as they collected their children, examining the rusted and almost hazardous playground that stood decaying in the middle of the yard. For some reason John felt embarrassed, though he had to remind himself continually that he was in no way responsible for impressing this almost suspicious newcomer. Whatever he thought of their schoolhouse must first be understood within the constraints of their minimal budget, though surely a man so polished as he could not understand the struggles of the lower class. Perhaps he was here just to observe the life of the less fortunate, to laugh at their inadequacy and gawk at the way they lived their day to day lives. John was almost so bold to approach the man, though he was halted entirely when he saw at last the stranger begin to move in his direction, clicking his stick through the tuffs of brown grass and tiptoeing carefully through the cracked and dusty ground. John stiffened up; trying to demonstrate his muscular build from beneath his crisp white shirt, trying to make himself look like a formidable opponent just in case that walking stick was filled with cement. Despite his initially aggressive attitude as the man approached John began feeling smaller and smaller, becoming more inferior with every foot that shrunk between himself and this wealthy stranger. Suddenly, when they were within an arm's reach, John had almost curled into himself, ready to throw his hands up in surrender and allow the man to pillage to his heart's content. Perhaps he was here not to terrorize the children but instead to steal their learning materials? Perhaps he was searching for their slate chalk boards or their tattered copies of Dickens?
"Mr. John Watson?" the man wondered at last, using a surprisingly deep voice when paired with his almost delicate frame. John blinked, wondering how exactly this stranger knew his name if they had never been acquainted before.
"Yes." John muttered quickly, a rather pathetic response that was spit out without a moment of hesitation. Usually he had a much more intelligent response to direct confrontation, though at the moment he was feeling quite paralyzed in the wake of the smooth and flawless face he was approached with. That face, which had mostly been quite stern, suddenly broke out into a small, almost timid grin. Perhaps he found John to be amusing, like a small animal he had just tortured into obedience.
"I'm wondering if you know who I am?" the man wondered, his eyes creasing into a look of expectation, as if he figured John was just pretending not to recognize his face from the front page of the New York Times.
"My apologies, but I don't think we've been acquainted before." John muttered at last. Finally the stranger laughed all together, stooping his weight onto his walking stick and chuckling a deep, almost satirical laugh which made John feel more like crying than joining along in the joke. He wasn't sure what had been so funny, though for a moment the man seemed quite paralyzed with the unintended wit of his conversational partner. John shuffled in the dirt for a while, looking past the man's shoulder to see that the last of the parents had finally turned away, leaving the schoolyard abandoned but for this newcomer who was now straightening up and recollecting himself.
"Well of course we've not been acquainted." The man said at last, the last of his humor fading away, ultimately being replaced by a stiff and unimpressed snap.
"How would you expect me to know you if we have not met before?" John pointed out.
"Do you not read the papers?" the stranger snapped.
"Why, are you in them?" John asked, crossing his arms and gaining some confidence over this ego maniac. Perhaps he was not so put together as he appeared to be, now cracking his powerful persona under the fear of not being recognized.
"I am Sherlock Holmes, son of William Holmes and heir of his railroad empire!" the man announced, drawing himself up (if it was even possible) even higher and setting his face into a look of utmost regard, as if he expected John to get down on his knees and kiss the shine of his shoes. The name was familiar, even if it wasn't always used in a positive connotation, though for the sake of his ongoing joke John decided to toy with this man some more. He kept his face blank, as if that name had no meaning to him at all, and continued to tap his fingers unresponsively against his arm.
"Good for you." John muttered. Sherlock's face narrowed, his eyes squinting as if he was trying to determine if he was really being met with such opposition.
"Surely you recognize me now?" he continued.
"I've heard your father's name before, along with the other undesirable tycoons." John admitted.
"Some schoolteacher you are! I thought you lot were supposed to be intelligent." Sherlock snarled, gnashing the tip of his walking stick into the dirt in front of him and leaning over with both hands, coming down to John's level so that he could examine him from the same height.
"Is there a reason I have the honor of hosting such royalty on my playground?" John asked at last, figuring the man's purpose here was not simply to boast about his last name.
