The Porcelain Doll

Speak of the Devil

He was an imposter in the line of guests, a traitor in the midst of criminals. John stood about a head shorter than any one of these gentlemen, and when compared to their long fitted suits and tall top hats he seemed almost miniscule in comparison. As John waited in line at the door he could smell the aromas of fancy colognes, mingled in with the scents of perfumes lingering upon a couple of their collars. There were no women present, even though John had distinctly heard Mycroft invite the ladies of the house over breakfast. Perhaps the women knew better than to attend, perhaps they knew that Mycroft Holmes catered to a very different sort of vice. John had no walking stick to cling to, instead he wrung his hands around his paper invitation, nearly tearing the thing as it began to collect moisture in his sweaty palms. He continually looked around, expecting to see a plain clothes policeman, expecting to see Greg Lestrade looming out from underneath one of the hats. As time crept on John was beginning to doubt himself, he was beginning to doubt his safety. Greg had rightfully convinced him of the honor of his deeds; thankfully John was able to understand that his own hesitations about saving the one justifiable side of Sherlock Holmes were not enough to justify saving the whole of the festering beast. Every time he began to pity that smile, that laugh, he only reminded himself of what he would be gaining in this trade off. He can imagine it now, following the Porcelain Doll out the back of the door, watching his toes touch the free concrete. He could imagine lifting his hands to the back of the Doll's head, loosening the strap and watching as the mask fell away from the contortions of his face. He could imagine watching a smile unfold upon that face... beautiful, to match the rest of him. It was a price he was willing to pay, a prize he was only so eager to accept. That was the only reason he had attended tonight's festivities at all, knowing full well that there was a chance of gunfire, of stark and deadly defense. Mycroft did not seem like the sort of man to travel unarmed, and Sherlock, god help him, seemed to be a fighter. That man may very well fight tooth and nail to defend his freedom, perhaps still under the illusion that his hand was forced in the very crime which had condemned him. The line shuffled forward, John's heart gave another palpitation.
"Invitation, sir?" the doorman asked, sticking his face through the open door. It seemed as though the club was still trying to maintain their secrecy, though it really was no use trying to disguise the line of gentleman as anything but a social gathering. Perhaps the doorman's strict policies were to ensure that no one snuck in uninvited, policemen, to be specific. John hesitated to hand over the paper, only making his unimpressive stature look all the more suspicious. He looked as if he had found this invitation on the side of the road (and certainly the state of it would confirm that theory), and as he handed it over his hands shook. In any other establishment this may not have worked, though John began to assume that his face was well known throughout the Dollhouse. He was, almost regrettably, a regular. The doorman studied his face for a moment, looking at the invitation once more as if to make sure it wasn't a very convincing forgery.
"Mycroft handed it to me himself." John said quickly, trying to ensure that his connection with the man was legitimate.
"Did he now?" the doorman chuckled, as if he didn't believe that story for a moment. John felt a strong need to defend himself, to boast about his position in the household (even if it was at the bottom of the totem pole) and to insist that he had a more than personal relationship with both brothers. However he held his tongue, beginning to worry that if he made himself too exposed he might get in the way of Greg's ever so fragile mission. It seemed as though something was bound to go wrong, and for the sake of his life John didn't want to be the reason the mission failed. In fact he was not entirely sure if he was safe even before the police showed their faces, as Sherlock's pleadings within the bathroom seemed to allude to some knowledge of the subject. Could it be that the brothers were expecting a raid?
