The Porcelain Doll

The Road is No Place For The Rich

John scrambled up behind, already shedding his jacket to reveal a casual white button down shirt and black suspenders, tilting his hat upon his head so as to better shied his eyes from the aggressive sun. Sherlock tried not to look too obviously, though the man was already beginning to sweat through the white cotton, allowing the fabric to stick to his most defined muscular body. Well of course Sherlock couldn't pretend he was unfamiliar with that man under his clothes, as they had been quite intimate without the tutor ever releasing his true taste in partner. Sherlock knew exactly what would be waiting if ever the man shed the rest of his garments, and he wondered just how long it would take before he did. One way or another he had a feeling that John Watson would join him once again. Though until that point, and so long as his true face was still visible, Sherlock assumed that he would only get the pleasure of admiring John Watson through the thin layers of clothes he still clung modestly to his body. There was not much conversation as they hiked down the road, partially because there seemed to be nothing to do but complain, and that got quite tiring after some time. The crunching of their feet on the dirt, coupled with the cicadas which were chirping a bit prematurely somewhere in the fields of corn made each step begin to feel heavier, and before long Sherlock felt as though he couldn't go on any longer without toppling over and crawling. This box, which had been at one time the bane of another man, had suddenly become so heavy within his flexed fingers that Sherlock wondered if Mycroft had not shoved the entire body of Moran into the box, as well as a pound of bricks. Each one of his limbs would fall off if Sherlock did not stop to take a rest, and they probably didn't even make it two miles into the horizon! While the tree line appeared somewhat closer it was not nearly as conveniently placed as he would like, and for a moment Sherlock despaired at the possibility of dying alongside of this silly country road.
"I'm stopping for a moment." Sherlock announced, not even phrasing this as a question for fear that John would encourage him to go along for some time longer. Instead Sherlock dropped the hat box heavily upon the ground, collapsing onto the very thin barrier of crab grass that separated the dirt fields from the dirt roads. It proved a very uncomfortable resting spot, though for a moment it was the only place Sherlock wanted to be. Just the ability to ease the strain off of his aching feet was pleasure enough, coupled with the slight breeze that he could finally feel when facing in this sideways direction. It was paradise; if there ever was such a place. John stumbled down next to him, slinging his coat along his shoulder and unearthing a flask from one of the innermost pockets. The man took a swig for himself, wincing with some satisfaction as he passed it along to his master.
"What is it?" Sherlock wondered apprehensively.
"Brandy." John admitted. "I was in the habit of carrying it for medical purposes, turned quickly to recreational."
"I forgot you were a doctor. Good. Then maybe you could revive me when my heart gives out five miles in." Sherlock grumbled, wrestling the flask from his tutor and taking a thankful swig. The drink was not at all satisfying; in fact it left his mouth feeling even more dry than before. Nonetheless the sting was much appreciated, as his head was a little bit too clear at the present moment. A little bit of alcohol never hurt a bad situation. Sherlock winced for a moment, laying his chin upon his bent knees and tapping his fingers in exasperation upon the metal flask. For a moment he felt entitled to say something, though when he dared peer through his peripheral vision he noticed that John Watson had his eyes fixed, unblinking, upon his master's face. When John didn't say anything Sherlock presumed there was nothing to say, instead he tried to ease his face into a softer, more beautiful position. Perhaps he had enchanted the tutor...perhaps this day would not be wasted after all.
"I don't think you'll die. It's just a little walk." John assured.
"Little? John, a little walk is to the corner store and back. A long walk is to the horizon, with no guarantees thereafter!" Sherlock growled.
"Be a bit more optimistic, why don't you? A miserable situation is only made worse by a miserable attitude." John reminded him with a righteous tone of voice, nearly singing his encouragements as Sherlock scowled in discontent.
"I will be optimistic, yes. I will be positive." Sherlock agreed halfheartedly, merely trying to redeem some of his character before John lost complete interest.
"Good boy." John smiled, snatching his flask back and scrambling to his feet with newfound energy. Sherlock grumbled, running his fingers along his forehead and wincing to collect so much sweat. He was probably perfectly foul by now, a sickly sort of man instead of anything beautiful. John held out a hand, trying to at least get Sherlock up and on his feet without too much trouble. Or perhaps he just wanted to touch his skin; perhaps he had rewritten his priorities so quickly. Either way Sherlock grabbed hold of John's elbow, his fingers working their way almost unintentionally underneath the white fabric and down the man's loose sleeve. He felt the strained joints, the hard bone, the soft skin and the complex interworking of his wrist. He felt him flex and pull, and as Sherlock was launched to his feet he was almost tempted to stumble, stumble just for the purpose of falling into John Watson's body and steadying himself upon his sturdy frame. Despite Sherlock's immediate wishes he stood still, allowing himself to straighten up and retrieve the hat box rather miserably from where it lay in the dirt.
