The Porcelain Doll

Don't Wait For Redemption

"Mr. Watson, you will of course be invited to attend." Mycroft added quickly, turning that poisonous gaze back towards the tutor and giving him a grin. John looked up, as if he had been taken aback by the sudden interest. Well of course his first gaze was towards his master, as if he was looking towards Sherlock to make sure he was allowed to speak a word over the dinner table. Sherlock slouched back into his seat, wincing as John's eyes glanced at him and tore away, with enough force as one might thrust as dagger.
"What night is it?" John wondered.
"Are you so busy that it matters?" Mycroft laughed, twirling the tip of his knife across his breakfast plate as if already practicing the carving motions. Sherlock tensed, watching the two and wondering just when Mycroft might bare his fangs and take a bite. John had been formally threatened, though there was always a method to Mycroft's madness. He had a plan; he was formulating it right now, rehearsing it. He looked into John's eyes, those eyes which make your soul melt, and he was planning on how best to extinguish the light from behind.
"Well no, I suppose not." John muttered nervously, clearing his throat so as to give himself something other to do than blush.
"Then you shall be happy to attend." Mycroft decided, waving his hand casually across the table as if that settled the matter in full. John hesitated, looking again at Sherlock and forcing his master's face to blush to the next shade of red.
"Yes, I suppose I will be very happy." John agreed, bowing his head in mocking respect.
"And Ms. Morstan?" Mycroft wondered, almost chuckling as he even suggested the idea.
"Oh no, no I couldn't." Mary managed quickly, her fingers trembling as he tried to hold her silverware steady within her grasp. Oh the poor woman, she had been witness to one too many of Mycroft's parties. Worst of all she didn't know if it was polite to leave, and so she had stayed the whole night, cowering by the drinks table. Sherlock remembered watching her, pitying her, as he strolled past with men latched onto each one of his limbs.
"Yes, Mary and I were going to do some quilting." Irene adding quickly, figuring she ought to get her excuse out before Mycroft's gaze settled next upon her.
"I haven't said what night." Mycroft reminded, his smile dropping as if he suddenly took offense to the women's disgust.
"It's a very detailed project." Mary assured, nodding along with Irene's bobbling head.
"Well yes, I cannot speak for women's work." Mycroft mumbled, taking this to be a legitimate excuse as he passed his glance once and over his brother. Obviously Sherlock was not going to get away with such a pathetic excuse of quilting. Though he wished he might encourage John to take up the art. There was something strange in Mycroft's urgency, in his demands for the tutor's presence. Nevertheless Sherlock was powerless to stop what was already in motion, not after his best attempts to clear the fog from around John's most confused eyes. Perhaps he was destined to die at the hands of a Holmes, unable to have distinguished the man he loved from the man he condemned.  

Sherlock never felt smaller than when he stood underneath his own name. He never felt less important when realizing he was supposed to represent those gigantic metal letters. They had been hanging over his head for as long as he could remember, rattling when the trains came by, blinking their illuminant bulbs as the power shorted, as the electricity browned and flickered with the changeable, finicky grid. The tracks had always been too close for comfort, though tonight Sherlock felt as though trains were exactly the sort of force necessary to clear his head. It was the Holmes's first station, his father's first piece of infrastructure, the first puzzle piece to his vision of innovation. It might have been a wonder of the world when it was first constructed, the ability to stand on a line of metal which stretched itself across the country, across to the other ocean. Sherlock's little feet had used to balance upon the metal like a beam, pretending to be the gymnasts they trained at his boarding schools. Now, all these years later, he still tried to fit the soles of his shoes square across the line, feeling it shake as the trains rolled past down the parallel tracks. It was dark out, though Sherlock was not at work. He had left the mask at home, disregarded his pocket watch, disregarded his responsibilities. Poor Wilson will be standing at the door, making his excuses. Sherlock predicted it would only take an hour until Mycroft was alerted, maybe less depending on his state of dress. He'd know where to look, but only after it was too late. Sherlock didn't just want to avoid the night, he wanted to become it. Step by step, inch by inch, he veered farther down the line that would carry him to California if he was not careful. Soon enough the trains which rattled the tracks would come barreling in his direction, giving him only a short