The Porcelain Doll

Speak Only When You're Spoken To

The way Mycroft stood behind him in the mirror; you might think he was positioned to be the devil on Sherlock's shoulder. The upper portion of his large torso erupted from behind Sherlock's right arm, seeming to be growing out of the black fabric of the dark robe and materializing to form a conniving face, a deeply turned smile, and dark emotionless eyes. He stood quietly for a while, with his fingers resting upon either side of Sherlock's body, gripping his arms as if trying to keep him steadied in one specific position. The younger brother sat silently, staring through the holes in his mask and watching as his brother took long, deep sighs of regret. It was a night interrupted, seemingly by something quite urgent, for Mycroft never took it upon himself to schedule an hour of conversation over the most profitable time of night. As the brothers sat in tense silence Victor paced around the perimeter of the room, crossing his arms around his back and bending his spine so as to be crouched over the ground, hanging his head lowly as if to observe everything from the prospective of someone much shorter than himself.
"What makes a good man, Sherlock?" Mycroft wondered after a moment. His voice was stiff and drawn, as if he was uttering the syllables most carelessly from behind his teeth.
"I wouldn't know. I've never met one." Sherlock muttered truthfully, curling his fingers around the edge of his desk and admiring his white knuckles as they flexed around the dark mahogany.
"Perhaps you never have. Though if you were to assign character traits, what would you pick?" Mycroft wondered. His fingers had now traveled towards Sherlock's shoulders, notching his fingers into his collarbone and squeezing his thumbs tightly into his back, as if trying to give an unexperienced and particularly intense massage. Sherlock hesitated with his answer, happy that there was a face of porcelain to hide behind. A blush had emerged in his cheeks, one which would have betrayed his most inopportune feelings. Mycroft's specific question had drawn up the image of only one man, though he dared not describe John Watson in perfect detail.
"I suppose I would pick responsibility, and admiration. Honesty, loyalty, all of the traits that I had never been blessed to witness." Sherlock admitted at last.
"No, no you have not." Mycroft agreed with a sigh. Sherlock felt his brother's fingers across his neck, though by now he was staring through the mirror into the man's dark eyes, trying to figure where this conversation was beginning to drift. "I know you thought you had met a good man. I know you thought you hired one."
"I'm sure I don't understand." Sherlock muttered quickly, his voice catching within his throat and stumbling through the small slit in the mask. Mycroft chuckled, drawing a long sigh and running his hand across the slick and crusted shell that held Sherlock's unruly curls into place.
"I'm sure you do." Mycroft corrected with a sigh.
"John?" Sherlock whispered nervously.
"Yes, John. Your tutor and your lover, a most interesting combination." Mycroft chuckled.
"He's no more my lover than any of my other costumers!" Sherlock defended, though in such a struggling tone that he didn't even convince himself. Mycroft nodded, perhaps only to humor him, before going on with his original conversational intentions.
"He's been naughty." Mycroft sighed. "Irrevocably so." Sherlock couldn't find a way to respond, for he found he wasn't entirely comfortable with asking for more details. Certainly he would be offered them despite his concern, though in that moment he would rather his brother kept his mouth shut and remained as such until the evening was over. John misbehaving was not an entirely ungraspable concept, though the way Mycroft presented it made it seem as if it was a much more serious matter than sexual activities and alcohol.
"He's been speaking with an investigator. The one who gave us troubles in the past. That pesky Greg Lestrade." Mycroft muttered, his fingers finally settling upon the leather strap that connected Sherlock's face to his mask, the one which held them both in place. Sherlock processed this new information while the mask fell into his brother's outstretched hands, as if Mycroft had intended to look upon his brother's face when it was at its most distressed. Sherlock hardly recognized his own expression in the mirror, a sort of downturned betrayal that had never been worn since he pledged never to set expectations for anyone again. It was the face of heartbreak, the sort of hairline fracture that had the potential to spread into a complete shattering.
"An investigator for what?" Sherlock asked nervously.
"One can only assume for murder." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock felt his breath stop short within his lungs, oxygen getting trapped within his chest and nearly choking him as it rushed out in great urgency with the next available exhale. For murder...
"He could not know anything about that." Sherlock debated at last.
