The Porcelain Doll

Madness Would Make This Easier

"So, what is it you had to say?" John wondered at last, noticing that this silence had gone on for an unbearable length of time. Sherlock smiled, though it was not the sort of grin that one would expect a joke to spawn from. Instead it was lifeless, sarcastic, as if he had perfected the trade from his brother.
"John, I was wondering if you had any questions for me. Anything that might feel out of color to ask." Sherlock admitted at last, pulling his hand up only to tangle it across the edge of the bath, the long fingers catching across the rim and depositing small droplets of accumulated moisture onto the bath.
"Out of color?" John clarified anxiously.
"An answer that might not be appreciated in front of a court of law." Sherlock clarified at last. John blinked, his mind immediately reaching towards the murder, to Sebastian Moran. It wasn't a topic he would dare admit to knowing, it wasn't a name he could ever allow to leave his lips. It was none of his business, not even when Sherlock was trying to sound accommodating. John wasn't a secret keeper anymore, he was a snitch. And he knew the fate of such people enough to keep quiet. He knew to be scared. And yet there was a question, one which he had been meaning to ask for some time. One which never seemed to have the proper moment.
"Is it true that you own the Dollhouse?" John asked at last, spitting out the question before his tongue had the chance to reject it. Sherlock chuckled for a moment, finally dropping his arm back into the water and disrupting the smooth surface. He rolled his head along the rim, allowing the lower curls to sink into the bath, a smile stretching across his face to display barred teeth.
"The Dollhouse again." he muttered at last. "You have an obsession with the establishment."
"You asked if I had any questions, Mr. Holmes. I think it is only fair that you might answer the one I provided." John declared at last, figuring that this method of exasperation was only a way to dodge the question. Sherlock sighed heavily, as if he found such a stern voice to be incredibly audacious. If he was insulted, however, he never said.
"Yes, John. My brother and I own the Dollhouse. It was a business investment some time ago, created with the intention of a meeting place for powerful men. It has since become something much bigger, something much less professional. I am, in some ways, very ashamed of the fate of our club." Sherlock admitted at last.
"Because you employ prostitutes?" John presumed. Sherlock rolled his head back towards John, allowing their eyes to meet once more. There was a strange fire behind those pupils, one which seemed to radiate a sort of desperation. In some ways John did not imagine he was being scolded, though it would seem as though the conversation necessitated it.
"It is not something I am proud of. But Mr. Watson, how silly of me to only come to this conclusion now! Certainty you have employed one of them before?" Sherlock presumed at last. John's face grew quite red; suddenly his hands began to tremble where they hid within the folds of his clothes. For some reason the idea of admitting to his pass time was almost impossible, and in the face of such a powerful man he felt the need to deny it. A love so strong, a passion that could not be stifled, and he wished to hide it in the farthest corner from Sherlock's penetrating gaze.
"I..." John hesitated, finally deciding that he had been met with honesty, and might as well return the favor. "I have."
"Ooh, you must love him." Sherlock whispered excitedly. John was silent to that, figuring he was not obligated to answer either way. "He comes with excellent reviews."
"Sir, I'm not sure I feel comfortable discussing this with you." John whispered at last.
"Oh why else do you think I'd hire such a man? Why do you think that's a position that we offer? I am more open minded about these things than most people in this country, certainly John it feels good to get it off your chest? To open up a little bit, to share?" Sherlock presumed.
"I don't see why my romantic life is of any concern to you."
"I seek ratings, Mr. Watson. I want reviews." Sherlock insisted, rising up out of the water just high enough for the tips of his shoulders to emerge. John kept his eyes fixed upon Sherlock's, now realizing that he ought to keep his gaze in the only definitive spot he was allowed. Any wandering might be presumptuous.
"He is...well to put it gently I feel as though my money is well spent." John admitted at last.
"He'd like to hear it." Sherlock whispered, his eyes dropping into a low and almost solemn gaze. "He appreciates a satisfied costumer."
"Have you ever been with him?" John wondered, speaking without first thinking, and blurting out some of the most incriminating questions he could manage. Sherlock's eyes widened, John watched them as they grew, though the water merely stirred, his foot emerging to trail his toes across the opposing rim.
"Curious about me, Mr. Watson?" Sherlock wondered.
"About you, sir?" John muttered stiffly.
"Yes. About me." Sherlock whispered, his voice dropping into a such a low octave John might have taken it to be sarcastic.
"No sir. I think I know all there is to know about you." John managed quickly, though he knew it to be a lie. For a moment Sherlock was silent, though for a moment his smile returned, a small, unconvincing little grin.
"I wish that were true, Mr. Watson." He whispered regretfully. With that Sherlock dropped his gaze, staring at his foot where it was just poking gently from the water. With no eyes to look at John stared instead at the curtained window that stood behind the bath, illuminating the scene with a sheer film across the filtered sunlight.
"I wish to trust you, John." Sherlock muttered.
"You can, sir. Of course." John promised, though he clenched his teeth to envelop the lie.
"But you've given me reasons to doubt that trust." Sherlock reminded him, his eyes snapping back in such a harsh motion that John almost recoiled. There was a flash of anger within those pupils, a sort of gaze John might have expected to see hosted within Mycroft's eyes instead of his younger brother.
"I have?" John whispered, choking on the words as they came from his throat, as if he had to push them from a great collecting bubble of guilt that was swelling within his mouth. There was only one way to explain such a confrontation. Sherlock knew.
"John, I am your employer." Sherlock reminded him quietly. "I am not your nanny, not your detective. Nor will I ever be your judge."
"Mr. Holmes, I beg your pardon for whatever it is..."
