The Porcelain Doll

The Whole Family Can Fit

The following morning John had taken his coffee outside into the garden, biding his time while the rest of the house dressed and prepared for their daily routines. Breakfast was still digesting uneasily in his stomach, and though the familiar sounds of the city were flowing from over the large hedge and calming his more alert nerves. The clomping of horses' hooves upon the cobblestone was perfectly identical from the Holmes garden as it was from his apartment window, and if John closed his eyes and inhaled the strong scent of coffee he might have convinced himself that he was sitting upon one of his stiff wooden chairs, trying to bask in the few rays of sunshine that could protrude from the smoggy air of the lower portions of Manhattan. Why he wished for those disgusting streets was beyond him, and yet for once John longed for familiarity rather than the constant alertness of his new lifestyle. When he lived among the squalor of the lower class John could rely on his good attitude and large smile to get him by, though now within the Holmes household he was facing a different sort of misery. The occupants were not upset because of their living situations; they were instead upset about much deeper things, much more permanent situations. John's jokes and grins would not lighten up their heavy hearts, as nothing could distract the upper class from their deep rooted issues. It was the sort of destitute that John was not used to dealing with, and therefore it was something he was hopeless to battle. His two choices were to ignore the misery of his new family or instead wallow into the deep pools of sadness along with them, trying to gain empathy enough to at least be a proper shoulder to cry on. It was interesting how the troubles of humanity were not always solved with money, in fact some of them were erupted by having an excess of the stuff. Nevertheless, after having lived in both lifestyles for some time, John could be sure that money solved more problems than it caused. Here he was caught in the middle of the most extravagant manor in town, in his own Garden of Eden but ten feet away from the bustling streets of Fifth Avenue. How lucky he was just to sit upon this bench, to have his feet dug into the gravel which was laid about in narrow paths about the lush green grass! What an opportunity he was granted just to drink in the richly ground beans of coffee, appreciating the bitter taste which managed to appear even behind the many sugars he had stirred into the dark drink. He should not be thinking about problems of the world, not the problems of the rich or of the poor! John should merely think about his own problems, and about how the list was beginning to shrink with every passing day. After a year in this house John suspected he might be utterly content, should of course the Holmes family keep him safely within their walls and within their confidence for the time being.
"Mr. John!" came the shrieking voice of little Elizabeth, the scraping of her feet through the gravel alerting John of her imminent approach. The tutor opened his eyes, wiling himself back into the world of the living as he settled his coffee down upon the bench next to him so as to free his hands for the proper retrieval of the littlest Holmes. The girl rocketed into his arms, jumping upon John's lap and giggling as she wrapped her arms around his neck in excitement.
"Mr. John, we're going in the car today! Daddy's taking us in the car!" she exclaimed, sitting back upon John's knees and kicking her feet excitedly against his stomach. John winced at the pressure on his torso, though for the sake of the little girl's enthusiasm he maintained his large grin.
"Oh really? A real automobile?" John clarified, feeling the same childish excitement even though he dared not express it. He had only ever seen a proper automobile from a distance and found them to be fascinating machines. John wasn't sure why he never realized that the Holmes family surely had one, though now with such confirmation his heart leapt for the chance to take a ride someday.
"The red one! The one with six seats, enough for the whole family!" Elizabeth exclaimed, her face breaking out in the most delighted smile.
"Are you taking Mycroft along as well then?" John presumed, figuring that the little girl had gotten her math wrong in her enthusiasm. There were only four Holmes family members, five including the strange older brother.
"I assume she means you and Ms. Morstan." commented the cold octaves of the Lady of the house. Her voice shot through John quite like a sharp shiver, as if someone had pressed a block of ice against his hand without warning. Half of his fear originated merely by the idea of trying to uphold a conversation with the woman, and the other half was suddenly worried how much of his garden time had been observed by those waiting, watching eyes. The woman moved without noise, certainly she could have been observing John's tranquility from behind any one of these shrubs. Irene Holmes loomed from behind one of the rose bushes, draped in a long red fabric which mimicked the flowers which were only beginning to bloom. Her hair was tied across her head in a thick bun, and along her brow she had settled a golden headband which was rout into small and delicate flowers. When paired with her delicate complexion and her fierce eyes John might have mistaken her for a Greek Goddess, and for a moment he sat dumbed and silent as he tried to think of an intelligent response to her initial statement.
