The Porcelain Doll

A Preference Of Partner

Sherlock drew back up, keeping himself rigid against the back of his chair with his eyes flashing dangerously. He did not want to be targeted with such aspirations, especially not when John Watson was sitting so close by. Sherlock recognized that look in his eyes, the very same look he wore as he was dropping his money with Wilson on the other side of the door. Hunger, a ravenous, animistic need. Those fingers were tapping upon his leg, his feet twitching, his lips trembling. He was looking upon Sherlock as any predator might glance upon prey, acting as if he might starve if he was not satisfied in every way necessary.
"Mycroft, can I?" Victor began to whisper, his fingers hastening to his pockets to retrieve what dollar bills might be floating inside of them. What little he could scrounge he threw onto his boss's lap, not even breaking eye contact with his aspiration on the other side of the room. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, looking quickly towards John as if to make sure he did not think too badly of the situation that was about to unfold.
"Can I please?" Victor hissed again, this time almost falling over his own weight as he leaned forward upon the couch, still not given permission to get to his feet. Carefully Mycroft counted the money which had fallen into his lap, mostly pocket change which he counted out within the palm of his hand. The older brother sighed, curling his fat fingers upon the money and nodding in satisfaction.
"Do what you will." Mycroft agreed at last, releasing Victor from his pent up excitement, the cage which had been folded around the man built entirely of expectations and established rules. Sherlock receded into his chair, pressing against the fabric until his spine was very nearly hitting against the wooden frame hidden under the cushioning. He watched as Victor rose to his feet, visibly shaking from head to toe, his face drawn and pale as he slid his fingers up and down his legs, as if to draw the blood into them to propel him properly across the room. Sherlock inhaled sharply, closing his eyes for another moment and watching the darkness pleasantly, trying to pretend that he was alone and lost within the shadows the world had cast. He tried to forget the audience, the wide eyes that were watching him from the left side, those large hazels that would be fixed upon each of the limbs as they intertwined. John Watson, who thought the world of his boss, would have to watch the powerful tycoon degrade into the simple prostitute he was forced to be in the company of his brother. John would have to watch him act in accordance to expectations, arranged to be a mere plaything for those Mycroft sought to entertain. Sherlock winced again, though this time he forced his eyes to open, allowing the dim firelight to illuminate what he expected to be a descending chest, caught in the very moment Victor dove upon his prey. Sherlock expected to be met with shirt buttons and immediate pressure, and when he instead opened his eyes and saw clear to the other side of the room, unobstructed by any seductive valet. Sherlock blinked for a moment, looking towards Mycroft in some confusion before noticing that somehow he had lost the attention of his older brother. Mycroft had turned his eyes elsewhere, he had shifted away. And so Sherlock followed his gaze, already able to guess what he might find just as soon as he spotted the true scene of interest. The first thing Sherlock noticed was John's eyes, ones he had expected to be trained on him for the rest of the evening instead locking with the set of blues which radiated so fiercely out of Victor Trevor's skull. They were just as wide, just as afraid and confused, and yet they did not seem to take into consideration the very important men who were still dotted about the room, observing every move of their lowly servants. John kept his eyes fixed with Victor's as the valet descended upon him, firstly kicking one leg across the back of the tutor and pulling his back forward with a thrust of his foot, making more room for the rest of Victor's limbs to wrap when at last he settled himself upon John's lap. With John wrapped in his leg at last Victor eased himself down, settling the whole of his weight onto John's waist and taking a deep, preliminary sigh as he pushed himself upon the other man's chest, swinging his chin across John's shoulder and hugging their bodies as close as he could manage. Sherlock gripped the arms of his chair, feeling his mouth drop open to hear no opposition from his most trusted tutor. He had expected a noise of protest, a wiggle of dissatisfaction. Well of course John didn't have a clean record when it came to men, considering his visit to the Porcelain Doll, though this seemed to be one step farther...in fact two steps farther! This was far past a secluded affair with a masked man; this was in the view of his boss, of the two most powerful men in New York! And here he was, entangled