The Porcelain Doll

Four Men In An Empty Estate

The brothers swam for some time before at last their welcoming party was able to catch up to them. No one in the house knew where to find them, and so it was actually quite a surprise to see two figures standing upon the shore and waving madly, both looking relieved just to have spotted their masters on this gigantic plot of property. Sherlock, who had been lying comfortably upon his back on the top of the current, suddenly sunk his body under the water and kept his chest submerged, remembering with a jolt that it was his undressed form which would give away the secret he was trying most to protect. Certainly his wounds were not all healed, and what would he have to say for himself if John Watson recognized his own bite pattern upon his boss's shoulder? It would be too much to explain, and so for the time being Sherlock kept all but his head hidden under the murky depths of the trustworthy river. From where he floated he could see the look of relief upon John's face, the tutor now wringing his hands together when he noticed that he had at last caught his due attention.
"Mr. Holmes, we thought you were dead!" John called out frantically, scrambling down the grassy shoreline and staying put upon the rocky shore. Every now and then a movement from the Holmes brothers would send water flushing up the shoreline and splashing upon the tutor's shoes, though for the moment he seemed much too preoccupied to mind.
"Dead?" Sherlock clarified. "Why on earth would you think that?"
"Well you didn't show up from work last night." John explained carefully, looking back up towards Victor as if to make sure the other servant could back up his rather ridiculous claims.
"That's enough to speculate a missing person, not a murder." Sherlock corrected.
"Thankfully you are neither." John managed with a little chuckle. Sherlock dared a small smile, though he quickly spat it away when his parted teeth allowed a good amount of river water to work its way into his mouth. Mycroft swam to the shore, silent up until the point when he scrambled out of the water and steadied himself upon dry shore.
"Have you got a towel, Mr. Watson?" Mycroft wondered, standing with his hands settled upon his hips and demonstrating the most unflattering angle of his bare stomach. John swallowed a bit uncomfortably, looking back towards Sherlock as if expecting an answer to be put into his mouth by the more educated of the two. Sherlock merely pursed his lips, letting his feet float from the bottom as he swaying his palms back and forth in the water, keeping himself afloat and protected long enough to watch the events unfold.
"No, sir I don't." John said at last.
"Sir." Mycroft muttered with a grin. "Somehow Sherlock always manages to find the most polite help."
"Excuse me, but I'm polite." Victor defended, materializing from the lawn and waving his hand around as if to call attention to himself once more.
"Give me your jacket, Victor." Mycroft demanded, turning his attention back to his valet and flashing a cold look from behind his black, soulless eyes.
"It won't fit you." Victor snarled.
"You call yourself polite?" Mycroft scowled. "Give me your jacket, and don't talk back!"
"Fine." Victor muttered a bit miserably, standing upon the shore and yanking the sleeves of his jacket free from his arms. Eventually he balled the thing up and threw it in Mycroft's general direction, looking almost satisfied when the jacket hit the dirt instead of the man's arms as intended. Mycroft gave some choice words, though finally he scooped the jacket from the beach and crumbled it up in his arms.
"The perfect towel." Mycroft announced thankfully, proceeding to rub the fabric up and down his arms so as to soak up the water droplets which were falling in long drops down the length of his excess skin.
"John, give me yours." Sherlock decided at last, with no intentions of using it as a towel. Instead he knew he had to find some garment with which to cover himself, and if they were going around taking advantage of their servant's dress this would have to do.
"It's...well yes of course." John muttered apprehensively, though without another thought he began to tear the jacket from his shoulders in his urgency to please.
"I know it's your best." Sherlock assured softly. "I don't intend to ruin it, just to wear it."
"Thank you." John managed, stepping closer to the water and dipping his toes into the river just so that he could gently toss the garment across the water and into his master's hands. Sherlock caught the thing perfectly, just managing to yank it above his head before any of the sleeves dangled too far into the water below. Sherlock thought for some moments, realizing that his bare arms were extended and already drawing too much attention from John's wandering eyes. He could not emerge in such a showy fashion, lest john notice each and every detail he was trying to hide.
"Do you mind averting your eyes?" Sherlock suggested at last.
"Are you naked?" John asked with a gasp, as if he hadn't even considered such a possibility before now.
"No, no I'm just..."
"Modest." Mycroft assured, patting John on the back with one of his large wet hands. "He doesn't like audiences."
"Yes, that's it." Sherlock agreed quickly, squinting suspiciously at his brother as if trying to figure out why he would so willingly steal the words out of his mouth. Mycroft merely chuckled, chomping down on the air as if to mimic the exact wound Sherlock was sporting upon his shoulder. Sherlock scowled, though he was happy to see John shuffle away to face the house, looking over towards Victor so as to allow his boss his promised privacy. No one else did the honor of turning, and yet Sherlock knew that the secrets he was attempting to hide were already buried deep into their consciousness. Mycroft and Victor knew every detail about his life, so much so that he needn't bother trying to hide anything. Sherlock emerged from the water from the waist up, trying to shake off his arms in an attempt to save John's coat from getting too dirtied in the process. No matter his efforts Sherlock found that he was still dripping as he pulled the coat around his chest, nearly ripping the fabric in his attempts to pull it substantially around his shoulders to protect his most vulnerable areas. Of course Sherlock never anticipated John's size being a factor, and yet he found with some disappointment that the jacket would not button, nor would it stretch properly to his waist line. Instead Sherlock emerged from the water wearing what looked like a cropped shirt, exposing all the way up to his navel and allowing a length of his chest to be exposed between the opposing lengths of fabric. It was an embarrassing fit, yet thankfully Sherlock was able to keep his wounds hidden and his chest more or less concealed. He left most to the imagination, which was all he needed at the moment.
"Thank you, Mr. Watson." Sherlock muttered, his bare feet stepping upon the shore and digging into the sharp edges of unforgiving stones. John turned excitedly, his eyes finding his master's as a smile broke out upon his face. It would seem as though the tutor was overcome with some sort of emotion, one which Sherlock would later recognize as relief. Relief perhaps for his paycheck, or for his job security. Relief that was not rooted in his care for his boss, just in fact for the job itself. Though in the moment Sherlock caught the full force of that emotional gaze, his wide eyes absorbed each and every tremble of the opposing man's heart. And in that moment, oh in that foolish moment, he thought he recognized some of the same feelings which were floating in his own body. He used those eyes as mirrors, not as windows, and as such he thought he caught a glimpse of deep admiration, of blind exaltation...of strange and experimental love. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, and for that moment in time he found himself caught between lunging forward and falling backwards. Had there not been an audience he might have taken John Watson within his arms, he might have pulled him into an embrace and held him until his fingers grew tired and his legs grew numb. Though with the pure surprise of it all Sherlock also felt the need to stumble back into the water, falling back first into the stream and sink to the depths so as to hide his shame and protect every emotion which was beginning to surface. He knew he was under a microscope, not so much from the oblivious John Watson but instead from his brother's ever wandering black eyes and Victor's spotlights from above on the grass. They could see straight past Sherlock's facial expressions and directly into his mind. They could notice every quiver of his heart and which direction it was pointing. They could watch his eyes widen and read everything which his soul was trying to suppress. And he tried to hide it, he tried to look away, cast his eyes down towards his bare feet and ignore what was beginning to grow like a parasite within his chest. A feeling, a terrible feeling...all together unfamiliar. What could he do except step away and ignore it? Sherlock turned his head away, beginning to step up from the gravel and settle his feet upon the soft grass. He did not say another word to John Watson, and yet he could feel the tutor's eyes following him as he made his way past Victor and off towards the house. Sherlock wanted to look back, though he kept his eyes forward all the same.