The Porcelain Doll

The Commonality of Compliments

"I suppose I shall take that as a compliment, though it is so forgettable that it did nothing to boost my self-esteem." Sherlock complained at last, settling down onto his elbows and wiggling his cigarette a bit frantically around in his mouth. John chuckled, a sound which blended so well with the other octaves of nature that Sherlock wondered if he was not crafted by the same articulate hands, the ones which molded the countryside and the most beautiful leaves of green.
"As if you need any more of that." John scoffed.
"You'd be surprised. Mommy and Daddy never hugged me." Sherlock pointed out, though even he had to chuckle at the memories of his rough upbringing.
"Oh really? Sounds awfully similar to another parent I know." John mumbled.
"Watch your tongue, Mr. Watson, or I shall fire you and leave you along the side of the road!" Sherlock defended, shooting a very aggressive look in the direction of his most disrespectful tutor. John raised his hands in surrender, though he really must have considered the consequences of his sharp tongue before he spoke. It was never fun to hear about the downfalls of your parenting style, especially not when speaking with the one man you hired to understand the children better than yourself. Certainly John saw them struggling, he saw them longing for a parental figure to watch over them and love them. And Sherlock wished he might be able to love them, he wished for one moment that he would see more of himself reflected in their eyes, rather than those cold stares that were passed down from their detestable mother.
"My family has not changed, not through the generations." Sherlock admitted. "And I regret to say that I am worse than my father in many aspects. I never lay a hand on those children, contrary to his style of parenting, though I never...well I suppose I've never appreciated them either."
"That was another thing Victor told me, about your marriage." John muttered, perhaps forgetting himself and his most immediate manners. Sherlock's eyes squinted, now beginning to wonder just how much Victor had spilled about his most incriminating secrets.
"Victor spoke about my marriage?" Sherlock clarified worriedly.
"Victor speaks about a lot of things, though this one in particular struck me as impossible." John admitted. Sherlock scoffed, figuring every little detail about his marriage was an impossibility. From the pain of the marriage to the struggle of conception his family was never meant to be loving, never even meant to be together. He had tried his best to fit two lives together, two which simply would not merge, and the result was just the sort of disaster you would expect.
"Well then, surprise me." Sherlock offered, figuring it was not going to hurt him to find out just what John Watson knew. The tutor hesitated, now almost having smoked down the entire cigarette. The sparkling embers were getting dangerously close to his lips, so much so that Sherlock was almost going to suggest he stub the thing out and receive a new one.
"He said your brother forced you to marry, just so that he didn't have to produce the heirs himself." John admitted at last. Sherlock chuckled, almost surprised to hear Victor Trevor passing along truth rather than fabrications.
"Knowing what you do about my brother, does that come as any surprise?" Sherlock wondered, remembering how Mycroft so carelessly dragged Victor off of John, if only for the luxury of keeping his company all for himself.
"No, I suppose not." John decided at last. "He has a preference, does he not?"
"Preference of men?" Sherlock presumed, feeling as though their conversation was destined to end in this direction whether or not they intended it. What else could two men talk about when alone in the darkened forest, if not the possibility of homosexuality?
"Yes. That is why he could not have children." John pointed out.
"He's cursed with the inability to love. Even if he did have children he'd treat them like animals." Sherlock pointed out with a huff.
"He seems to love Victor." John protested. Sherlock sighed, tapping his fingers against his own dwindling cigarette before snuffing it out in the sand next to him.
"Everyone loves Victor. It may very well be written in the basic structure of humanity." Sherlock sighed.
"I suppose you're right. He's...well he's certainly made a fool out of me." John agreed.
"And of my brother, though the two were meant for each other in some terrifying ways. Two halves of a human make one rather poorly functioning one, and together with their conniving brains they are quite unstoppable." Sherlock sighed.
"Has Victor...well has he ever made a fool out of you?" John wondered, his voice tensing as he phrased the question he intended in a very innocent, euphemized way.
