The Porcelain Doll

Lovers Should Say Goodbye

For the moment Mycroft seemed perfectly amused by the two, he looked as if he wished to greet them properly though he seemed to have lost all balance, all control of his limbs. Repeatedly the man tried to push himself out of his chair, though as soon as his arms were tasked with heaving his entire weight the elbows bowed, and what little progress he had made to escape only turned into the distance he had to fall.
"John, returned?" Mycroft grumbled, obviously choosing only the two most important words from what would have been a very long and professional statement. Mycroft was drunk, though John didn't dare discredit his wits even in such a state. He knew that there was a suspicion between them; he could feel those black eyes scanning for yet another deceit which John was trying to conceal.
"I found wine, as you requested." John said anxiously, though his eyes were still locked upon the Porcelain Doll. His words were spewing into nowhere, his hands still trembling upon the circular glass, as if he was clutching onto it just to ensure that his overwhelming emotions had a place to go. He had never seen the man in the company of others; he had never seen him outside of that cramped little room. John half expected the Doll to have been chained under the stage during the nights, though here he was, roaming freely. A sickness suddenly passed through John's body, suddenly his stomach began to twist inside of him, his head began to spin. He noticed that the cord which wrapped around the Doll's waist had been tied with different hands than his own. It was not the same knot that the Doll would have tied for himself. Someone had dressed him, presumably after doing the opposite. It was a strange sort of defensiveness, as John knew he had no actual claim to the Doll's unlimited attention. Though the idea that he would be parading around these massive crowds, not even with the liberty of collecting his income, allowing himself to be touched, to be kissed, to be had upon the multiple tiers... Well it sparked a sort of anger John had not been prepared for. To see the Doll now, crouched at the very feet of the man who kept him in such servitude; it made this glass shift from a drink into a weapon. It gave John the most animalistic desire to smash the shards of glass right into Mycroft's styled hair.
"John, you've been acquainted with the Porcelain Doll before?" Mycroft presumed, waving his fat hand around until finally he caught John's within his fingers, wrestling the wine glass out of his hand as if he had a sudden thirst for delusions.
"I...Sir I don't think..." John stammered, suddenly finding himself trapped within a most immoral corner. For some reason it seemed more daunting to be interrogated by Mycroft than his younger brother. There was a considerable difference in power, a particular severity in the glares.
"Yes, yes you have. Stop protecting yourself." Mycroft snarled. "He's talked about you, you know."
"About me?" John managed with a gulp.
"He's quite fond." Mycroft chuckled. John crossed his hands, now empty, across his back. He wasn't sure how to respond to such a statement, for it felt as though his words would be choked by a sudden swell of emotion which was pressing its way up his windpipe. He was flattered, though wholly terrified. Here it was, the final evidence that he was searching for. The mutual love he had been hoping to receive by the end of the evening, the indirect confession that would secure the Doll's place in his future. Mycroft gave a slight kick, forcing the sole of his shoe against the Doll's shoulder to prompt the man into action. As of now both Victor and the Porcelain Doll had been kneeling passively, waiting for their instructions. Waiting for their cues.
"Well go ahead then. I think you've said it in all but the very specific three words." Mycroft demanded, chuckling and leaning farther onto his knees, nearly folding over his bloated body so that he could stare into the dark holes carved within the Porcelain. John took a step forward, his instincts forcing him to abandon all logic. For a moment he felt the need to come to the doll's aid, he realized that Mycroft was using this love declaration as a torture method. For some reason there was shame involved, and when there was pain in another man's eyes Mycroft's own gaze sparkled with pleasure.
"Mr. Holmes, it is a private matter." The Doll claimed, finally speaking in a small, almost incomprehensible voice.
"There's nothing private with you." Mycroft pointed out. John bit down on his tongue, trying to compensate for the energy he might have exerted into a well-placed fist.
"Wouldn't you like to tell Mr. Watson exactly how you feel?" Mycroft whispered, extending an arm so that he could catch the chin of the Doll within his fingers, propping up his eyes and staring even more intensely. His humor had faded, his grip was tightening. And of course, this was the breaking point. John leapt forward, smacking Mycroft's hand away before he could so much as consider the consequences for his actions. He felt his clenched fingers smack against the thick wrist, throwing Mycroft off balance and forcing the beast to wobble back and forth within his makeshift throne. This spurned laughter from Victor, who seemed to like to watch others make mistakes he would never dream of.
