The Porcelain Doll

The Regrets of Returning to Work

Sherlock POV: Sherlock was not used to the slow rumbling of a horse drawn carriage, and yet he had not requested a chauffeur to deliver him back to his home at such a late hour. The man was always embarrassed of his late nights, and as he curled up within the corner of the bumpy buggy he checked his watch from the light of a street lamp. Three o'clock in the morning, just a little past. Sherlock sighed heavily, dropping his watch back into his pocket and hastily trying to pull the buttons together upon his vest. He was not very well put together, as the clothes he had worn out of the house had fallen into disarray during the worst parts of his evening. On the off chance that he would be received by any welcoming party Sherlock felt he must clean himself up before he arrived outside of the gates, just to avoid any unnecessary suspicion. Oh but exhaustion overwhelmed him, and even as Sherlock tried to smoothen out his jacket he felt his arms grow terribly limp, falling together upon his lap as he huddled even closer into the comfortable corner of the rented cab. Perhaps he could make up some more reasonable excuse on the off chance that anyone would stay awake to receive the master of the house back into his most familiar walls. Sherlock's head jolted against the wooden frame as he strained his eyes out of the window, staring into the darkness as he rubbed his fingers compulsively against each other, scrubbing with unseen soap as if to try to wipe them clean of their sins of the night. He still felt a touch upon his skin, a most despised feeling! He never liked taking his work home with him, even if that work merely lingered about like a ghostly presence against nerves fired long ago, now sitting bored and cold within the smooth recesses of his fingers. At last the streets began to look familiar, and while Sherlock suspected the cabbie of taking the long way home he could not protest as he stumbled from the elevated cab, collecting himself onto his feet and reaching into his pockets for the exact change. The cabbie, who was dressed in a thick overcoat and a low brimmed hat, accepted the money thankfully and whipped his horses back into their trot, parading the city for anymore drunken wanderers who were in need for a ride home. Based off of Sherlock's appearance he doubted that the cabbie took any interest in him, undoubtedly considering the disheveled traveler to be a servant who had gotten the night off or a visitor who had taken to the town for a fun evening. Certainly he would not have guessed that his passenger was the owner of the large manor, given the state of his appearance and the time of his arrival! And perhaps that was for the best. Sherlock didn't need any rumors beginning to circulate about his nighttime activities, lest the wrong people begin to speak of their own experiences with the man's nocturnal duties. Sherlock passed through the gates and latched them behind him, figuring that he would be the last one to step into the garden with due reason for the night. He was almost surprised there were not more undesirables lurking about in the bushes, as oftentimes he would be met with the homeless plucking roses off of the well-manicured bushes to sell alongside the street the next morning. People always figured out how to steal from the Holmes family, though there were times when Sherlock almost considered they were entitled. Considering how much his family had taken from this city, well why shouldn't he allow a bold homeless man to take advantage of any opportunity presented to him? It was an opinion that Sherlock shared only with his unconscious mind, and under no circumstances would he allow himself to be caught with such sympathy. His brother would mock him to no end; perhaps even scold him for taking such a humanitarian view upon the subject. Sherlock was not allowed to be human, that much was established even before he learned to read or write. Fumbling within his coat pocket Sherlock found his key ring, looping the iron chain around his finger as he pulled it from its place and wobbled each of the keys individually through the open air. Thankfully the porch lights were kept on at all hours of the night, not only to demonstrate the wealth of the family and their ability to afford electricity but also to make sure that the house looked presentable and noticeable at all hours of the day. By nightfall most buildings fell dark, as candles were extinguished and oil lamps were shut out by their thick iron covers. The third and undesired advantage of having electric porch lights was allowing the master of the house to find his house key, a task that should not have been so difficult. Yet his mind was rather blurred at the moment, alcohol tainting his direct vision and exhaustion making it almost impossible to keep his arms raised for long enough to inspect thoroughly. Finally Sherlock found the correct key, fitting it into the lock by pressing his entire body against the door and twisting with two turns of his wrist. The door swung open, presenting the house in its shadowy silence, and Sherlock stumbled within the doorway as if he was just learning to walk. Recollecting his keys into his pocket the man shut the door loudly behind him, twisting the lock securely once more before falling in a daze upon the wooden floors, staring up with a lolling mouth and a twisted gag at the decorated ceiling which loomed above. The taste in his mouth was quite similar to vomit, which made Sherlock wonder if he had forgotten some portions of the night. Perhaps he had been sick; though that would be expected after the time he had taken off from his normal duties. Sherlock had taken nearly a week off to prepare the household for the new tutor, and as such neither his stomach nor his mind was prepared for such extravaganzas so early on! The man groaned again, rolling over and pawing at the floor with one of his outstretched hands. For a moment he began to wonder how he was going to make it into his bed, considering it felt as if he was not able to get to his feet much less up those stairs in a quiet and professional manner. Yet suddenly he was not alone, for better or for worse. An oncoming shadow collected above him, alive with the shape of a human but moving at odd and irregular angles, as if Sherlock's eyes did not perceive the whole of his motion but only snippets. For a moment the man's hands were at his side, though suddenly one appeared upon the wall, flicking one of the switches to the lights and illuminating the hallway in that harsh electric light. Sherlock looked up with strained eyes, rolling onto his back and giving a low moan of regret to see his brother's humored face downturned upon him. Oh he should have known it was Mycroft from the first glance, no one else in the household bore such a strange and widening shape!