within the limbs of what could only be counted as a casual acquaintance. Knowingly, willingly, and publically. Sherlock could not believe what he was seeing, and yet he had no choice but to stay silent, feeling that he was not allowed to voice any opposition when both men were consenting adults. If this was what John wanted, well what power did Sherlock have to stop it? By the light of the fire he watched as John's hands folded carefully around Victor's sides, taking the valet's waist within his firm grip and allowing him to move once, twice upon his waist with a forceful grind. And then Victor retreated, he leaned back again to catch John Watson's lips within his own, met with no opposition. Met instead with enthusiasm, a mouth which opened to receive his and a kiss which was just as powerful as the one offered. Sherlock could almost feel when their lips met; his own open mouth might as well have received one of their most excited tongues. He was beginning to feel quite strange, a feeling of lust which he had never felt before. Of course before this evening he had realized that John Watson was beginning to mean more to him than a simple man of the household, though tonight may very well have confirmed his previous suspicions. He had the man once before, under the guide of a faceless body who was there for the pleasure of the costumer. He had received that love, that strangely powerful love, from behind a face of porcelain. Only now did he realize that the Doll was only one vessel of his consciousness that desired the tutor, only now did he see those moving lips and begin to envy the man who received them. Sherlock watched, he leaned forward within his chair; he gripped his knee to keep his legs steady, to keep his body under control. He watched as John received the admiration, he watched as the tutor received kisses upon his neck, as his eyes drooped shut and his hands felt along the stretched and flexed back of Victor Trevor. Sherlock felt sick with envy, his own fingers flexing upon his body to mimic what it might feel like to take John Watson up in his arms. The house was alight, it was simmering, it was smoking with lust. Each man was boiling in the feeling; each man was combusting into its drawing temptations. Two servants touched and yet all four men felt it, each one reacting in their own way. Mycroft sat on the other side of the room, downing whiskey with his legs crossed, his feet tapping anxiously against the carpet as his black eyes flickered forwards and backwards to follow the twisting limbs of John Watson upon the back of his valet. Sherlock felt that he could hardly breathe, and yet it was a most welcomed, most wonderful feeling. All throughout his life he had never wanted anything so badly; in fact he had never wanted anyone at all. Sex had been the desire of other men, the need and priority of his lowly costumers, those who were too desperate and too afraid to venture into the real world of romance. Up until this moment, until this very night, Sherlock had never wanted another man. He had received them willingly, but never desired a single soul. However tonight, well tonight he looked upon John Watson and wished that he could swap places with Victor. He did not care the audience; he did not care the implications. Sherlock would have given anything in the entire world, all the money in his banks and all the riches in his possession, just to sit upon the lap of John Watson and hug him in between his outstretched legs. He wanted to feel that man again; he wanted to have that man again. This time with his own face, and with his own eyes, and with his own lips. Sherlock exhaled sharply, forcing his head upon his curled fist and leaning it pointedly upon the armrest, trying to keep himself steadied within his chair so that he did not leap to his feet to receive what he felt should rightfully be his. That was his tutor, was it not? A man on his payroll! Who was Victor to steal all of the attention away, who was Victor to look so delighted? Sherlock forced himself to sink within the cushion, forcing each individual muscle to flex and to fall into the weight of gravity, lest he animate himself quite involuntarily and fall to the floor in a heap. Sherlock caught his lip between his teeth, wincing to watch John Watson's tongue materialize out of his parted lips and press onto Victor's collarbone, exposed from the undone buttons on the top of his shirt. They were enjoying it, they were both enjoying it.
"Victor!" Mycroft breathed at last, throwing aside his whiskey glass and ignoring it as it shattered across the coffee table at his side. "Victor!"
"Sir, have you an opposition?" Victor whispered, pulling John across his body once more and leaning the two of them back into the couch cushion. Mycroft had risen to his feet, his fingers flexed upon his hips and his face having grown terribly pale.
"Get off of him, get off now." Mycroft breathed. "Come with me, follow me, my God."
"To your bedroom?" Victor presumed.