"Why don't I hold that for a while?" John suggested. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, hesitant to trust him with such a hefty secret. Then again he would not recognize the weight of the thing; certainly he couldn't find it anymore suspicious in his own hand than in anyone else's.
"Do not open it." Sherlock warned.
"I don't intend to. I just see you struggling, and thought I could lend a hand." John assured.
"You are my tutor, though you serve rather well as a pack mule." Sherlock agreed, at last handing the case over for John to deal with. The tutor's fingers wrapped through Sherlock's to receive the item, nearly cupping his master's hand in his own so as to accept the weight of the handle as it fell into his grasp. Sherlock bit upon his tongue for a moment, trying not to think too much of the interaction as he immediately shoved his hands into his pockets, casting his head down and beginning the long trek onwards. This time they were able to trek on for about an hour before their next break, though with the discovery of the brandy flask Sherlock found it much easier to stay motivated throughout these long periods of effort. His feet began to ache in his dress shoes, with his toes rubbing through the hard rubber soles, feeling the ground in the arch of his foot and the pressure of developing blisters all along the brims of his toes. His socks were sweaty, his brow dripping, and eventually he had to sling his jacket up and over his shoulder in an attempt to let a little bit of air flow through his shirt and onto his baking chest. Sherlock knew that no matter how badly the situation got he must keep his clothes on, under no circumstances could he take the liberty of bathing in a stream, or even cooling off under the shade of a tree. His thin frame was recognizable, even if his face was not, and it would take one glance before John Watson realized the connection between his boss and his whore. Nevertheless Sherlock felt he was at least allowed to show some skin, and he draped his jacket across John so as to roll up his sleeves to the elbow, exposing his forearms as they gleamed and glistened with the perspiration which had accumulated under the sticky fabric. It was nearly dark by the time the trees came into view, and the men had stayed silent for at least two hours. Sherlock wondered if his voice would even work if he tried, though the more he pondered the idea the more he decided to stay silent, just in case his dust covered throat decided to croak instead of play off his familiar octaves. By the time the tree line was within view Sherlock thought he might have John carry him the rest of the way. For some reason a couple of miles seemed daunting, but a couple of feet felt almost impossible. His legs were beginning to stumble, though by the time they finally gave out the man found himself lying on flat, relatively comfortable ground. The crunch of leaves could be felt underneath his flexed fingers; the touch of grass tickled his exposed skin. A layer of shade covered him from the fading sun, and in the distance he could hear what had to be the soft trickle of a shallow stream coming from somewhere within the forest. They may not be any closer to society, though Sherlock liked his chances of survival here more than anywhere else. Who knows, perhaps a cottage was perched in this grove, someone with a telephone and a ride to a tow truck? John collapsed next to him, though with the sigh of relief he uttered it seemed to be more of a joyous loss of gravity rather than a necessary one. Sherlock's open eyes watched as the body of his tutor hit the ground, his roughly cut, muscular body falling down upon the grass and disturbing the little ecosystems of bugs who were trying to live their lives underneath the softest blades of grass. Sherlock's eyes remained open, even though John kept his own closed, his lids facing the sky with a soft and pleasant smile upon his face. Sherlock swallowed hard, his fingers curling across the grass and pulling up the muddied roots of some of the more vulnerable blades. He remembered what John had spoken of in the car, of his weaknesses. One of which being beautiful men who found themselves on top of him. Sherlock took a deep breath, though instinctively he rolled back over upon his back, forcing himself upon the earth, forcing himself to reconsider all of his most regrettable impulses. John Watson may have a weakness for men, though he could not possibly have a weakness for his boss. There was a layer of professionalism that would forever separate them, even if Sherlock wanted to deny it. Every passing night that was not spend at John's side felt more and more like a wasted opportunity, though the farther he stretched these feelings the thinner they would become, until a lifetime of longing turned into a distant and irrelevant memory of a man long gone.
"Well, this seems like a good spot." John declared at last, rolling his head across the grass and giving Sherlock one of his most optimistic smile. Sherlock nodded, forcing himself to sit up and retrieving the hat box from where it lay at John's side. He had spoken of trading off with the burden, though as soon as John volunteered to carry it he ended up stuck the entire time with the thing bouncing off of his thigh. Sherlock cuddled the box safely into his chest, feeling strangely protective of the thing until it could be safely dumped. This wasn't just a man, this was his victim. This was his first ever trophy, if you could include such a violent token in a glorified category.
