The Porcelain Doll

Have You Ever Killed Before?

Sleep came very reluctantly, and only after John had curled the majority of his blankets between his knees and hugged a pillow tightly to his chest. John fell into dreams that were painted red, dreams that were interrupted by the same voice which had come in between the two servants' moment of bliss. It was a deep voice, booming for this strange hour of night, a voice which must have come from the other side of one of these thin walls. The syllables were mingled and yet the intensity was clear, for while John did not catch any of the words spoken he understood there was an urgency in the way they were spoken. It was Mycroft's voice, for it came again much clearer, as John's brain was beginning to wake and his ears were beginning to send signals to a receiver which could actually contemplate what was going on. He heard now, the very slightest conversation...
"...up and get your shoes on." Mycroft was demanding, with a voice that sounded so angry for this hour! Whatever could he be summoning his brother for, what could be so important? John groaned quietly, not daring to make too much of a commotion lest the brothers realize they had a very interested eavesdropper. Instead he extended his hands from his mess of bedsheets, his fingers carefully finding the oil lamp and twisting it into flame, illuminating the room so as to make out the hands of the clock which were ticking slowly in their usual pattern. Not yet three o'clock, only two hours after John had finally fallen to sleep.
"Must we do this now? Tomorrow night I may not be nearly as exhausted." Sherlock responded miserably, his voice much softer and harder to catch between the wood. John stayed curled within his warm blankets, happy that the Holmes brothers were talking loud enough that he could listen from the comfort of his bed. If they dropped their octave John doubted he would be so motivated to creep into the cold to press his ear against the wall, as whatever they were talking about did not seem nearly as interesting as was the collected body heat in these freshly pressed silk sheets.
"Tomorrow night you will not be here." Mycroft insisted. "It is now or never."
"I extend my hospitality to you for how many weeks on end? And you cannot even spare me two nights of asylum?" Sherlock growled.
"You have work, brother mine." Mycroft insisted with his ever present snarl. Even now John could imagine that look on his face, those aggressive eyes coupled with an antagonizing smile, as if he was just trying to pick a fight with his brother for the satisfaction of winning in that as well. There was a growl from Sherlock's end, or at least from his more familiar tone of voice, followed almost immediately by the shuffling around of a sleep deprived man. Bedsprings flexed and released, feet scuffed across carpet, and finally a dressing gown was ripped agressivley off of a hangar, leaving the wire to spin about upon its steel hook before at last it grew silent.
"Is he ready to be dumped?" Sherlock wondered.
"I have tended to his head while you entertained our servants this afternoon. It is in its own separate basket." Mycroft assured. John blinked, automatically rising into a sitting position as his ears began to strain for more words, more telling syllables. Suddenly John realized he was listening in to a conversation which was much deeper than he had originally imagined, one which was not spoken with the intention of being overheard. He realized that whatever the brothers were discussing was quite criminal.
"And where shall we take the rest of him? That beast may very well be recognized by the amount of fat which clings to his bones." Sherlock snarled.
"We shall take the body to the lake. Though we will have to walk, and through the grass." Mycroft admitted with a sigh.
"Why on earth would we walk?" Sherlock snarled.
"Car tires, brother dear. It has rained in the past couple of days, and if the mud reveals the imprints leaving from our driveway and to the place of disposal..."
"But he's two hundred pounds, even without that puny little brain!" Sherlock debated with a whine.
"Maybe you should have considered that before..."
"Alright, alright! Stop that, stop making me feel guilty." Sherlock snarled.
"Guilty for what, Sherlock? You said it yourself...you were desperate." Mycroft chuckled. There must have been a nonverbal response from the younger Holmes, perhaps a scowl or a little snarl that would fill the silence more effectively than words ever could. Either way the conversation paused, leaving John to sink his bare feet against the floor and creep silently to the wall, worried that he was missing the most important whispers between the two.
"I'm surprised you're able to walk." Sherlock snapped at last, followed quickly with the sound of a closet door swinging open.
"Not only whores can build tolerances." Mycroft reminded him. This time John could hear the growl that was emitted from his master's throat, now as he moved his way past the dresser and up against the bare wallpaper. Carefully John pushed the side of his head to wall, pressing his ear across the decoration and listening with as much strain as he could manage. He wanted to hear everything, not just the words, not just the noises. He wanted to hear their heart beats; he wanted to hear their facial expressions. John realized with every syllable that he was listening into something extremely private, something that led him to believe a terrible crime had been committed. Is this why the Holmes brothers had taken refuge in the country, to dispose of the victim of some murderous affair?
"How far is it to the lake?" Sherlock wondered, the closet door swinging shut with an audible bang as his footsteps began to retreat towards the door.
"Two miles, give or take. It is a public place, where many people might dispose of an unidentified body." Mycroft assured. "He should be safe there, sunken or floating."
"I trust you with this, Mycroft. You claim to know best about these things, though with every move you make I begin to question your authenticity. Have you ever killed before, or have you just read the newspapers?" Sherlock wondered at last, to which John's blood ran completely cold. There was his definite answer, then, there was his validity. Killed.
"If I had ever killed you would not know about it, would you? Is that not proof enough?" Mycroft questioned, followed by the quick turning of footsteps. It sounded as if the men were beginning to make their way to the door, as two pairs of differing strides made their way across the hardwood. Suddenly stricken with fear John raced back to the safety of his bed, almost expecting that the brothers would intrude upon his privacy to make sure that they were not being overheard. As frantically yet as quietly as he could manage John dove underneath his blankets, stilling his quivering body and forcing his breathing to steady into a normal rate, even if that did mean depriving himself of his most needed oxygen. He could heard footsteps fading in the distance, his own room remaining undisturbed as the brothers passed down the hallway without making sure that their secrets were protected within the territory of their own ears. John allowed his muscles to relax, clenching across the pillow he had been holding against himself, now with his eyes wide open and his heart finally distracted from the evening's events. Suddenly this pillow did not fill the void a man would have left; instead it offered him protection from any attacks which might be rearing up from the corners of this house or the darkness of the shadows. Suddenly John's heart was not beating quickly, for now it was too afraid to be silenced forever. Was he living within a house of murderers, men who were just now disposing of their crime? From what John had overheard it sounded as if Sherlock Holmes himself had been responsible for the criminal actions, as if he was somehow responsible for a death. Could it be that there was blood on that man's hands, red and scarlet, tainted and fouled? Was he beautiful only on the exterior, and rotten to the core? John shuttered to consider it, and yet he forced himself to ponder such questions when the light returned to the house. He could not afford to think on such terrible things in the darkness, as his mind was clever enough to turn any shifting of the house into a potentially violent attack. He was paranoid, and without the morning sun to ease his nerves John ran the risk of never falling to sleep. His door was locked, his oppressors undoubtedly gone. John was left alone, alone and safe for now, so long as he did not think too deeply into the pastimes of his most esteemed hosts.