"I'm flattered, though I dare not confuse myself in a most prestigious bloodline." John muttered, patting Elizabeth's hand rather apprehensively so as to assure Irene that he was caring for her as best as he possibly could. The woman looked satisfied, drifting along closer to the pair with stern and investigative black eyes.
"Are you ready to go?" she wondered coolly, still without any hint of humanity within a syllable of her words. John shook the child once more, trying to get the little girl to respond to her mother.
"Elizabeth, are you ready?" John repeated, trying to phrase her mother's question in a more approachable manner with a softer and more childish tone.
"I was talking to you, Mr. Watson. You are expected as well." Irene declared, drawing herself up to full height and reaching out a hand for her daughter to take. Elizabeth fumbled for the woman's hand, sliding off of John's knees and falling a bit unceremoniously upon the gravel at their feet.
"Where are we going?" John wondered, scrambling to his feet and gathering up his now finished coffee nervously within his hands.
"Only my husband knows, I assume." Irene sighed, turning sharply upon her heel and digging rather viciously into the dirt underneath. The woman must have sunken at least an inch into the ground, and yet she recomposed herself and strutted along down the garden path with her child in tow, leaving great divots almost intentionally along the garden path as if to spite all of the landscapers that she hired to make the property perfect. John scampered behind, hiding within the shadow of the magnificent woman with his coffee cup shaking against its saucer in his hands. He wasn't prepared for any sort of road trip; in fact he hadn't even packed a bag! Was this journey in the automobile going to involve an overnight stay? Were the children's' lessons postponed so as to make room for this little vacation? John only had time to set his coffee cup down upon a small decorative table within the parlor when the deep voice of Sherlock Holmes called for him from outside the open door, followed soon after by the slow humming of an engine as it started quietly up. John shivered, abandoning the china as he scampered outside to answer the call. In the driveway John was met with an incredible display of power and wealth, that being the magnificent machine Mr. Holmes was leaning up against under the warm morning sun. the car itself was not much more impressive than the rest on the street, being as though most automobiles looked entirely alike. The very fact that the Holmes family could own one was impressive enough, and as John stepped towards the vehicle he couldn't help but clasp his hands together in delight, feeling quite like a small child walking towards the tree on Christmas morning. True to Elizabeth's word the car was painted bright red, with its fabric top pulled down so as to expose the two rows of seats to the open air. The silver steel bumpers glowed bright in the sunshine, with a large windshield installed so as to protect the driver and his front seat guests from any dirt or debris that would be kicked up by the slow moving carriages in front of them. Irene was already strapping the children in the backseat, fastening them with thick leather belts to ensure they didn't squirm around as the car hit its most impressive speeds. Sherlock stood near the driver's door, twisting his ankles together and blowing a steady stream of white smoke from his parted lips. John could hardly distinguish the white rolled cigarette from the rest of his pale skin, though the flaming red ember gave away its position as the man swiped it through the air for another puff.
"It's beautiful." John declared, coming up closer to the car without daring to lay a finger upon it. He wasn't sure just how delicate these machines were, structurally or aesthetically. Perhaps Mr. Holmes would make him wash off any fingerprints he left upon the flawless exterior?
"Isn't it just? A present from my brother for my thirtieth birthday." Sherlock admitted, patting down upon the car with a sigh, as if the machine was only a cruel reminder of his true age.
"Wow. Quite a luxury gift." John breathed impressively, though he shouldn't be so surprised. Certainly the Holmes family had enough money to throw anything around as if it was worth but pennies. Cars, houses, railroads. Each one could be gift wrapped and presented as a mere trifle, just to stand up the rest of the guests and their small packages.
"Get in then." Sherlock instructed, using his cigarette to wave John in the direction he was meant to be going. This path shooed him right up into the front seat, seemingly next to where Mrs. Holmes had already made herself comfortable in the rightmost position. John nodded, stepping up into the car and shuffling his way across the leather seats to settle himself. The whole car shook as he slid his feet across the floor, though the man was so distracted with the excitement of it all that he hardly noticed his manners were faltering.