"Couldn't he? Does our Mr. Watson not have ears, not have eyes? By the clumsy disposal of our Mr. Moran one might imagine every servant in the house caught on." Mycroft chuckled.
"And the blood, Sherlock. It was still in your hair in the river, you could see the specs across your forehead, dried on." Victor added, lingering near the bed and running his hands across the smooth, disrupted blankets.
"Even if he noticed it, well he's a loyal servant. I trust him with my life, and with my freedom. I don't believe he would betray me to some silly inspector." Sherlock declared, growing more and more defensive as his arguments began to fail against the stern logic of his brother. Rationalizations were flooding through his head, possibilities that seemed almost too ridiculous to give proper consideration. Could John have made a friend with the police officer, could he have known him from before? Perhaps they were swapping childhood stories, not information and secrets?
"I wouldn't make any bets upon that subject." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was silent; there was no moving Mycroft once he wove the truth within his head.
"Are you concerned?" Sherlock wondered at last, figuring there had to be some action plan following such a hefty discovery.
"I am deeply concerned, Sherlock. For the safety of my brother. For your freedom." Mycroft muttered, petting his hand across Sherlock's hair one more time for good measure. He seemed to enjoy the mold it made on the curve of his skull, a smooth helmet of matted grease that left residue in the divots of your fingerprints.
"Let me talk with him, Mycroft." Sherlock suggested at last, figuring he might as well diffuse this situation before any more rash or violent steps were taken.
"Talk with him? What a fantastic idea, Sherlock. And what will you say? How will you say it?" Mycroft chuckled, speaking with Sherlock in the same tone he used to as children. He treated Sherlock's diffusion in the same manner as he had when Sherlock wanted to join in on a game of cards.
"He won't be honest with you." Victor piped in from behind, his slimy voice making its way through the perfumed air with a particular distaste.
"Speak only when you're spoken to." Sherlock growled, catching Victor's eye through the mirror and glaring down upon his overconfident little smirk.
"Victor is right, perhaps for the first time since his employment. Mr. Watson will save his own skin before he tries to remedy his actions, in fact he might already have a large check in his pocket, waiting to watch the police force drag you away. What sort of man would want to have a conversation in lieu of money?" Mycroft wondered. Sherlock was silent, as he knew he was supposed to be. Mycroft's hands had stilled, as if he too was waiting for the final declaration, the climax of this conversation that would determine not only John's status within the Holmes households, but perhaps his position in either life or death.
"What do you plan to do?" Sherlock whispered, his lips hardly moving as they requested the words he could hardly handle to hear. He knew his brother's remedies would not be peaceful. He knew Mycroft would no treat such disrespect lightly.
"I wish to act as any other self-respecting businessman does. I wish to treat this as a personal attack, and act only within self-defense." Mycroft declared. "You know a thing or two about self-defense, brother mine. About what it makes you do." With that Mycroft held Sherlock's head between his hands, squeezing his fingertips along his hairline in such a way that the younger man shivered with pain, finally closing his eyes and succumbing to the pressure. Mycroft chuckled, happy to see his brother curl within that submissive shell.
"You're suggesting murder?" Sherlock whispered.
"No, no of course not murder. An accident, nothing more." Mycroft chuckled.
"A convenient accident." Victor added in, drawing closer now, his voice lingering just breaths away from where Sherlock now sat, head forced down so as to stare only at the desk before him. The man was silent, squeezing tears from his eyes and watching as gravity took them before they could even brush against his cheek. Large droplets accumulated from his lashes, obscuring his vision, blurring his common sense. And then they fell, like rain produced indoors, the condensed despair all formulated within a single drop of salt. A convenient accident, no...a murder. A bullet. A knife. John Watson's heart, his most sensitive heart, his most forgiving heart. What would leak from him when he was killed, what color would his blood be? A shade of scarlet, or the color of porcelain?
"No." Sherlock whispered, flexing his fingers against the chair and forcing his head against his brother's hands.
"I'm sorry?" Mycroft chuckled, exerting the rest of his available force to push Sherlock down even farther, this time with such momentum that his smacked into the wood, denting his skin against the grain and holding it there until the pressure began to mount within his skull.