period of opportunity to decide whether or not he wanted to get hit. Either way he was a dead man. From all angles of his life he began to see misery, a crawling, festering continuation of the hallowed existence he was leading. Every time he opened his mouth he could feel John's lips pulling away from his own. Every time he adjusted his clothing he felt it being ripped off by hands, as many hands as could grab it, as many hands as had ever undressed him. And every time he closed his eyes, Sherlock wished that it would be the last. He wished beyond all things that his eyelids would cement shut, that they would refuse to let him see the world any longer. And perhaps he would lose all skills, all charms, all life force. He would love to waste away in his own skin, in his own bed, absorb the comfort he was so often refused. His head had grown so heavy, his eyes so red. And suddenly he was without a prospect, without a lover. Suddenly Sherlock faced nothing but a gallows and a sting of betrayal, a knife to the back that was never intended to be impaled so close to the heart. Perhaps California would be his best option, with half of his limbs stuck upon the metal cross bars and the rest lingering in pudding upon the tracks of New York. The night shook violently as the tracks immediately to his left hosted an incoming train, a gust of wind, a blow of steam, the constant chugging of the wheels as they turned over and over. Car after car passed, rattling with their unique hauls, wobbling the large metal letters precariously overtop of where Sherlock stayed, still, balanced. His hands reached out to support him, so close that his fingers might have been clipped and taken if he decided to lean too far to the right. He breathed against the wind, against the force. He stayed standing.
"A rather dangerous pastime, Sherlock." called a voice from the platform, a familiar whine made manageable. Sherlock could hardly hear overtop of the train, though the octaves resonated familiarly within his brain. It was a voice he had heard before, many times before. A voice which had once been pleasant. Sherlock remained standing, knowing that if he bent his head or even shifted his gaze his feet might slip across the iron, letting him fall into the passage of his aggressive neighboring train. When the last car passed he remained in his stone still position, waiting for the next train to be the one to kill him.
"Would you like a cigarette?" was the next offering, an innocent one.
"Not from you." Sherlock snarled.
"I have other pleasures within my coat."
"Good. I hope they kill you faster." Sherlock finally hopped off of the track, only because his concentration had been broken. He settled his toes into the gravel, crossing his arms and staring across the empty tracks towards the lone, thin figure of his brother's valet.
"Come here, Sherlock. I don't know what I'd tell your brother if I was the only witness to your foul end." Victor sighed.
"You'd have the right mind to join me, if that's the case." Sherlock pointed out.
"Oh yes?"
"You're my heir, Victor." Sherlock reminded him, stepping carefully across the tracks and appearing in the shadow alongside of the valet. "Give it two years, and you'd jump too."
"Dear Sherlock, where has your enthusiasm gone?" Victor chuckled. His white hand stole into his breast pocket, smoothing against his chest and exploring the treasures he had hidden within the fabric of his coat. Sherlock stood with his hands across his chest, keeping them up for protection despite the man's rather timid look, an innocent face that he put on only for special occasions. He was probably already high, though one which drug Sherlock could not tell. In fact he did not care, so long as the drug became more interesting to Victor than did his companion. From his pocket he withdrew his carton of cigarettes, and two long fingers shoved one into his lips and another into Sherlock's. Well of course Sherlock was not too taken aback; he was not all together opposed. Instead he stood and let the little roll of paper divide his lips, obstruct his teeth, and settle there within his mouth. Victor smiled, lighting a small match and watching as the fire burned away at the stick, reaching upwards, reaching sideways. It could not decide which direction was the most beneficial, and as soon as it began to crawl towards his fingers Victor finally allowed the flame to touch upon the ends of their cigarettes, igniting them for a moment before the fire was shaken out by an aggressive hand.
"It's a low night, Victor." Sherlock admitted at last, grabbling at his cigarette and breathing a large breath of smoke in the valet's direction. With that he strolled over to the edge of the concrete, settling himself down upon the edge and watching as a train began to roll slowly out of the station. His feet used to dangle quite far from the earth, when he was a child and his stature only held him about as far as his current knees. Now his toes might be able to touch if he stretched them just far enough.