"This is amazing." John declared as he sat down in the middle seat, looking around in vain for a similar strap like the children wore. It seemed as though the adults were not concerned with such precautions, yet John began to wonder all the same if he was entirely secure should they run their fancy red car into something a little less glamorous and a little more destructive. Irene gave a little grunt of agreement, as if she felt the need to at least acknowledge that John had spoken though was too exhausted to give a proper response.
"Is Mary not coming?" John asked apprehensively, suddenly realizing that he was the only one in his particular tax bracket within the confines of the red car.
"She isn't needed." Sherlock explained, hardly tilting the car at all as he settled himself down within the driver's seat. With the door shut behind him Sherlock took hold of the steering wheel, prompting John in response to clutch onto the windshield in fear. He had never been in a vehicle propelled by an engine before, much less driven by such a reckless man as Sherlock Holmes! There was some comfort in knowing that a carriage had three brains working to its advantage, one of the driver and two of the horses in his command. In this situation John doubted that the engine would be able to correct any mistakes made by the driver, and here was Sherlock with his feet already positioned on the strange looking pedals below!
"How fast does this thing go?" John asked apprehensively, nearly digging his fingernails into the windshield in an attempt to protect himself from sudden whiplash.
"On the open road we can hit thirty five miles per hour. Though in New York there is an imposed speed limit of ten." Sherlock explained, suddenly hitting the gas pedal and easing the car into momentum. As John realized there were no explosions involved with getting up to speed he was able to relax, nestling down in his seat and watching in wonder as the driveway began to move beneath their rolling wheels, the world falling away without the clop of horse's hooves or the rocking back and forth that was characteristic of the cheaper hansom cabs. John's jaw had dropped open for the duration of their entrance onto the main road, nearly clutching his fingernails all the way through his opposing palm as they merged into the thick lanes of carriage traffic that was meandering slowly down Fifth Avenue. John watched from where he sat squished between the Holmes parents as heads began to turn in their direction, attracted by the whining of the motor. Their eyes widened, their mouths gaped, and some people even stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to watch such a sleek car move steadily down the street. Certainly they were not just looking at the vehicle, for while it was an impressive machine it seemed to be one of ten going down this road alone. Certainly an automobile upon Fifth Avenue wasn't all that much of a rare occurrence, being as though everyone who could afford such luxuries certainly took residence in some areas of its neighborhoods. It took John only a moment to realize that it wasn't only the car the residents were staring at; it was also the passengers inside of the impressive vehicle that caught their eyes. On either side John was accompanied by the most beautiful representatives of man and woman, and from either side of the road the passersby had a fantastic view of the two. Since the top was pulled off of the car both Sherlock and Irene's heads were protruding at the perfect angle for observation, and it seemed as though their heads and shoulders were enough to stop the pedestrian traffic as the men and women of New York stopped to gape upon their radiance. John felt terribly small in comparison to such people, not only the most beautiful but also the most wealthy in all of New York City. John almost wanted to hide his head in shame, realizing that his own likelihood was undoubtedly ruining this idealistic display of beauty and power making its way at ten miles an hour down the busy Fifth Avenue streets. Though with his gaze dropped he was only forced to look upon himself and the floor at his feet, realizing with a jolt that he may be terribly inferior to the Holmes family, though he was the only one in this whole street who had the honor of being squished in between the American royals. Yes, John fell short in almost all categories when compared to either Sherlock or Irene, though as he looked down upon his legs he found that his knee was brushing upon against Sherlock's thigh, and his foot was a mere inch from scuffing Irene's polished black high heels. He was the only one in New York with such proximity, no matter how poor or insignificant he was in comparison. What did it matter his own social status, so long as he kept in good friendship with those who could buy and sell more than half of the city's streets? With this newfound realization John was at least able to raise his head once again, feeling as though each pair of eyes which settled disappointedly upon him should be taken as a compliment if nothing else. He felt quite famous, quite impressive, if only by association.
"Where are we going exactly?" John wondered finally, feeling as though he was entitled to at least a small explanation. As lovely as it was to take a ride with the Holmes family the farther they drove from the manor the more apprehensive John became. He couldn't help but notice the territory looking familiar; they were driving him closer and closer to his starting point, to his old hometown.
