The Porcelain Doll

Premature Paranoia

As the small parade of family at last disappeared out of earshot Sherlock heaved a large sigh of relief, leaning forward to ring a small bell which sat upon the coffee table. The crisp couple of notes summoned a footman, a nervous looking boy who continually glanced at the shabby looking man upon the sofa, as if trying to figure just who he was and why he was a guest in such an esteemed household.
"James, a decanter of scotch if you will." Sherlock sighed.
"Right away sir." The boy agreed, bowing low before scurrying out the way he had come.
"I'm sorry for my deficiency, I wasn't aware that Latin was a priority." John said quickly, struggling to find his words to make up for the deafening silence which was now consuming both men. Sherlock leaned heavily upon the arm of his chair, letting his legs fall out in front of him and stretch to their furthest reach.
"Oh it is no bother. Irene has such useless interests; I never had the intention of clogging up my children's brain with such nonsense anyway." Sherlock admitted. John nodded, the only thing he felt he was allowed to do in the wake of such obvious insolence. For such a good looking and well put together family he had imagined they would at least pretend to cooperate. Each one of their movements was choreographed, why then was their conversation so rough and hostile?
"Well then, French must do." John offered at last. Sherlock hummed his agreement in an almost bored manner, as if he was already tired of speaking about his children and their education.
"You know, Mr. Watson, what makes my family so rich?" Sherlock asked, bending over his chair and snatching some of the toy trains which were scattered across the carpet.
"Railroads, sir." John said quickly. Sherlock smiled to himself, examining one of the toy trains with great interest and rolling the squeaking wheels overtop of his exposed palm.
"Yes, railroads. My father was a businessman, a strong man, fiercely intelligent, cunning and gritty. He started with nothing, as so many men do." Sherlock admitted.
"I know more men with nothing than I do men with something." John agreed. Sherlock chuckled, as if that was a very interesting way to phrase the current state of the economy.
"My Father's vision came true near the end of his life, when there was still energy enough within him to plant the last golden stake upon his first transcontinental railroad. With such a line we can ship items and people from coast to coast across this great company at speeds and efficiency only dreamed of before. No more wagons, no more mountain crossing or perilous dirt roads. Luxury cars, passenger trains, coal wagons... My father had them all in the palm of his hand." Sherlock admitted, closing his fingers across the toy train as if to emphasize that such power had been passed down throughout the lineage.
"And you are the heir to such an empire?" John presumed. Sherlock sighed, his smile fading for a moment as he stared off into the distance, obviously looking within his mind rather than the familiar trifles that lingered within the line of his vision.
"Half of it, yes. My brother Mycroft, seven years my elder, has taken up most of the operations. I conduct finances for the company, I host most of our esteemed guests and costumers, and I line up deals with those who have not yet found themselves benefiting from our family's friendship." Sherlock admitted, waving his free hand about as if each one of his jobs was menial and quite boring.
"I wasn't aware you had a brother." John muttered stupidly.
"Oh you will certainly meet him soon. Mycroft can't seem to stay away." Sherlock sighed. Their conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of James, who walked in carrying the summoned alcohol upon a silver tray, coupled with a couple of glasses and a container of ice cubes. John watched thankfully as two glasses were poured by careful hands, for he felt that a numbing of his nerves was exactly the thing he needed at the moment. When the servant vanished back the way he had come the two men indulged in their drinks for some time. John struggled to keep himself from draining his glass as fast as his throat could swallow, considering the liquor was so strong yet so smooth it almost felt like water. The little splash of confidence was exactly the sort of thing he craved, and when finally he had taken a couple of generous sips from his glass John was at last able to look up towards Mr. Holmes without flinching and cowering away.
"Mr. Watson, before I let you run free, I do want to go over some basic ground rules." Sherlock announced at last.
"Yes of course." John nodded quickly. Mr. Holmes sighed heavily, as if he found it a terrible bother to teach the new servants the way around the house. It was as if he would rather scold them for making mistakes rather than lay out exactly what was expected and what was forbidden. For a moment the man swirled the remainder of his glass around, watching the dark liquid brim against the edge of the cup with wide, transfixed eyes. John was happy to see that his host was also on the brink of finishing his glass, and when at last the sloshing became too boring Mr. Holmes at last ducked his head back and drained the remainder of the scotch into his mouth and took a deep, almost trembling breath.
"First of all, my wife is off limits to you." Sherlock declared at last, holding up a single finger in John's direction as if directly accusing him of already hosting some wandering thoughts.
"Mr. Holmes I would never..."