"All we've had have been low nights." Victor assured, clambering ungracefully down upon the ledge and squinting against the darkness. Sherlock knew he was illuminated, he knew the light of his father's legacy was just enough to cast shadows upon the divots in his starved face.
"Oh right. What are you trying to do, make yourself deserving of my pity?" Sherlock snarled.
"I'm trying to acknowledge that we all have our own troubles." Victor assured. "Not trying to lessen yours."
"Let me just shed a tear for you." Sherlock grumbled, kicking the heels of his shoes against the cement and listening joyously as the rumble of a steam engine began to drown out the audible breaths his companion was taking. Victor sighed, leaning heavily upon his hands as he reclined back upon the floor, letting his gaze stare across the darkness at his everlasting companion.
"You do love him, I imagine." Victor muttered finally, more of a statement than any sort of question. Sherlock was silent, feeling it was unnecessary to either clarify or deny. Well of course his actions spoke louder than his words, especially when he used both so sparingly. These days it was probably well known throughout the house that the master had an inclination for the tutor, especially when he took such interest in the man. Oh but it would be much easier for Sherlock if John was none the wiser. It would be much easier to protect him from the rest of the family if John did not overthink his lingering presence.
"I've never seen you defend something so much. I've never seen you stand up to your brother." Victor pointed out.
"Oh fantastic! Happy you noticed, happy you were thinking about anything else but dragging me onto the floor and..."
"You know I have a part to play when Mycroft is around." Victor snapped back.
"That doesn't have to be your part!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You don't have to treat me like a street whore, you don't have to tear your fingers across my back until my skin bleeds!"
"What would you rather me do?" Victor insisted.
"I'd rather you be human! For once in your life, I'd like to see that there's any inkling of humanity still left somewhere in that shell of yours." Sherlock debated.
"If you are waiting for a redemption arc you will be disappointed." Victor muttered, breathing out a wide breath of smoke and polluting the station with a foul stink. Sherlock stared longingly again at the tracks that were beginning to rattle, the same predictable shaking which used to excite him as a child. He loved to wave towards the trains, back when he would hold his brother's hand, hiding behind the furs of his father's coats. He loved it when they blew their whistle in welcome. Now Sherlock sat in the darkness, so far from his brother, so far from his father. Now he stared at the tracks and wished they might host his final demise.
"Have you come here to talk me down?" Sherlock whispered.
"No." Victor admitted. "No, I don't expect to find you here anymore. Though tonight you happened to show up. Tonight out of all nights I might have been of some use."
"That depends on your definition." Sherlock snarled.
"It's a coward's way out." Victor reminded him.
"I never claimed to be brave."
"Be it anyway." Victor snarled. "I don't think you'd understand what the world would be without you."
"Much less satisfied." Sherlock predicted.
"We'd be lost." Victor assured. "I'd be lost."
"I'm honored." Sherlock sneered. "But your love confessions are wasted on me."
"I'm not confessing anything. Confession makes it sound like you don't already know." Victor pointed out. Sherlock merely chuckled, breathing a final breath of smoke before stubbing his cigarette against the concrete.
"I've always appreciated your feelings for me, Victor. I always enjoy the fact that I can make you suffer just a little bit." Sherlock grinned, pushing himself to his feet and dragging his trousers unsafely across the jagged end of the concrete. Threads pulled, undoubtedly, though he rose to his feet with all the carelessness a child might have possessed.
"We're going to kill him, Sherlock." Victor warned, turning upon the platform but staying seated, folding his legs gently under himself as if he had begun to plead. "Please don't try to interfere."
"Don't tempt me with a well-placed bullet." Sherlock sighed. Thankfully he had the power to decide when the last word was spoken, for a train finally rattled into the station and drowned out what else his companion might have said. Victor's words, whatever they were, were lost entirely by the trains Sherlock's father had corralled, the trains he created. Perhaps it was Mr. Holmes's last gift to his son, the gift of silence. The gift of suppression.