"I said...I said no!" Sherlock declared, this time forcing more emotion into his voice, more anger. It was enough to drive him from his chair, the pressure within his head transferring to his muscles and forcing them to extend, to explore. He was at least half the weight of his brother, though somehow Sherlock was able to force his way through his grasp, he was able to break the trap which had folded around him. The chair toppled out from under him and Sherlock fell to the floor, his body falling and collecting on the rough fibers of the familiar carpet. Despite his fall, Sherlock recovered faster, as he had the element of surprise on his side. As his brother recollected himself, as Victor stopped laughing, Sherlock crawled to his feet and stood tall, taking advantage of the slight height difference he had gained over his brother in their past years. In comparison he was no threat, though the way his eyes were glaring made Sherlock look quite as threatening as a snake. Small, thin, but venomous. Deadly.
"I won't let you kill him." Sherlock declared at last. "He's my employee, my responsibility. I will deal with him as I see fit. I will punish him to fit the crime."
"That's simply not possible, Sherlock. He's mingled in more than just your own affairs. He puts my career on the line, our reputation. Our income." Mycroft insisted, his voice strained in an attempt to keep the humor overlapping the growing frustration. Sherlock didn't like that look in his face, he didn't like the way his lips were curling up and down as his control lessened. Mycroft was close to snapping, and surely Sherlock wasn't making it any easier to be civil.
"Can't you see that I don't care about your life, or your reputation. I don't care about money; I don't care about any of it. Let him ruin us, let him ruin you! I'd thank him if his were the words which led me to the gallows." Sherlock snarled. Mycroft advanced in a single step, forcing his brother to retreat to the back wall, scrambling to protect himself and keep their proximity at a safe, distant level. And yet Mycroft kept coming forward, forcing his brother to fallen against the paint as his deadly glare began to paralyze his enemies. Sherlock's confidence had been expended through such a single declaration. His power and control over the room had been lost. Very soon there was an elbow pressed against his neck, pressing against his windpipe, restricting his lungs. For a moment the man gasped, though he knew he could not fight back without further consequences. His hands were trembling helplessly at his side, though despite all of his natural instincts Sherlock could not bring them to strike back.
"Don't care about money, do you Sherlock? Surely you don't realize what your world would be without it." Mycroft growled. "You, a luxury whore, could have been on the streets at seven years old. They'd f*ck you until you grew too old to appreciate, until your skin wrinkled, until you overdosed in a back alley. They'd f*ck you until you died, all for a pretty penny. One you seem to take for granted."
"I'm more than a whore." Sherlock spat with whatever breath he could manage.
"You're nothing more!" Mycroft debated, pressing his elbow even deeper, restricting all air flow. "No additional purpose than to lie face down on a mattress." This time Sherlock had to fight back, this time he had to grasp at the arm which restricted him, trying to ease it off at least for the moment to inhale. His eyesight was blurring, his chest tightening...
"No more than whore." Mycroft repeated again, looking his brother over once again before at last releasing his elbow, allowing Sherlock the slightest of breaths. The younger brother held steady against the wall, though for a moment he clawed at his own throat, trying to open it manually, trying to allow for more air than a single gasp could provide.
"Mycroft..." Victor whispered, coming in alongside his master and touching one of his hands very gently upon his arm. Sherlock wheezed, pushing back the greased hair that had dislodged itself in long, bent strands.
"Victor I had almost forgotten you were here." Mycroft admitted, pressing his hand against his valet's and following the man's hungry gaze towards their mutual prey.
"He's been quite rude, Mycroft." Victor reminded him.
"Quite so." Mycroft agreed.
"Won't learn his lesson, will he?" Victor whispered.
"Never." Mycroft agreed, following in such a manner as if to completely disregard Sherlock's presence within the room. They talked of him as if he was a child in trouble at school, or even a pig on the rack for sale. Sherlock's knees buckled against the wall, he sunk for a moment, sliding about an inch down the wall so that his head could slump against his chest, his heaving chest. His body was wracked with unexplained pain, far surpassing physical abuse. His body hurt, his nerves hurt, his blood passed through channels of poison.
"Can I teach him?" Victor whispered in suggestion, in such a weak voice that Sherlock had to strain his ears to hear.