"I hear water, and that sounds...well it sounds wonderful." Sherlock admitted at last.
"I could use some water. Brandy's good but it's not nearly as refreshing." John agreed.
"By now the brandy is hot as bath water, and the flask tastes like sweat." Sherlock complained.
"It kept us alive until now, hasn't it? And I think you can thank it for that." John reminded him, getting to his feet and wandering off into the tree line, obviously having forgotten to offer Sherlock the usual helping hand. Sherlock stumbled up to his feet, collecting the hat box and trampling off rather nervously towards where John had vanished. These woods were thick with underbrush, and while he was not expecting to be met with any wild beast or wild man he still felt a bit hesitant to go pushing through the ferns and thorns, following the sound of a stream that could very well be lost in the darkness before he arrived. As the sun set the forest reflected each of the vibrant colors, absorbing the oranges and reds from the sky into its canopy and enveloping its visitors in a warm display. As pretty as it was, however, the sky still lacked the illuminance that Sherlock needed, and as the sun slipped the shadows grew, making every step uncertain as he forged his way through the stream, using the head of Sebastian Moran to cut through the more aggressive briars with large, choppy hurls of the box.
"John, where'd you go?" Sherlock whined, rustling through at a very slow pace and following his ears, not his eyes, towards his destination.
"I'm here." John called, sounding as if he was just on the other side of this wall off underbrush. As predicted it took Sherlock another couple swings before he was able to forge through, though when he at last broke free he found himself stumbling across damp stones, those slick and hidden under the layers of gravel that his shoes disrupted. It was the bank of a stream, though the water was only about a foot deep in its most collected pools. The water table must be low, despite the rain that had fallen some nights before. John was crouched upon a smooth, dry stone, cupping his hands into the stream and drinking the water which he poured carefully into his open lips.
"Is it good?" Sherlock wondered doubtfully, not bothering to hide the disgust that arose from watching that man inhale bits of mud and dirt from the river water.
"Enough to live on. I know you rich folks only drink things that bubble, though I've been drinking from puddles since the day I was born." John boasted.
"Disgusting." Sherlock muttered, though he dropped the hat box and scrambled down upon his knees, cupping his hands and drinking from the cool, refreshing water which bubbled across the rocks. Never had Sherlock tasted something so beautiful, never had a drink of cold water brought him back to life so effectively! He drank more and more until his stomach was full to bursting, and before long he found himself lying once again upon the ground, this time in satisfaction rather than in despair. The crunching of gravel alerted him of John's mobilization, and when Sherlock opened his eyes once again he saw the man standing above him, his hands on his hips and his face silhouetted with the colorful dying rays of their oppressive sun. He looked angelic in many ways, with the radiance of a heavenly being but the kind face of a human man, someone approachable, someone trustworthy. Sherlock, in all his happy delirium, managed to return a rather flustered smile, allowing some of his more childish emotions to leak onto his face and expose his most vulnerable feelings. It was only a single smile, and perhaps from upside down it was unrecognizable as anything more than a smirk. It was the sort of smile which scared him, the sort of look that he allowed his eyes to wear, the sort of legitimacy that he had never allowed on anyone else. This was the sort of love he tried to avoid, the sort of feelings that he never imagined he would be blessed with. What was it that made him so happy, just with the presence of his lowly tutor?
"So what's our plan now? We've made it to the woods, but we're no closer to help here." John pointed out, scrambling down to sit hunched over next to Sherlock, filling his palms with sand and pushing the fine crystals along the ridges in his palms. Sherlock grumbled, kicking his heels into the dirt and shrugging his shoulders a bit carelessly. For the moment he wondered if they even had to forge their way back to civilization. Now with water and shelter they may very well live as hermits until the winter, a good couple of months of solitude with the only human worth his attention. How bad would it be just to give up?
"I'm not sure. Perhaps we shall make it to the other end of the forest and see what's hiding behind. There's ought to be a farmhouse somewhere." Sherlock decided.
"If we keep on through the trees who knows when they will end? Perhaps we've found the start of the Adirondacks, and it'll lead us all the way to Maine?" John muttered nervously.
"All that education and you don't know a thing about geography." Sherlock grumbled, though a smile was poking through his lips unseen by his slouching companion.
"Perhaps I would if I knew even remotely where we are." John pointed out.
"We're a two hour drive outside of the city. That in itself should tell you that we can't be far." Sherlock reminded him.
"Well either way this forest may lead us to another dead end, perhaps just fields and fields for miles. If we lose the road now there's no way we'll find a ride back to the car." John complained.