"That's what they all say." Sherlock sighed heavily. "Oh just because I do not take much interest in her does not mean she is anyone's for the taking. Irene is pledged to me, and therefore I will not have the servants taking advantage of her."
"Yes sir." John declared finally, figuring there was no point in arguing over something that would never come to pass. Certainly he found Irene to be quite beautiful, though he had never sprouted such an idea of infidelity within the first five minutes of knowing the woman! Sherlock was looking quite lost, as if he was trying to remember what any of the other rules were within his own house.
"Oh yes...yes! No stealing." Sherlock announced at last.
"Of course." John nodded, once again deciding there was no point in trying to canonize himself in front of Mr. Holmes. Certainly these rules were only adopted after they had trusted the word of a servant without realizing his direct intentions. John's words, therefore, were just about as futile.
"No killing." Sherlock added, as if he ought to throw that out there.
"We've already decided I wasn't a murderer, remember?" John chuckled.
"Oh yes, yes that was on your application! Well in that case I don't have to worry about you in that aspect." Sherlock mumbled, as if there were many other grievances on his mind that he simply couldn't produce at the moment. John sat upright in his chair, leaning over his knees and dangling his empty glass between his fingers overtop of the plush carpet below.
"You know each of the Ten Commandments?" Sherlock presumed.
"Yes sir." John agreed.
"Those are also our rules here, I suppose. They're rather good to follow by, and make the job of enforcement much easier. Why should I bother making house rules if God has already created a well-respected system?" Sherlock wondered with a little sigh, as if he found the idea of competing with a deity to be quite tiring.
"Well that's perfectly sound logic to me." John agreed.
"That sounds sarcastic." Sherlock warned, his eyes narrowing towards John as if expecting him to spew out another insult just for the sake of shock value.
"No sir, not in the slightest." John assured, raising his hands up in mock surrender all the while Mr. Holmes sank deeper into his chair, pouring himself another glass of scotch rather precariously in midair in his most slouched position.
"You got away with such insolence before simply because you were not a member of my household. I will not permit it within these walls, or while you are working under my service. I am your boss now, your master, and I shall not tolerate any rude behavior." Sherlock pointed out.
"I understand of course." John agreed, though he had to mask his disappointment behind a more falsified layer of approval. It was disappointing to hear that he wouldn't be allowed to tease the master of the house, especially when Mr. Holmes seemed to be his only prospective friend within these rather confined walls. After the amusement Sherlock had taken to John's more unintentional insults during their initial relationship this sudden change of heart was not only unnerving but also terribly disappointing. Nevertheless, what choice did he have? John was now taken under the roof of a tycoon, offered no more freedom in his new position than if he was bound and gagged.
"Well then, Mr. Watson. I will take your words as an unofficial contract of compliancy. I warn you not to break your oath, lest I have to let you loose back into that lifestyle I found you within. It would be a pity to see such talent go to waste." Sherlock sighed.
"Talent, sir? I'm flattered to hear you say so." John muttered with a smile. Sherlock smiled right back, though he interrupted their moment of mutual amusement with another long swig of scotch.
"You may go ahead, call Martha to get a tour of the servant's quarters and to take you to your new room." Sherlock instructed.
"Martha...well do you think she'll be within ear shot?" John wondered hesitantly.
"That's not my problem, Mr. Watson. Follow direct orders please." Sherlock suggested, waving his hand through the air and shooing John aside. Both men got to their feet, though Sherlock meandered off towards the very desk he had interviewed John in, and John continued on to the door he last saw James vanish through, hoping there would be someone waiting behind the closed door to appear at a moment's notice. When John stepped back into the parlor he saw not a soul, though his bags had vanished from where he last left them near the door. There were no footsteps in the whole house, John felt as though he could hear every pin drop as the sound echoed through the domed ceilings and sparsely decorated walls. For a moment John took advantage of this disorientation to appreciate the small details within the architecture, the little angels which were sculpted into the crown molding, the pattern the tile floor made if you stood at the top of the stairs and looked down. The house was made for kings, and as John stepped quietly around he wasn't all together sure it was housing anything less. Mr. Holmes may not be royalty, though the way he acted within these walls certainly reflected the way he treated the world in his wake. He had a power that was not all together understood by those too poor to grasp the influence of wealth, for the poor only saw money, not even the bare minimum of resources and influence that money could lead to. Even now John began to realize that Sherlock Holmes had built himself an empire within these walls, an empire which he lead upon a falsified throne, and here they were but servants to his beck and call. Even his wife, who John assumed should have had a throne at her husband's side, seemed to be trodden underfoot when time and circumstance allowed it. And perhaps the domain of Mr. Holmes reached far from the walls of his glorious mansion; perhaps he adopted his father's legacy and therefore his connections to the kingdoms of the outside world. Perhaps the Holmes family still was sitting near the top of the American dream, having the honor to look down upon the slums of the world and pluck them up to their altitude for entertainment purposes. John felt as if he was one of these lucky catches, feeling now less like a respected tutor and more like a mouse invited to a maze. The only difference was there were cats perched above the maze, watching his every move and waiting for him to turn right into their outstretched claws.