"You can still be rough, can't you, Victor? Not grown too soft in your years of domesticity?" Mycroft chuckled.
"I've never been domestic for you, Mycroft." Victor protested, squeezing his fingers a bit tightly across Mycroft's arm, digging his fingernails through the thick fabric of the man's sleeves. Mycroft chuckled, allowing Victor a simple glance of appreciation before shaking the hand away, disregarding his valet as he turned his complete attention to his poor, trembling brother.
"Stand up, Sherlock. Stand up and face me." Mycroft demanded.
"I owe you nothing." Sherlock managed, speaking with such a bold tongue that he did not recognize his own voice. Mycroft lunged forward, grasping Sherlock's shoulders and heaving him into a standing position, forcing him against the wall with a hand pressed solidly against his forehead. Sherlock trembled; his eyes locking with his brothers, watching the poison begin to fill those dark, narrow voids.
"You owe me everything. You filthy creature." Mycroft growled. With one hand he secured his brother against the wall, and with the other he tore the robe from his shoulders, one after the other, until the fabric fell loosely across his arms and collected at his feet below. Mycroft's eyes flashed, feeling now as if he had control over every aspect of the man in front of him. First he exposed his heart, and now his more familiar body.
"I am your master, Sherlock. I am your controller. I tell you what you ought to do; I tell you what you have to accept. I will kill your tutor, Sherlock, if now only to save you from the distraction he has become. He's tainted your body and your mind. Love, I'm afraid, has gotten in the way of your common sense." Mycroft growled. He sighed for a moment, moving closer, locking his hand against Sherlock's collarbone and spreading his fingers across the smooth skin that was left for him, touching and feeling the genes they shared. "But as your brother I am not allowed all privileges." He whispered again, flexing his fingers so as to capture Sherlock's bare shoulder within his grip. His fingernails dug. They drew drops of blood.
"I'll take care of him, Mycroft. Let me. Let me please." Victor whispered anxiously, moving back and forth across the carpet, his eyes darting up and down Sherlock's body. Already his fingers were moving to the button of his jacket, as if he was ready to shed layers just as soon as he got the command. Sherlock seethed, rejecting his brother's touch, rejecting the valet's gaze. Though there was never a command, never a denial. Victor began to undress, peeling off his clothes as if he was trained on how to do it most efficiently.
"Give him to me, Mycroft." Victor demanded, his voice now racked with anxiety, with desperation. Sherlock barred his teeth, growling in his own defense though unable to produce a single syllable. He couldn't defend himself. He forgot how to protect his body; he forgot how to protect his virtue. Mycroft sneered, finally pulling Sherlock away from the wall and throwing him with some force at the valet, the momentum growing so overwhelming that the poor man stumbled across his own feet, falling in a heap upon the floor. It was enough for the animal above him; it was enough for the predator. Even before Sherlock could recollect himself he felt the weight of another body, the familiar brushing of bare skin against his own. He could feel those soft hands, undaunted by any real household work, grabbing at his wrists and ankles. Sherlock could feel himself getting flattened, getting arranged. He winced at the pressure, he winced at the pain. His face was pressed into the carpet, nose down, not given the chance to breathe or reposition. His chest was forced into the ground by two firm hands, his legs looped between foreign limbs, his body wholly controlled, contorted, and abused. His teeth bit down against the fibers of the carpet, his hair getting pulled by anxious hands, his breath lost within his chest and replaced instead with the gasps which were being admitted above him. Sherlock dared not make a sound; he didn't want to demonstrate that this method of torture was most successful. He tried to think of another man, another body above his own. He tried to imagine there was another face with their lip between their teeth, another network of fingertips digging into his skin. He tried to feel John Watson, even though it seemed quite impossible. John would never treat him with such disrespect, he would never intentionally hurt. This was the mark of Victor Trevor, the passion of the sadist. Sherlock wouldn't scream because that's what the valet wanted most. Instead he turned his head, he managed to gasp another breath between carpet fibers, he managed to stare across the room from a worm's perspective. He was able to see the polished leather shoes of his brother, strolling off towards the desk chair. He was able to watch him rearrange it, turning to face the scene. Sherlock watched his brother's feet settle below the wooden legs of the chair. He could hear a drink being poured. He winced again, but refused to make a sound.