"American royalty, Mr. Watson." Sherlock agreed, his eyes catching into John's gaze and holding a direct stare for some time. John hesitated for a moment, wishing to look away but finding such a simple task now so daunting. He was distracted with the color of Mr. Holmes's eyes, for they were not so easily deciphered with a simple glance. There seemed to be multiple colors within them, fighting for control of the iris and almost ever changing with the rays of the sun or the movement of the man's cornea.
"Mr. Holmes, what is your purpose here?" John said again, this time trying to put more force within his words to bring about a legitimate answer.
"You will be delighted to know that I have an opening within my household, a vacancy that must be filled only by the most qualified applicant in the whole of America. I need a man of intelligence, a man of delicacy, one who appreciates young minds and wishes to mold them into something vast, something superior to all the rest in this world." the man declared, straightening up at last and beaming with some excitement. John was still not impressed, though he tried to at least soften his gaze. If this really was a job opportunity then he might have made a bad first impression, though there was still time to make up for it.
"You're looking for a tutor?" John presumed.
"Yes, yes! A tutor." Sherlock exclaimed, pointing an excited finger at John as if he was impressed that he had guessed the word before it was revealed. "We will pay handsomely of course, whatever you are making here I can almost assure you double...perhaps triple the salary. I have two children, five and nine, both perfectly mannered and remarkably intelligent."
"What happened to their previous tutor?" John wondered.
"They have not had a tutor before, as I have always taken it upon myself to instruct them. Though business...well business draws me away from my house more often these days and I find it difficult to prioritize their education. I feel as though they need an ever present role model, one who could teach them their studies both in and out of their designated hours." Sherlock announced at last, delivering this line as if he had practiced it in the mirror to deliver its intended dramatic effect. John nodded; his attention already peaked when the salary had been discussed. Not that he was doing badly in today's world, for he had seen many others doing much worse, though he could always use a little bit of extra money.
"Would I be living in the house?" John wondered finally. The man laughed again, as if each of John's questions humored him in different ways, each time laughing directly at him instead of with him. There was nothing funny in this question, though once again Mr. Holmes found the need to pause their conversation to let lose all of his escaping amusement.
"You have not gotten the job yet, Mr. Watson. I am merely here to offer you an application." Sherlock said at last, opening his coat and pulling from the inside pocket a large bundle of papers, each one printed with the same message in a dark black ink. "Here you will find each of the qualifications, as well as an address to send your application. Describe yourself in the required detail, list your accolades, your successes, and include two references from satisfied parents. I will go over the applications and choose those I would like to interview in person, and from there we will choose the one who is best suited for my household."
"Is this not already an interview?" John presumed. Sherlock's lips curled once more, though his white fingers were too busy trying to uncurl a single paper from the bundle that he could not answer just yet. Finally he pulled a single application from the mix, handing it to John with a practiced delicacy and giving him a radiant grin.
"A preliminary examination, Mr. Watson. First impressions matter the most." Sherlock chuckled.
"Yes? How am I doing then?" John presumed, not bothering to sugar coat his words as he figured his true mannerisms had appeared for far too long. Nothing he could do not would give the impression that he was in the market for boot licking. Surprisingly Mr. Holmes smiled again, tucking the applications back into his coat and buttoning it with some precision, his fingers dancing along the silver clasps as if to draw even more attention to the superb making of the jacket and the detailed inscriptions along the buttons.
"You've done excellently, Mr. Watson." Sherlock assured at last. "Let us just see what your application has to say about you."
"Yes well...expect it someday soon." John agreed, folding the paper between his fingers and giving Mr. Holmes his most confident expression, the one of determination he had been forced to wear throughout his years of military service.
"I shall look forward to it." Sherlock smiled, swinging his cane up into the crook of his arm and tipping his hat as any gentleman would.
"Until then, good day." the man offered at last.
"Good day." John agreed, crossing his arms across his chest and watching with great interest as the man turned on a polished heel, marching back out of the schoolyard with all the confidence he could fit into that skinny little frame. John's fingers creased along the application, his palms already sweaty with the excitement of opportunity. These days jobs never did walk into your front door, though today's experience might just prove that assumption to be entirely false.