"Anywhere." Mycroft insisted breathlessly. Victor merely chuckled, catching John's lips within his own one last time before drawing his lips away, falling coordinately back upon his feet and drifting slowly away from the once condensed form of John Watson. Sherlock only saw out of his peripheral view that Mycroft and Victor met first across the coffee table, their bodies hitting together with some force and the two blurred shapes combining for a moment into one. It took a moment before they separated, though in the light of the dying fire the two retreated up the stairwell, Mycroft having caught Victor's hand in his own and moving quite quickly for a man of his size. He was pulling the valet along, presumably wishing to escape to a more private setting before his heart burst within his chest and his lust turned into undeniable action. This of course left the sitting room empty, save for two men. Sherlock had not let his gaze fall away from his tutor, though only now was John beginning to recuperate from the situation he had just escaped from. Slowly he began to reposition himself, shifting his weight across the couch cushions as if trying to find a spot a bit more comfortable. His face was quite worn and pale, as if he was only now beginning to realize that repercussions came after such horrible decisions. He seemed to realize the severity of his actions only after his partner had been dragged away. Sherlock's eyes were entranced, watching as John felt at the corners of his lips to wipe away any saliva, his own or borrowed, from his skin. Sherlock watched as the man tried to tuck his shirt back into his belt, as he tried to ease his aching heart and still his blood back into the vessels it belonged in. Sherlock's eyes were unblinking, entranced, and finally he began to realize that the two of them were alone. No witnesses to what might happen tonight, no one left to spectate what would happen when both men were utterly submerged in the most delightful feelings of longing. When John finally caught the eyes of his master he seemed to interpret the stare as something more hostile, as a disappointed stare rather than one of desire. He saw Sherlock's jaw hanging from his skull and he winced, as if he was expecting a scolding rather than an invitation.
"Sir, Sir I...I'm sorry." John exclaimed at once, hastening to his feet as if to make the most abrupt departure he could manage.
"I didn't know, John you...well you had never mentioned that you had a preference." Sherlock whispered, forcing his weight onto his legs as he stumbled forward upon the carpet, pushing himself out of his chair to match his tutor's escape with the same urgency. The men met in the middle of the sitting room, with Sherlock standing stock still upon the carpet, trying to figure out what he intended his legs to do. He wished to go forward, so desperately he wanted to collapse into John's arms and pull the man down upon the floor, he wanted to hold that body between his legs and smother those lips until his tongue was a choking hazard. And yet...and yet he could not move. All of the confidence he displayed when hidden behind his mask, now perfectly thwarted by the color rising in his cheeks. His face was exposed, his name and reputation made all the more obvious. John would know, he would remember. He would realize.
"A preference of partner?" John wondered in the most croaking voice, nervous and shaking as if he was about to burst into tears at a moment's notice. He still must be taking this attention as a scolding and not a nonverbal invitation. He must not have picked up upon the urgency in his master's voice.
"A preference of men." Sherlock agreed.
"I didn't know." John admitted quietly. "I'm still not sure what I like."
"You liked him, you liked that." Sherlock reminded him anxiously.
"I'm not sure. Sir, please...it's not grounds to fire me." John pleaded anxiously. Sherlock blinked, recoiling his head and attempting to process such a declaration. Oh how boring it was, how all together dampening to bring up the matter of his employment!
"I'm not going to fire you." Sherlock promised, speaking his words through parted lips, speaking with breath that was hardly able to be summoned from his clenched chest.
"It was...well it was impulsive." John admitted weakly, hooking his arm across his chest and rubbing his fingers across the muscles which flexed underneath his jacket.
"Impulsive is appreciated." Sherlock assured with a breath, taking another shaking step forward and wondering if he might be allowed to reach out, if he might be able to take the man up in his arms and lose himself once again in the moment. He wondered if either man would be able to consider the repercussions if they acted immediately.
"Just the heat of the moment." John agreed.
"Heat." Sherlock managed with a nod, the skin of his face almost drooping right off of his skull as he sunk into the pressures of utmost lust. How had he so easily lost himself, why did he want this so badly?
"Sherlock..."
"John." Sherlock countered immediately, anxiously. John's nervous face began to twist, though into what expression Sherlock could not yet predict.
"Goodnight." John finished at last, finishing off with a slightly nervous smile before nodding his head in finality. Sherlock stumbled backwards upon his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets to prevent them from reaching out in debate. He forced himself to stand still, to keep straight, to keep rigid. It was an unexpected word, a word of farewell when the night was still young. The moon was shining, the fire was dying, they were alone...and John would bid him a goodnight? And yet Sherlock knew that he could not debate against such a word, one which would shut down anything he was preparing himself to try. Goodnight meant all of the denials in the world, each connotation of no, spelling out 'go away' in every forgotten tongue. John did not want an advance, no matter how desperately Sherlock might seek one. John wanted to go off to his own bedroom; he wanted to be alone in the darkness, alone with his thoughts. Not alone with his master.