"Sir...sir I'm sorry but you're going to have to leave!" called a panicked voice from the upper landing of the left stairwell. John halted, his feet turning along the mosaic in the floor as he glanced towards the frightened speaker. It took him some time to spot the girl, for the room was so domed and echoed that it seemed her words were coming at him in all directions, not just one. When finally John found the speaker he saw it was a woman about his age, beautiful in a much less radiant way when compared to the mistress of the household yet just as noticeable and rather distracting. Her blonde hair was tied into a sensible knot, her clothes only luxurious in the standards of serving uniforms, her face not nearly as vibrant and illuminating as was Irene Holmes's. Nevertheless this newcomer had beauty in her own right, a strange sort of attractiveness that almost seemed to be intentionally hidden beneath the composed look of a serving girl.
"I'm sorry?" John clarified with a blink, so caught up in trying to process this new girl that he hadn't fully comprehended what she was trying to say.
"I said leave, get back to the street!" the woman demanded, her hand clenched so tightly around the banister of the stairwell that it was beginning to tremble with her shared anxieties.
"But I just arrived." John complained. "Mr. Holmes told me to find Martha."
"Martha is downstairs." The woman insisted, "But it makes no difference to me! How do you explain yourself?"
"I...well I think I was to be shown to my room." John muttered nervously, unsure as to what he had to prove when searching down the head housemaid. Perhaps this newcomer wanted to know the exact business he had with Martha, as if to prove if he actually knew the woman in person or just by name. Certainly the woman on the stairs had not been warned of the new tutor's arrival, and here she thought John was just some stranger who had come off the streets for a good time.
"Oh dear." The woman muttered, at last unclenching her hand from the stairwell and racing down the stairs as fast as her little feet could allow her, John wincing every time one of her exposed heels speared into the plush carpet with all the falling risk in the world. "You must be John!"
"And you must be paranoid." John agreed with a little chuckle. The woman stood rather shamefully by the foot of the stairs; obviously not sure of John enough to step within an arm's reach. Though her face, which had once been screwed up with utmost fear, was now looking apologetic and quite embarrassed.
"I'm sorry about that, but we do have a lot of vagabonds that wander in here from time to time." the woman muttered apprehensively. "We'll need to get you some proper serving uniforms."
"Happy to know my best suit still passes for a vagabond." John grumbled.
"Not that you look so scruffy! No indeed Mr. Watson, you look quite professional!" the woman declared, covering her mouth anxiously as if trying to keep in all the rest of the embarrassing words. John merely chuckled, trying to show that he was still joking around. No matter how playful his expression seemed the poor woman still looked perfectly disturbed, and for a moment John wondered if everyone in this house was completely immune, or even afraid, of humor.
"Well thank you. I'm sorry but I didn't catch your name." John muttered quickly, realizing suddenly that he hadn't a clue who he had the honor of speaking to. This woman could be the lady's maid or a mere kitchen staff who got lost on their way to deliver afternoon tea.
"I'm Mary Morstan, the nanny for the children." She announced with a grin.
"Oh yes? Well I'm very happy to put a face to the name!" John exclaimed, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief that he might be better acquainted with this woman in the future. Nannies and tutors often work nearly side by side, and to see that his partner in arms was such an attractive young woman made the job much less daunting. He had been expecting the nanny to be eighty years old and unable to walk without a cane, as the stereotypes sometimes portrayed.
"And I'm glad to meet you as well. Theo and Elizabeth are bright, enthusiastic children who will only benefit through more knowledge." Mary assured with a bow of her head, as if John had been waiting this whole time for her direct permission to teach.
"So I've already observed. Incredibly disciplined as well, which I appreciate." John agreed.
"Oh it makes my life so much easier! Mrs. Holmes taught them very early how to act like proper children, all of the mannerisms which are expected and all of the things which to avoid." Mary remembered, tucking her hands behind her back and folding them in a very innocent, almost schoolgirl impression.
"Almost militaristic." John observed.
"As it should be. Life would be chaos in this household if Mr. Holmes did not bare such an iron fist." Mary assured, though her voice trembled to get excited over the idea of a complete dictatorship.