"Don't touch him." John demanded, figuring there must be a direct command associated with his most unruly behavior.
"John, don't be a fool." demanded the Doll's stern voice behind him, though as John stood fuming he could see out of the corner of his eye the crouching figure beginning to grow. His legs extended underneath him and his robe began to drape beautifully towards his ankles, billowing despite the stuffy conditions of the club. Suddenly John felt a stiff hand upon his shoulder, one with a palm and spread of fingers that he could not so easily forget. He recognized the grip, even if he couldn't see the arm which connected them. Mycroft was laughing again, thankfully drunk enough to have forgotten John's disobedience already. It was a stroke of luck, though John was still prepared to disobey the man if the Doll's safety necessitated it.
"I should never have imagined such a powerful love story between a tramp and a whore." Mycroft sighed. "Though I suppose all the lowlife finds their match eventually."
"You would be wise to release him from your service." John demanded foolishly, trying to stand his ground while Mycroft seemed to be in his good mood.
"Now Mr. Watson, please let's not get ahead of ourselves." Mycroft demanded. He planted his hands upon the arms of his chair again, fell promptly, and began to let out a flow of words which stung the ears. "Victor, Victor! Help me up, da*n it." The blind solider that he was, Victor rushed to the aid of his master. Soon the valet had wrestled Mycroft's full weight from the chair, acting not only as helping hand but now also a crutch, as Mycroft's knees didn't seem to be having much more luck than his elbows. The man continued to buckle, as if gravity was pulling extra hard upon him. As he ascended the band dropped their song into a deep, threatening tune. It was as if they could sense the mood had shifted, as if they could sense that someone was now in imminent danger. John tried to step forward; he tried to face the approaching menace. And yet his quick step had been matched with a stiff pull, as the Porcelain Doll's grip suddenly tightened, yanking him back into his bare chest, holding John safely against him as if to offer a psychical barrier to any of the more serious abuse. John trembled for a moment, though not with fear.
"I should like to see some respect from both of my servants." Mycroft demanded.
"I am not your servant." John snapped back. "And neither is he!"
"No, no Mr. Watson." Mycroft chuckled, extending a hand and touching his fingers against John's chin before the man could jolt away or protest. It was a quick brush, ended as soon as it began, though the very feel of his reptilian skin sent a shiver of disgust down John's spine, as if his body was rejecting each one of the briefly shared cells. "You are Sherlock's servant. And this Doll is my slave."
"Release him." John demanded.
"Impossible." Mycroft snarled back, immediately.
"Mr. Watson, you might benefit from holding your tongue." The Doll suggested, his voice shrill from behind the mask, spoken so as to be heard only by the ear closest to his hidden lips. "They're powerful men."
"I don't care who they are." John growled in response, in loud response.
"Mr. Watson, you really ought to care." Mycroft whispered, drawing in close enough that john could smell his foul breath as it was exhaled. He stood heavily upon the carpet, with Victor nearly doubled over with the effort of sustaining his weight. With every word Mycroft seemed to grow more beastly, until he might take up the whole of the dance floor just to support his filth.
"Powerful men can do what they like with people; you should know that by now. And Mr. Watson, suddenly I do not like anything about you at all." Mycroft chuckled, his eyes slanting farther into the folds of his face. John felt the Doll's grip tighten, the pale arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders and keeping him clamped as if within a cage. From this pressure John could feel the man's heart beating, how it would accelerate with every word released from the older Holmes's mouth.
"Better off dead, in my mind." Victor whispered, clicking his tongue within his mouth as his eyes began to sparkle. A hand began to slink within his pocket, released from his master's shoulder to creep against his chest and clench upon the mysteries that lay within the folds of his jacket. His hand returned clenched around the handle of a pistol. John wasn't able to see where the pistol might have aimed; in fact he didn't even have time to see the full and revealed barrel. He was suddenly disoriented, manipulated like a puppet and spun around with a quick, anxious hand. Before John could protest he stumbled across his own feet, and by the time he readjusted himself he suddenly realized that he was staring upon this scene from an entirely different perspective. Suddenly he was staring across a shoulder, seeing the glinting of the pistol leveled right above the glistening of the soft black fabric. The Porcelain Doll had moved, turned from the protected into the protector. With one simple move, with one fierce reordering, the Doll had demonstrated himself willing to take a bullet.
"You'll have to kill the both of us, Victor." The Doll demanded.