"So be it." Sherlock grumbled.
"Don't give me that nihilism; we don't have time for that." John pointed out, his voice turning sharp and disinterested just as soon as Sherlock allowed his carelessness to seep through.
"Yes, yes. I forgot I had pledged to an attitude of optimism." Sherlock chuckled.
"So you have, and so you will!" John agreed. "Now come on then, I'm sure we'll find something edible around here."
"What, roots and mushrooms? No, John I will simply not partake. I will have a liquid diet, liquid and nicotine." Sherlock planned, at last sitting up just for the ability to fumble about in his coat pocket and retrieve his cigarettes.
"I think you're onto something there." John muttered, glancing over with his large brown eyes to watch as Sherlock plucked two cigarettes from the carton, followed quickly by a single match being struck and illuminating their small patch of shadows. While the sun was still shining its rays were becoming too weak to penetrate the canopy, so while there was still a faint glow of light the two men sat in growing darkness. This single flame was an appreciated comfort, and as Sherlock cupped his fingers around it to protect from the breeze he cherished the warmth and comfort it brought him, if not just in that small section of burning palm. John leaned his cigarette closer, clenching it in his teeth with his lips wrapped carefully around the rolled paper. Sherlock watched the man's mouth, not so much the top of the cigarette, as he brought the flame in closer. He was so distracted that he nearly burnt them both, and he would have if John didn't give a noise of fright and adjust his positioning to meet the match halfway.
"Trying to maim me?" John wondered with a chuckle, inhaling a deep and thankful puff of smoke as he leaned back against the rocks. Sherlock chuckled, lighting his own before shaking the match and allowing the flame to vanish into a cloud of fragrant smoke. The light extinguished and they were once more settled within the comfortable darkness that Mother Nature blanketed them in.
"Can't see." Sherlock lied, though by the way John began to chuckle he knew that he had been caught red handed. Well, almost red handed at least. Despite John's immediate suspicions the man stayed quiet, allowing Sherlock to sit festering in his shame for some time. All there was to hear was the soft trickling of the low stream, coupled with their inhales and exhales as the fresh air was fouled with the white smoke.
"This reminds me of the army days." John admitted with a chuckle. "Never was in active duty, but training camp involved a lot of sitting around in the middle of nowhere, smoking."
"Oh yes? Well perhaps I'd be better equipped to serve than I imagined." Sherlock chuckled.
"You wouldn't last a day." John decided firmly, to which Sherlock winced in some disappointment.
"Is it because I'm skinny?" he complained.
"And stubborn, and uncooperative. The sergeant would tell you to go one way and you'd go the other, he'd tell you to do a push up and you'd lie on your chest for a quick nap. Not one day, not one hour." John assured.
"I'm more resilient than you would believe." Sherlock muttered, thinking to his stamina once the nighttime fell. It was hard work, offering a lover to everyone who walked in the door! Just the effort of standing up straight and putting on a smile must have been an exhaustive workout for anyone who was not trained in the art of seduction. No, Sherlock knew he would be quite good in the military, even if he had never even considered picking up a gun or shooting. He would be quite popular.
"You wouldn't have to go, not even if there was a war. Men like you are here to bail the government out of debt, here to monopolize the industry and take advantage of poor men like me. You're not here to fight." John mumbled, twirling his cigarette through his fingers and giving a sigh of discontent. Sherlock looked over to him, allowing himself to look a bit ashamed of the image which was painted.
"Is that all you think of me?" Sherlock wondered at last, figuring he was owed some sort of explanation for a harsh description.
"That's all I think of your kind." John admitted. "Of your brother, and your tax bracket."
"Surely you realize that I am not much of a businessman myself? More of a negotiator." Sherlock pointed out.
"I've come to realize that you may not be on the top of the totem pole, though you are still second in command. You still tower over us all." John pointed out.
"And is that...is that inexcusable in your mind?" Sherlock muttered nervously. John thought for a moment, inhaling sharply before releasing his breath in a long and entrancing puff.
"I'm not sure what to make of you, Sherlock. Though that in itself is an accomplishment, considering my original opinions of tycoons." John decided at last, managing a small smile around his cigarette as he glanced quickly upon his master. Sherlock found his breath caught in his throat, though he managed a nod of satisfaction, as if John's answer had done something to ease his worries. In all honesty he didn't feel remarkably better. In fact Sherlock wished for something much more extensive, he wanted to hear John describing his positive emotions, using words that defined so closely to love that it may as well be assumed. He wished at least for something more emotional than that, leading John's long awaited answer to hit and miss, bouncing off of Sherlock's skin as if it had never been spoken at all.