"Go ahead in." the doorman sighed, placing the crumbled invitation overtop of the other pristine papers, those which had been kept in the handbooks of servants until the night of their presentation. Certainly the more distinguished guests could not risk tarnishing their name with a less than formal invitation. John nodded his thanks, looking behind him just to make sure that none of the men following him in the line would find his actions to be suspicious. Thankfully each man seemed very occupied with the door, all standing upon their toes, with their fingers clenched. They seemed to be in a state of distress, as if they simply couldn't wait until that door opened to admit them into the house of sin. John passed thankfully through the door; discarding his jacket with the doorman and receiving a small piece of paper which to lose. The red curtain had been pulled back, not attempting in any way to hide the festivities which were taking place within the domed dance floor. Already the tiers were packed, the tables crammed with food and with men, all holding empty drinks and trying to flag down the nearest waiter with a refill. There was a band positioned on the stage but even they appeared to be drunk, their fingers wavering across the notes, hesitating on the keys, swaying off beat. The dance floor was filled, and if there was a woman to be found it would be within that clear cut arena of marble. She would be in the mix, she would be swaying, jumping, pawing at her partner. A man would cling very tightly, as if afraid she might be swept off of her feet by one of the numerous bachelors which stood high in the tiers of the club, watching from afar. And yet as John approached he began to feel a very familiar energy within the building, a sort of radiating passion that would not be so easily aimed upon a woman. Collectively, the club was holding its breath. It was only the ladies who were free to exhale. It was only the night which was doomed to go on. At first John hesitated at the door, frightened by the mass of people he did not recognize. His pockets were empty; he had brought only enough to fund his trip to the Porcelain Doll and would not spare a single penny until he had passed through that white door. If John was expected to fund his way through this evening, buying himself drinks just to look as if he fit in, well then he would truly have found himself in a more dangerous position than expected. The club was filled to the point where he would have to make a friend, as there didn't seem t be a table or chair that was not guarded by a large mass of men, already standing quite close, with one hand on their drinks and another on the partner closest. They were gripping each other's shoulders, twisting each other's wrists; their backs were brushing, their legs intertwining. Already a breath exhaled was one inhaled by another, a partner, an intimate exchange. John felt his heart hesitate, for as he walked into the mix he began to realize that he would fit in just fine within these crowds. It was not so much of the money as it was the willingness to comply. He looked upon the eyes that were watching him and he recognized the same sort of sparkle he saw reflecting in his own gaze, or that of the older Holmes. There was a certain devilry. John had just about mustered up the courage to approach a group of men, those who looked as if they had not gotten drunk enough to forget the photos they kept in their watch chains, when a more recognizable face began to loom from the crowd. John must have been spotted first, for Victor Trevor seemed to have set his course some time ago, marching across the stairs two at a time with a martini balanced carefully within his outstretched fingers. Already the man's tie was undone, falling in single straps across his neck, the buttons done up crooked upon his waistcoat. John didn't want to comment upon the fact; though he had a suspicion that victor's night had been going on much longer than the clock would dare admit.
"Mr. Watson! Spectacular, oh just lovely to see you." Victor declared, his drink brimming over the edge of the crystal as he ducked down to kiss each one of John's cheeks, a strange and foreign greeting that may only come out during a certain blood alcohol level.
"Good to see you as well." John mumbled, trying to keep Victor within arm's reach even though the man seemed to be getting closer, leaning into John's chest as if trying to get assistance with standing upright.
"I'm sure there are some men here who would love to have...meet, you." Victor corrected with a little burp. "You've got quite the perfect stature. Some of them just love the short ones."
"I'm not here for that." John debated abruptly, taking this opportunity to unravel Victor's arms from his neck and push him away. The man stumbled for a moment, though as he found his balance he tried to turn his disorientation into a little dance, kicking his heels into the ground as he accustomed himself with gravity.
"The roll of dollars in your pocket says otherwise." Victor taunted at last, sipping a bit from his drink and spilling the clear, foul smelling liquid down his pointed chin. John folded his arms over his chest, looking over Victor's shoulder so as to glance quickly at the door he should like to pass through.
"Don't blame me for the habit you started." John debated.
"Oh I don't blame you, I don't. If I were you I'd be with him every night, every minute. Twice a day." Victor assured.
"Oh yes? And why aren't you? It's not like he can pick and choose." John wondered, though the question hurt to stomach, hurt to say. He didn't like speaking of the Porcelain Doll as property, as a thing which could be so easily bought and utilized. It felt terribly dehumanizing, as if they had stared upon the blank expression and decided there could never be a proper one underneath.
"He can choose, unfortunately." Victor grumbled. "Or at least his master can."
"Yes, I suppose so." John grumbled hatefully, rubbing his fingers against the fabrics of his sleeve and glancing behind him almost absentmindedly. He glanced in expectation of the police, he looked across and expected to see a shot gun already pointed and leveled with his companion's chest.