"Do you mean to ask if I have fallen victim to lust?" Sherlock clarified, unafraid to phrase the question as it was originally meant to be. John hesitated, allowing the beginning of the song of katydids to fill up the gap of silence that was supposed to contain his immediate response.
"Yes." John admitted at last. Sherlock thought for a moment, remembering back to each time he had allowed Victor into his bed. He tried to remember if there was ever a time he enjoyed it, or if he had ever lost himself in the arms of the valet. In the beginning there were certainly sparks, the rush and thrill of seducing a man he knew to belong to his brother. In the beginning Victor was the only spark of sexuality he could find in this dull world, back then the two of them not even breaking seventeen. Those days when Mycroft would visit from his estate, back to his family home. And yet could Sherlock admit to such a thing, could he ever be truthful with the one man he wished to hide so completely from? An admittance of once vice may lead to the presumption of others, now when he had a growing number of secrets to hide! Sherlock wanted to keep his love life a secret, he wanted to keep his heart under this same black curtain which the world saw it as. He wanted to be a mystery, even if it meant hiding the truth which may very well be owed.
"Thankfully I can see him for the devil he truly is." Sherlock declared, figuring that was a perfectly vague answer that even John may not dare to clarify. Thankfully the tutor thought on that for a moment, his brain churning to contemplate what connotations might be lurking under such a hefty statement. In the end he didn't seem to produce anything very reasonable, though by the time he had opened his mouth to interrogate further Sherlock had already clambered to his feet, descending down towards the riverbed for another drink. His actions were not so much driven by thirst, rather by a strict incentive to avoid any further questions. John was getting very close to asking the right questions, and what then? If Sherlock did not learn to lie to him, or at least learn to dodge his increasingly bold accusations, well then he might as well put on the mask and undress right here on the river bank! If Sherlock intended to hold any secrets, well then he must hold them closer than he originally thought necessary. And speaking of secrets... As Sherlock drank he turned his head back towards the hatbox, the one which was starting to look a little bit more threatening in the shade of the moon. Sherlock felt as if Moran's eyes were boring through the box and burlap, staring at him accusingly and blaming him for the fate which had befallen hi. Perhaps it would be better just to discard of the box by cover of night, therefore disallowing any ghosts to get too close to his sleeping form. Sherlock dropped whatever droplets were left upon his hands, straightening up only to pounce upon the box and hold it an arm's length away by the leather handle.
"I think I shall take this now." Sherlock decided at last.
"Take it where?" John wondered, fumbling around with his stub of a cigarette and trying to breathe the last of the smoke which was being emitted from either end.
"Nowhere that concerns you. Stay here, and if I call you better answer." Sherlock threatened.
"What sort of secret business do you have with that box?" John demanded, throwing his cigarette into the stream if only for the luxury of getting to his feet in defiance.
"Just that, secret business! Must I remind you that secrets mean personal space?" Sherlock pointed out hotly, giving his servant a look of utmost disappointment as he turned around and marched off towards the thicker, shadowed section of woods.
"Well if you get eaten by wolves don't come crying to me." John demanded. Sherlock hesitated, having raised the box to slash across the brush and now staying his hand.
"Wolves?" he clarified nervously, turning back upon John to make sure he heard that right.
"Wolves, coyotes, bears, raccoons, you name it! It's the woods at night, Sherlock. They don't introduce you to these creatures within the city limits." John warned.
"They're...well they're not just wandering around yet! It's just sundown!" Sherlock protested, feeling his courage diminish with every gust of wind his ears picked up, every rustle of a tree which might allude to a more threatening presence within those shadowy depths. Could there really be a predator there, waiting to eat a wandering criminal?
"Why don't you leave all of your shady business for the sunshine, and come over here to help me start a fire?" John suggested. Sherlock hugged the box to his chest, wishing he could just dispose of the thing and be done with it! Certainly the longer he held such a criminal possession the more danger he was putting them all in, especially when even his most trusted tutor was at risk for taking a peek!