"Well that's not...that's not daunting at all." John managed with a weak little chuckle, to which Mary cooed and grew red once again.
"It was not my intention to scare you! No, no Mr. Holmes is a fair and honorable employer. I wouldn't trade my job for anything!" Mary promised.
"That I believe. I'm already getting that sense and I've never even started to work." John chuckled in agreement.
"Let me show you to your room, Mr. Watson, since Martha is busy downstairs." Mary suggested quickly, smoothing the front of her dress and giving John a most illuminating smile. It was the first large smile he had seen from the woman, though he doubted that it would be the last. Certainly he would remember every time that smile appeared, as it was quite so genuine that it light up the room more effectively than even the large chandelier.
"Certainly." John agreed with a nod of his head, wishing he had something other to do with his dangling hands than drop them into his pocket and follow the woman down the elaborate hallways and to the room he would now be calling home. 

Sherlock POV: Sherlock dearly hoped that John Watson would know to attend dinner tonight with the family, for he was putting on his best suit and wished not to go through the trouble without any proper reason. Certainly John would wonder where his dinner was going to come from, though he may still be too afraid to appear uninvited. Perhaps when Sherlock was done getting preened he should send James on his way to alert the poor tutor, just to make sure he was preparing himself both in fashion and in mentality. Sherlock raised his arms up with some boredom as Reginald went about pulling his black vest overtop of his newly buttoned shirt, working the little piece of fabric around his chest and securing it tightly across his stomach with practiced and tailored perfection. Sherlock's suits were all made especially for him, and this vest was just tight enough to demonstrate all his most favorite attributes about his physique. It pulled all the excess fabric together to show the perfect thinness of his waist, framing his body in a way that would leave almost no curve a mystery to the wandering eye. Sherlock wasn't sure what about John Watson excited him so much, though he wore this suit in the special hopes that John might dare a couple of peaks.
"Special occasion tonight, sir?" Reginald wondered as he pulled the matching dinner jacket across Sherlock's outstretched arms, yanking it tightly across his shoulders and taking a small brush to the imperfections in the fabric.
"First impressions matter, of course. I am merely trying to put on a show for our new tutor." Sherlock explained quietly, watching himself in the mirror as Reginald went about fixing sparkling cufflinks into his sleeves. Sherlock was satisfied with his reflection today, as it would seem his curls chose to cooperate when he woke. None of them were astray throughout the organized arrangement he had created, and here they framed his face to better highlight the structure of his bones and the illuminance of his unsettling eyes. Sherlock dared a smile at himself, laughing when he imagined the look of pure fear that would play over John's face when he was met again with the humorless, cold expression that Sherlock saved for business affairs. He almost pitied the poor man, considering he seemed disappointed by Sherlock's final warning to respect and obey his master. Though it was necessary to keep John Watson on a short chain, until at least he could be trusted with some further length. If Sherlock wasn't respected within his own home, how could he expect anyone outside of it to cooperate with him again? There were too many important men wandering through these doors to allow for an insolent tutor meandering around and scorning the name of his employer. Not that Sherlock didn't enjoy a good scorn, considering it was the closest thing to humor this house may ever receive.
"Mr. Watson seems to be a very nice gentleman." Reginald offered a bit hesitantly, as if he wasn't all together sure he was allowed to voice his opinion.
"That he is, a very nice gentleman indeed. Have you met him personally, or just glimpsed him from afar?" Sherlock wondered quietly, wondering if John put on quite the same personality when he was below with the servants as he did when trying to impress the master of the house.
"Only from afar." Reginald admitted, at last tucking in Sherlock's pocket square and stepping back to appreciate his handiwork. "But he seemed to be getting along nicely with Ms. Morstan."
"Ah yes. I had assumed they would become friends." Sherlock agreed, bowing his head in some grievance before readjusting his posture and smoothing his curls away from his forehead in a single swipe.
"Same age, rather similar duties. I would not be surprised if we had a marriage within a year." Reginald agreed with a little chuckle.
"Oh don't be so vulgar. You know I hate the idea of marriage." Sherlock grumbled, casting his hand away to shoo the valet from his immediate proximity. Reginald sighed, though he had no choice to step back and watch as his master adjusted his clothes and admired himself in the mirror.
"A strange stance for a married man." Reginald admitted at last, to which Sherlock sneered and turned away at last.
"Not in the circles I frequent. That will be all until after dinner, Reginald. Thank you." Sherlock muttered, drifting from the mirror and pushing the door rather dramatically open to storm into the empty hallway with a proper entrance.