"But you will be happy to learn, John, that tonight you don't need those dollars." Victor chuckled, draining his cup and thrusting it into the chest of the nearest passing man. "He's free tonight. Everything's free."
"Free?" John whispered anxiously, his heart lurching in his chest as he met Victor's eyes. There was an electricity radiating within those blues, an urgency that could not be stifled with more alcohol, nor more conversation.
"It's Mycroft's birthday, Mr. Watson. It's a festival, it's a celebration." Victor whispered. John took a sharp breath, trying to swallow down any of the mounting excitement that was building within his throat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a jacket falling off of a man's shoulders, he could see the faint hue of white, hidden skin.
"A celebration indeed." John breathed.
"Come on then, I'll take you to see Mycroft." Victor decided, lunging forward and capturing John's shoulder in his grasp. Before John could agree to the journey his feet were already complying, following in Victor's wake like a child might follow their mother around the market. He wasn't just in Victor's shadow he took on the role, and as Victor moved so too did John. As Victor clutched onto another glass of wine so too did John. The sweet red went down easily, and by now John began sipping it to pass the time, to ease his nerves. Slowly he began to wonder if every man he saw could have been hiding under a particular mask. He began to wonder if the stature could fit, if the complexity seemed to match. Was he here, was he hiding in plain sight? John drained his first glass of wine much quicker than he should have, and in the walk alone he had at least three different shaped glasses balanced within his hands. Occasionally Victor would stop for a talk or a kiss, he would linger within the groups of men, allow them to rub their hands over him, he would bite upon their cheeks or their necks, he would lose his hand somewhere in the folds of their clothing, and then he would move on. Take another drink, down another shot, puff another man's cigarette. As they descended the tiers John began to realize that the women had already left, somehow they had vanished within the chaos. The noise was deafening, though John was sure he would've heard the swish of a ball gown if there happened to be a single one dragging across the carpeted stairs. Upon the dance floor Victor got immensely distracted, though as John was now basically attached to his back he too fell within the group which had submerged them. The glass that had been balanced precariously in within his hands had been stolen, replaced instead with the fingers of a stranger. John watched the back of Victor's head as it vanished to a lower level, and then he fell into the chest of another man, he pressed his back into the ribcage and let his head settle under the point of his chin. There wasn't a word exchanged, though there didn't need to be. It was a brief affair, a brief encounter. John could feel all parts of the man as he pressed into his chest, he could feel a set of lips balanced perfectly upon the top of his hair, licking down his scalp. He didn't dare close his eyes, though he would allow himself to enjoy it for a moment. The farther John descended into this madness the more distracted he became, though still his mind was sober enough to realize that there should be a stopping point. This party, no matter how chaotic it already seemed, was soon to fall into another realm of madness. He didn't remember being released from his stranger's grip, though suddenly he was being pulled again, pulled by a hand which had caught his wrist. Victor was moving faster now, pushing through the crowd and disregarding their invitations. It was as if John's arrival to Mycroft was an urgent matter, as if there was some goal besides a simple welcome. The man of the hour was seated on the lower tier, though he had arranged himself a sort of throne, one which was not burdened by tables or chairs, a large armchair made of golden leather, overlooking the dance floor and the chaos it was beginning to descend to. The older Holmes was positioned quite like a king, having lost his jacket and vest somewhere along the way. His shirt was unbuttoned almost down to the middle of his chest, and the unattractive bulge of his stomach only spoke to the way he had been gorging himself during his stay in his brother's hospitality. His legs were spread out in front of him, his shoes shining to reflect the lights above, his fingers clutching around the arms of his chair while his head lolled back around him, eyes fluttering, partially unseeing.
"Mycroft, happy birthday." John managed, arriving at the man's side and feeling the need to bow down to show his respects. Though despite this incredible urge he stayed standing, able to withstand the power by the sheer disgust that was beginning to grow within him. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes had been the one to degrade him, though Mycroft seemed to be all the more piggish, all the more intolerable. Sherlock's words resonated once within his head, a begging, please...please let him hang first. And seeing Mycroft spread out in his wealth, girth, and vice made it all the more reasonable. That floor would drop and the whole gallows would come down with the weight of him.