"To make a donation." Sherlock muttered, settling his long fingers upon the wheel almost carelessly as if he felt there was no point in steering any longer. They were now stuck behind a very slow moving carriage, one which seemed to be pulled by one very old, struggling horse.
"A donation." John muttered, his heart trembling with the use of such words. What exactly did Mr. Holmes have in mind as they drew closer and closer to John's shabby old neighborhood? Were they donating him back to the development, leaving him on the curb without his possessions or his paycheck? Was this just an extravagant parade to John's grand dismissal from the Holmes household?
"Sherlock have you alerted the Times?" Irene muttered from where she sat, leaning heavily upon the door as if she wished it might unlatch and loose her into the mess of traffic. It seemed as though that would be more entertaining for her than sitting stuck with her entire detested family.
"The Times! What, you want the whole world to watch me?" John exclaimed fearfully, clutching his hands to his face in horror. Where were those cameras positioned, where were those reporters now?
"Watch you what? Sit in the car?" Sherlock laughed, leaning his beautiful head upon his neck so as to flash John one of his rare and dazzling smiles.
"I'm not stupid; I know where we're going! Back to my old apartment. You're sacking me, aren't you?" John demanded, his words trembling as they left his throat, as if he knew that he ought to keep his frightful assumptions to himself. Oh here he was again, running his ridiculous mouth before he got a solid grasp on the situation! Thankfully Sherlock took it well, for he laughed again, this time allowing one of his hands to fall off of the wheel and grasp John by the knee, the only portion of his body which was visible within the man's peripheral vision. It was a touch that was intended to be a wake up call if anything else, a soft squeeze to force a more realistic perspective into John's brain. Whatever the hand was intended to do, well certainly it didn't work. John felt the fingers curl upon his leg and his mind went blank, panicked in those short moments and wondering if he was obligated to touch Sherlock in response. He had never been good at social cues, especially not those among the rich and powerful! Every move these people made came off as flirtatious, though John was certain that Mr. Holmes had no intention of making such an impression. John's mind was still stained with the Porcelain Doll's fingerprints, and here he couldn't even see his boss without skewing his perception into something foul!
"If you want to be sacked I suppose I could have it arranged. Though it would be a terrible loss." Sherlock assured, still with his fingers rooted within the folded fabric of John's ill fitted suit.
"You mean..." John breathed a sigh of relief. "You mean we just happen to be heading in this direction?"
"No it is an intentional course. We're going back to where we first met, Mr. Watson. Going back to your old school." Sherlock explained. Irene heaved a sigh of boredom on the other side of John, as if she found their bantering to be unbearable.
"To my old school, for...for a donation?" John muttered, his face suddenly draining of color as he began to piece Sherlock's vague clues into a much more reasonable picture. His conversation with the man in the classroom suddenly came back to surface, the look of horror upon Sherlock's face as he realized how ill equipped John's previous schoolhouse had been. Could it be that he felt pity, could it be that he was going to extend generosity to those who needed it the most?
"Yes John, for a donation. Your words moved me, your past troubled me. As a man with all of the money in the world I figured I'd share a small sum with those you left behind. In honor of your position here, and in recompense for removing you so suddenly." Sherlock explained with a little smile. John sat frozen in his seat; his hair gently tussled by the wind and his eyes blinking in awe.
"How much?" John whispered. "If I may ask?"
"I was waiting for you to ask." Sherlock chuckled, repositioning both hands upon the steering wheel as if he wanted to be as far away from John's flailing limbs when the initial shock hit. John sat quietly, patiently, though inside his heart was drumming up the most frequent rhythm he had ever felt. His limbs had all turned numb, as if the blood had stopped flowing within his veins so as to ensure that every part of his body could properly hear the upcoming value. Sherlock took his eyes off the road for one moment; long enough to speak what he had to say. His eyes sparkled as he repositioned his gaze, his curls ruffling along his forehead and making the top of his head move with a strange liveliness, as if each strand of hair had a mind and motion of its own.
"Five thousand dollars." Sherlock announced at last, his lips curling into his most conniving little grin. As if he had chosen such a high amount just for the pleasure of watching John's face drain of all color.