"Would a fire keep us safe from those animals?" Sherlock wondered, beginning to imagine what would happen if a bear happened to walk in on their makeshift campsite. Surely his face would no longer be appealing if it was half devoured by those massive jaws?
"I think it should." John agreed.
"Even while we're asleep?" Sherlock clarified nervously. John chuckled, nodding his head as if he decided he won that argument after all. Without another word he turned his back, presumably to collect the twigs and sticks he needed to start of a good sized blaze. All the while Sherlock began to linger back towards the bank of the stream, wondering now if wandering policeman were the least of his worries. Their fire was a pathetic one at best, producing more smoke than heat and stinking up the once pristine air with the all too familiar scent of burning ash and sticks. Sherlock sat back while John tended to the thing, trying to get the flames to shoot up in a much more fire-like way. As of now they were merely smoldering within the underbrush, creating glowing red embers that offered little heat and little light to fend off the very creatures Sherlock was growing most concerned about. Nevertheless the businessman felt that he had no place within these woods, and even if he did want to help (which he didn't) he wouldn't be of any help anyways. John made some sounds of discontent, as if the fire wasn't cooperating the way he envisioned, though eventually he sat back in defeat and curled upon his legs on the hard dirt, tapping his fingers against his knees and looking back to Sherlock as if to make sure he wouldn't be fired for these repeated failed attempts.
"Are you comfortable?" John wondered finally.
"Is that sarcastic?" Sherlock spat back.
"I mean it literally." John assured, sounding as if he was legitimately concerned about the wellbeing of his master. It was a sort of legitimacy that Sherlock had not expected out of another person, not even a man who was living on his payroll. Sherlock hummed for the moment, trying to process a response that would mean just as much to John as the man's comment did to him.
"I'm fine." Sherlock muttered at last, wincing at the abrupt nature of such a meaningless comment. John nodded, finding Sherlock's response so uninteresting that he didn't even feel the need to respond! It was a wasted conversational opportunity, a mistake that Sherlock couldn't afford to make again! With only one companion tonight he best make do, and if he couldn't strike up a conversation with John Watson he ought to just fall to sleep and be mauled by bears.
"How are you?" Sherlock managed, almost coughing out the words as if they pained him. It wasn't a normal question for him to ask; in fact Sherlock doubted he had ever shown direct interest in another man's state of wellbeing. And in a strange moment of contemplation Sherlock tried to figure if he really did care about John's wellbeing, and startlingly the answer was yes. He wasn't just asking that question to be nice, nor even to strike up a conversation. That was the topic he began with simply because that was the one he cared about the most. He cared how John felt, even if that was shockingly outside of his normal character.
"I wish this fire would light." John admitted with a groan, looking down upon the pathetic pile of smoldering ash with a look of utmost disappointment. Perhaps he took it as a personal loss, upset that his military skills had not come in handy during their one and only practical application.
"I think it is fine for now. It will keep us warm, and keep a little bit of light." Sherlock assured. Well of course he didn't find the fire to be very satisfactory; in fact he thought it was a rather pathetic attempt as well. Though what was he supposed to say, now that John's emotional state was on the line?