"John, don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." Sherlock scolded. John stayed quiet, clapping his ankles together and forming himself within his practiced military composure. It was easier to straighten his back than to stand within his hunch, shivering.
"What you've been telling to that Investigator, I don't care." Sherlock admitted at last. "If you think it's within your best interest to see me hanged, well then so be it."
"I don't want to see you hanged!" John protested outright, stepping forward with a jolt before back stepping just as rapidly. He wanted to defend his position; he wanted to defend his reasoning. But could he manage to formulate the words? What was there to say any longer, what was not implied? John's face had turned quite pale, though in contrast Sherlock's cheeks had flushed up with determination. He didn't look mad, though there was a particular silence to him. His lips were pursed and his eyes were staring, as if he was looking inside of his brain rather than in the real world, contemplating something more important than his audience.
"John, I wouldn't mind the noose. So long as my brother hangs first." Sherlock admitted at last. "Remember him, John, when you are making your case. Remember to add his name." John tightened his fist within his pocket, his vision turning red. Suddenly the heat of the room began to overpower him, the dense and humid fog accumulating upon his skin, choking him. John wasn't sure if he had heard those words correctly, and furthermore he wasn't sure what he did to deserve such a statement. Though he wasn't given much time to think about it. In fact his concentration was wholly interrupted, jolted from his head at the first sign of motion, the first ripple that began to grow into large, circling rings within the smooth pool of bathwater. From the disruption from the water erupted an arm, one which hooked across the edge of the bath and wrapped its wrinkled fingers across the porcelain. And then another limb, a leg, falling out upon the carpet as the whole body began to shift, began to splash. John shut his eyes tightly, stiffening to the rigid making of a steel plate, clenching his muscles and pulling his limbs as close as they would go to protect himself. He heard the water splashing upon the tiles, he heard the feet as they made land fall. A soft squish of bare toes as they invaded the collecting puddle. The man took heat with him; he made an immense fog as the warm water evaporated from his bare skin into the cold room beyond.
"Look at me, Mr. Watson." Sherlock demanded, his voice dropping into some of the more serious octaves John had ever been faced with.
"Mr. Holmes, you know I cannot." John whispered.
"Look at me." Sherlock said again. John did not yield. He kept his eyes closed tight; squeezing with so much concentration that his whole face was shaking with the effort. He could feel the breath coming closer, he could feel the body heat approaching.
"I won't." John breathed helplessly. John felt a pair of warm hands envelop around his face, he felt fingers take hold of his eyebrows, pulling them sharply up and forcing some of the room to come back into focus. He could only make out the white shade of skin, the one which seemed almost paler than the complexion he had grown used to upon his master's face.
"You'll see why I will hang. You'll see why I want to do it." Sherlock growled, now wrestling with John's head in an attempt to manually pull his eyelids open. John grappled with the bare arms; he was grabbing at the wrists, wrapping his fingers around the almost familiar bone structures and yanking them away.
"Sherlock, stop! You're mad!" John exclaimed, stumbling backwards and replacing those foreign fingers with his own, covering his eyes as he pressed his palm to his nose.
"I wish I was mad. Madness would make this much easier." Sherlock whispered.
"Sherlock..." John muttered, stepping back again as he felt the voice approaching. Finally his back hit against something solid, something which rattled against familiar hinges. He was trapped, thoroughly.
"I enjoy hearing you use that name." came a voice now so close John could have breathed in the words; he could have absorbed them before they were released. John allowed his eyes to open only slightly, he allowed his fingers to part, to block his peripheral vision but stare instead at the pair of eyes which were directly in front of him. From this angle he could only see darkness, as the room had fallen into shadow. From here he could only make out the shape of Sherlock's face, and where his eyes should be there seemed instead to be voids. It was a familiar face, though not familiar enough within this mansion. It nearly tricked John into enjoying himself. John recognized that smile; it paired well with every other emotion he had memorized upon the man. Though this time it seemed legitimate, as if there was emotion hidden behind it rather than a cold, blank slate. Mr. Holmes seemed to be pleased. John closed his eyes again when he felt his lips press into his teeth. He dropped his hand when he felt the pressure of another face upon his own, when he recognized the sensation of a tongue within his mouth. For a moment it was exhilarating, for a moment he could forget the man, he could forget the room. He braided his fingers together, convincing himself he ought not to touch the bare body of his employer. Though the lips were present, they were constant. And if John didn't think too much he could kiss back. If he had switched off his brain, maybe he might have been able to do more.
"Mr. Holmes!" John exclaimed at last, forcing his head back against the wooden door to avoid whatever proximity seemed to be best fitted to them. Finally he took a breath of unrestricted air, pulling his tongue into his own mouth, pulling his lips shut and forcing them to recede between his teeth for safe keeping. He took a glance, a single glance, at the man who stood before him. It was a silhouette he could not forget, a mere shape that had been lost within the harsh backlighting of the almost directed sunlight. It was a look of terror, a stance of shame. The man had brought his arms up to his head, he pulled his fingers through his curls in agony, turning suddenly upon himself and letting out a wail of self-loathing. John had no choice but to turn, he couldn't stay within this bathroom any longer. He turned the handle to the door, falling out into the hallway and collapsing upon the carpet in his own despair. He opened his mouth against the open air; he tried to fill his mouth with something other than saliva of his employer.
"A good talk, I presume?" Reginald's voice wondered from above. John grumbled, rolling onto his side to see a pair of shoes that must have belonged to the valet. He hadn't the energy to respond. In fact he found this carpet quite comfortable, and vowed to stay up it until his body drained of its shock and filled again with the blood which used to flow unrestricted.