"Yes, yes." Sherlock spat out finally, catching his voice before it could yell out some other mistaken words. "Goodnight indeed."
"I'm sorry for my behavior." John added again.
"It's already forgiven." Sherlock assured.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." John declared, bending into an awkward sort of bow before he repositioned himself into his militaristic posture, clapping his heels together in farewell before turning his back and ascending slowly up the stairs towards his chosen bedroom, the one which shared a wall with Sherlock's usual room of residence. His back retreated slowly through the darkness, as if every step was weighed quite heavily with the consideration of turning around. And yet despite any hesitations he might have harbored, and any second thoughts Sherlock tried to plant into his mind, the tutor ascended into the shadows and was lost into the night. Moments later the soft snap of a door could be heard, and with such a final show of disinterest Sherlock was left to collapse back into his armchair, holding a clammy hand against his forehead and breathing quite heavily. Why did he want it, when had he ever? The one night of his life when he was allowed to think of anything else, here he found his mind plagued again with the bodies of men. 

John POV: The tutor trembled, curled with his blanket draped across his shoulders like a cape of the old kings, anchored into his shirt collar and covering his back with a tight warmth, one which almost mimicked the hold of another. He stared off blankly, focusing on nothing and letting the rest fade into the background, letting the reality begin to mingle with the darkness until his world seemed to be lost to a strange fuzz, looking like radio static might appear as in the form of light. Dots, moving back and forth across his line of vision. Black and white flashes, as light appeared and vanished as quickly as his mind could process them. John took a sharp breath, shutting his eyes before his head began to spin with the threat of unconsciousness. The house was silent and yet it was moving, the walls twisting across the foundation, the ceiling moving back and forth with the anticipated rhythm of the master of the house. The house shuttered, the house moaned, the house reached out fingers of wood and plaster, gripping to the men which still harbored inside of it. It was hot, hot and yet he still shivered. John remained still, unsatisfied, and quite desperate as to what he had just done, and what he was still wishing to do. Somewhere within these walls lay Victor Trevor, undoubtedly with that same smug smile upon his face, that same grin that was shining from over his master's bare shoulder. He was proud of himself, the only man within this whole building who was controlling the rest like one might a finger puppet. He had them all wrapped around his knuckles, bending and moving when he willed it. Little men of paper and felt, little men who bowed to his command and were weakened by a quick glance. John was not in love with Victor Trevor, no he was far from it. John respected the man as one might respect a large and immovable object, one which was designated to evoke a specific, powerful emotion. Just as the ocean was designed to be feared, or the mountains were deigned to be marveled, or trees were designed to be admired. So too was Victor Trevor designed to be loved, designed in every way to make the average man begin to lust for a thing he had not yet considered and never would try again. Victor was equipped with all of the tools of the trade, a beautiful face, a seductive smile, eyes which shone with trust and mystery. He had a body which moved when it ought to, hands that grasped where and when they should. He had a voice like velvet and a heart like pure stone. Victor Trevor was made to seduce, with no intentions of love in between. John wasn't supposed to feel for him, nor was he supposed to marry him. He was just supposed to kiss him, and hold him, and twist within his grasp. And he was supposed to forget, immediately afterwards. And forget he had...that is if he wasn't so afraid of what the rest of the audience still could remember. John hadn't been able to get a good glance at his employer during the affair; he had been so caught up in the moment that he had forgotten there was even an audience at all! Sherlock must have been horrified, to see that his own servant was so easily manipulated by men. The man he trusted to teach his children, the man he allowed into his own home! A criminal by most standards, a sick devil by nearly all. Seduced, manipulated, and now all together twisted into a lifestyle that was not legal or accepted. Despite what he had said, despite Sherlock's assurances that there was no trouble within the matter, well John still had a terrible feeling about the ordeal. He began to wonder if he had made the gravest mistake of his life, all for a moment of passion that was left unfulfilled! He still sat with these sweating walls, shivering and panicked for the way his heart was racing. Still he felt the need to find a partner, he felt the need to trek towards Mycroft's bedroom and take back the lover he had stolen. John felt terribly neglected as he lay alone, alone in a bed that was so obviously built for two.