"Had a rough night, brother mine?" Mycroft wondered with a little chuckle, offering a hand to help Sherlock pull himself to his feet. Sherlock pawed at it though his arms had lost nearly all strength, and while he could hold his fingers up in the air for a moment he was unable to grasp at his brother's hand effectively enough. He decided it was better to lie here anyway, considering he did not always appreciate his brother's idea of a rescue party.
"It's been a while." Sherlock admitted. "I'm tired."
"You're drunk." Mycroft commented.
"Wine helps me in ways you could not imagine." Sherlock grumbled, wondering just how painful his job would be if his mind was clear at any point during the night. Mycroft chuckled, tapping his toe against the cloth messenger bag which was tied securely around Sherlock's shoulders. He prodded the thing with his shoe until at last he hit a solid object hidden within the folds of the fabric, a smile appearing upon his face once more as he recognized the shape and curvature.
"You are invaluable, Sherlock Holmes." The man repeated, kneeling down at last and shuffling his brother's body into his arms. Thankfully with all of his girth Mycroft was able to lift Sherlock's entire weight off of the ground, heaving the thin frame into his arms and making his way with stumbling steps into the sitting room. Sherlock lolled against his brother's chest, his stomach twisting and turning with such irregular motions, though the approaching sofa was beginning to look more and more heavenly with every step they drew near. As soon as he was settled upon the soft cushions Sherlock's eyes began to shut, his limbs falling heavily from his body and his mouth dangling open to allow a long trail of saliva to drip from his lips and onto the carpeted floor below. Mycroft merely sighed, untangling the messenger bag from his brother's body and huddling the package safely to his chest. Obviously the bag could not be discovered by any servant, nor even by Sherlock's own family if they were the first to discover him. Sherlock's fingers were the last to still as his body finally fell into the deep sleep it was longing for. Mycroft watched him for some time, noticing the way his hair was still slicked from the gel, the way his forehead was caked with the crackling salt of dried sweat. Sherlock looked so peaceful when he slept, which was all the more regretful to the man who forced him to look so strained in his waking hours. Mycroft would like nothing more than to see this look of relaxation upon Sherlock's face when his eyes were opened, though business demanded otherwise. And business must be personified into a single entity, a single man who would not enforce any silly things like family values or tropical vacations. That role of villain was regrettably taken on by the older Holmes brother, made all the worse when he found he had a particular knack for avoiding each and every emotion the human heart was supposed to contain. However tonight, in the presence of no conscious witnesses, Mycroft allowed himself to smile. He folded his fingers along his brother's forehead, patting down some of his sticky curls and messaging his thumb into the man's exposed temple.
"Sleep well, brother mine." Mycroft whispered, holding his hand for just a moment longer before withdrawing and collecting himself back onto his feet. He readjusted his posture, wiped his face clean, and marched back towards his bedroom without a second thought; not even considering finding a blanket to drape over his brother's shivering shoulders. Besides, Mycroft hadn't any more time for the stumbling agenda of little Sherlock. He had his own business to attend to, his own arms to fold into. Mycroft walked quickly to his bedroom, hoping that his indentation within the mattress had not yet disappeared, and hoping furthermore that Victor would still be awake enough to embrace him upon his return.