"Well, if you're okay with it." John muttered, finally falling back upon his elbows and stretching himself over the dirt with a little groan. Even stretched to his max the man would only come up to Sherlock's shoulder, missing about a foot of length but making up for it with about an inch of extra muscle on each arm. He was still intimidating, still handsome, even if you had to look sharply down in order to fully contemplate who it was you were staring at. Sherlock shuffled a bit uncomfortably on the ground, becoming increasingly aware of the limited space that separated the two men. It might have been three feet, maybe less, across the strewed leaves and swigs. A single span of the arm and Sherlock could touch his fingers upon John Watson; he could trace his knuckles across the man's sticking white button down sleeve... Sherlock took a sharp breath, falling back upon the dirt and staring into the sky instead, trying to focus his attention and his longing to the stars and not to his tutor. It was strange, staring up at the sky while feeling so lethargic, staring into nothingness and feeling that nothingness was staring back. Each star twinkled with its own light, similar from this distance, almost indistinguishable from their neighbor. Eons away, light years. Each one a world, each one a universe, perhaps hosting a different version of humanity. Sherlock wondered if there was another pair, somewhere out in their galaxy, sitting so close. And yet he felt as though John was on one of those distant stars, he might as well be. For those three feet created a barrier that might have been millions of miles, for he was never allowed to cross it, nor was he able to. He kept his arms stuck to his sides, knowing that if he donned a mask he might be allowed to roll onto the other man's chest and seduce him under the light of each twinkling star.
"Are you going to sleep?" John muttered, followed by the sound of shifting leaves as his head fell upon the ground to gaze over at Sherlock's form. The man kept his head up, trying to make sure his side profile was just as appealing as he imagined it in his head. He kept his chin straight, kept his curls falling, his eyes drooping. Oh the priorities he was forced to consider, even when he might be dinner of some predator! Well best go out looking your best, or it wouldn't have been worth the newspaper article that would follow.
"Would you prefer I stayed awake?" Sherlock whispered.
"You can sleep if you want to." John assured, keeping his voice low as if to try to sooth Sherlock's eardrums.
"I am tired, but not in the way that will allow me to sleep so quickly." Sherlock admitted with a small sigh. "I am tired in the way that makes me want to sit up and contemplate every life decision up until this point. My soul is tired, even though my body ought to be as well."
"Is there anything I could do to ease that exhaustion?" John wondered. Sherlock smiled, finally allowing his own head to fall into the leaves, their gazes meeting across the woodland barrier as their lips curled in unison.
"I suppose you already are." Sherlock assured.
"Is that because I'm still new and exciting? Someone to talk to when you already imagined you knew everything?" John presumed with a chuckle.
"I never claimed to know everything." Sherlock defended. "Though a businessman always dons the impression that he does."
"You never tricked me." John assured, curling his arms across his chest and crossing his feet together where they lay, not even five feet away.
"You knew I was a fool?" Sherlock presumed.
"Oh yes." John agreed. "I knew you were ever since you hired me."
"How so? I thought I was quite professional throughout." Sherlock defended, feeling almost betrayed to hear that he made such a bad first impression.
"Well you hired me, Mr. Holmes. Out of everyone else in that pool, and you hired me. It was your first major tell." John chuckled.
"Well then, I suppose intelligence really is up to an individual's opinion. I would think such a choice, even without due research, turned into the best of my life." Sherlock defended. There was silence, an unexpected silence, and Sherlock watched as John's face began to process the statement that hung between them in the smoky air.
"That was a compliment?" John clarified nervously.
"I intended it to be." Sherlock agreed, turning his face back to spare himself from having to protect his emotions any longer. When his face was towards the stars he could allow it to downturn into a more emotional frown, one which was so happy he was almost beginning to cry. It was the emotional impact of having found someone, even if now a romantic partner, if not even a best friend. It was just...just someone. Someone out of a million, out of a billion in this whole world! Someone to call his own, and someone to appreciate. Sherlock's fingers clutched against his palms, his fingernails nearly drawing blood as he clenched his emotions away, trying to force them out of his heart before they settled within the cavities and urged him to make even more fateful decisions. Was it not best to end the evening with that, a word of encouragement, a word of appreciation? It would be enough to ease John Watson's worried mind back to sleep, and perhaps it would fill Sherlock's head with one singular thought, not anything to jump over and avoid as his mind pondered its way to sleep. He might be able to think of one thing, one man, until at last his consciousness gave up to the chirping of the crickets hiding within the trees.