"Who's that?" Mycroft grumbled, partially opening his eyes as he attempted to place the voice to the name.
"John Watson." Victor said quickly, stealing the name right out of its owner's mouth. John nodded quietly, feeling that it would be silly to repeat.
"John...oh dear! John Watson." Mycroft woke with a start, his legs kicking out and his arms trembling as he suddenly forced himself to return back to his body, back to the world. Lying on the carpet beside where his arms might have dangled was a large collecting of glasses, tall for beer, domed for wine, square for whiskey, small for shots. Each one had its perfect assortment, as if he had been trying to collect as much of the dishes as he could before the night was over. He was like a dragon, hoarding the frosted gold.
"I hope my being here isn't surprising. You had given me an invitation, after all." John reminded him a bit nervously.
"Yes I did, as I should have! You are perfectly welcome." Mycroft assured, his tongue lolling around in his mouth and slurring his words into near gibberish. John bowed his head, though he didn't feel as though the proper respect was demonstrated.
"Thank you, Sir." John muttered nervously. Mycroft chuckled, loosening his grip from his chair only to thrust his hand high into the air, forcing his arm into John's direction as if insisting he begin studying the complexity of his wrinkled knuckles.
"I am king tonight, Mr. Watson. Show your respect the old fashioned way." Mycroft demanded.
"The old fashioned way, sir?" John clarified hesitantly, staring upon the lingering hand before finally realizing he ought to catch it before it fell. There was no clarification needed, for as soon as John studied the sweaty palm he knew he had been instructed to kiss it. Carefully John folded the fat fingers, bending them at the knuckles and stretching the tendons tight. He could see the veins interwoven under his skin, pale yet tarnished. Carefully John held the skin against his lips, pressing a kiss very lightly to show his patronage. The act was meaningless, falsified. And yet he followed through, what else was he supposed to do? Mycroft chuckled, withdrawing his hand as soon as he felt John's grip release.
"Your lips are quite soft, Mr. Watson. I can tell why my brother takes a liking to them." Mycroft chuckled.
"Sherlock..." John let the name slip before he could filter it out. He couldn't fathom the concept. John began to glow red, suddenly humiliated with the idea of being discussed over the business table, across the library. His own denial, perhaps made out to be uglier than it was!
"Make yourself useful, Victor." Mycroft begged, as if John's stammering was becoming quite dry. "I did so like it when you kissed that fool."
"He's got his own suitor, Mycroft. Remember?" Victor whispered, drawing closer and running his fingers across his master's knee.
"His own...yes. Yes, oh speak of the Devil." Mycroft chuckled. "Well he must be around any moment now."
"I can go and fetch him." Victor offered, his voice drawing slowly, his tongue curling with care across each syllable. Mycroft readjusted himself in his chair, tucking himself farther into the nook, pressing himself harder against the leather. He looked excited, his black eyes grew.
"Fetch him...yes." The man demanded.
"Fetch who?" John clarified apprehensively, looking towards Victor who had already leapt into action, turning his back and vanishing back into the mess of the dance floor. John had the sudden urge to back away as well, he didn't know if it would be wise to stay so close to Mycroft in the midst of this evening. Already the man seemed to be convulsing in his chair, grinding his ankles into the ground, forcing his fingers farther in the pockets of his trousers.
"Mr. Watson, a drink if you will." Mycroft instructed, his black eyes locked in a particular spot in space.
"Yes of course." John agreed, happy to have been granted the excuse of an escape. He climbed a single tier in an attempt to find a waiter, though suddenly a well-dressed butler materialized before him, presenting him with a tray of drinks to choose from. By the time John turned back towards the throne Mycroft had company, and the glass of wine which dangled within John's finger tips nearly spilled to the floor as his hands trembled enormously. There were two crouching figures at Mycroft's feet. One was Victor of course; the servant now pulling off his waistcoat and leaving it lying in offering underneath his master's shining shoes. The other was a more elusive figure, draped in the same outfit which John himself had untied, unfolded, disregarded. A black robe dangled to the ground, a white face stood staring at the ground.