"I don't think I would. I could line his heart up with some part of you that would not be so fatal. We are so grateful that he stands so much shorter off the ground." Victor chuckled. John didn't have the strength to protest; in fact he was beginning to realize just how dire the consequences of his words had become. He had made a fool out of himself, and now he was in line to pay the consequences. Death, could it be so soon? And by the hand of a man he considered a friend?
"They both have some potential for enjoyment, Victor." Mycroft debated, lifting his hand and patting upon the barrel of the gun, knocking Victor's arm down so that the bullet would probably hit the floor if ever the trigger was pulled. While John could now breathe somewhat easier he did not wholly appreciate their saving grace.
"He has to die, Mycroft." Victor growled in protest, nearly trembling with the effort of restraining his trigger finger. "That's why he's here."
"quite like how you prefer to go fishing, Victor. How you don't kill the fish until it has flopped about on the boat long enough to kill itself." Mycroft debated. Victor chuckled; running his finger along the gun as he carefully reset the hammer back in its proper spot. It seemed as though whatever Mycroft was implying suddenly perked the interest of both hostile parties. John settled his hands upon the sides of the Porcelain Doll, hardly restraining his grip from tightening into an almost excruciating pressure.
"There's pleasure to watch something die. Slowly." Mycroft whispered. "But there's more pleasure in watching something fight for its life."
"You'll have to kill me too. I won't let you do it." the Doll demanded.
"You're only too easily dealt with." Mycroft growled, lunging forward and smacking the backside of his hand across the porcelain cheek. The Doll winced, though stood his ground. John was feeling increasingly helpless, wondering why the others felt the need to talk amongst themselves about his fate without ever referring to the fact that he was standing among them as well. They might as well address him if they planned on killing him.
"You'll have witnesses." The Doll reminded them.
"Witnesses who will claim what? That they were here for a drink? That they were here with their wives? Each one of these men is as helpless as you are, I'm afraid. Alibies don't work when they land you in jail." Mycroft pointed out. "They'll keep their tongues between their teeth."
"Among other things." Victor chuckled, wagging his own tongue across his lips as if to demonstrate how delicious the room had become. John couldn't see the chaos which erupted behind him but he could tell that something had changed. Something had gotten considerably quieter, hotter.
"I should like Mr. Watson to enjoy his last moments, and you, Dolly; I should wish you to enjoy them with him." Mycroft declared at last. "Lovers should have the opportunity to say goodbye."
"It's too good, Mycroft. Too good." Victor hissed, one hand clutching his pistol and the other wrapping excitedly around his master's fingers, clenching them and folding them in his excitement. John's grip slackened upon his partner, for he found Mycroft's declaration to be more of an enigma than a sentencing. Nevertheless the Doll took a sharp breath. John could feel between their skin that his heart had paused for a moment.
"I invite you to do what you do best, you whore. You claim to love this man, well, let biology prove it. I know how difficult it has been for you these past couple of weeks, ever since your heart has been wandering." Mycroft teased.
"Mycroft, if you so much as..."
"Not another word from you, or I'll have Victor shoot off your limbs." Mycroft warned. "You don't need those for a job well done."
"What does he want from you?" John whispered anxiously, trying his best to hold onto the larger form of the Doll, trying to offer whatever protection he could manage. Though in the end he knew it was futile. He was the one in need of saving, not the other way around. And no matter how hard he tried to make the Doll comfortable it was growing ever apparent that they were both helpless in their attempts of survival.
"I'll let John Watson live, only for as long as you can f*ck him." Mycroft declared at last, closing the space between himself and the Doll with one superior stride. His foot planted, his smile widened. Mycroft's teeth shone crooked and gritty, stained with wine and his other beverages of choice. He seemed only too excited to grab the robe within his hands, folding his fingers across the cord but not doing the liberty of untying it. Instead he clenched his knuckles against the bare skin beneath, rubbing them up and down the Doll's stomach as if trying to appreciate every inch of surface area he could. The Doll was stiff, and for a moment neither of the offenders could manage a breath. John set his teeth together, he found that his fingers had clenched within his meaning to. He was overcome with a sudden terror, a sudden degradation. He was being used as a plaything, was he not? Here within the club he thought he could control. Just another prop, a lowlife used in the tycoon's fun and games. A life that was expendable, only after he had been used for another man's enjoyment.
"That's barbaric." John whispered in protest, coming out from behind the Doll so as to make himself more readily available to the barrel of the gun. "You can't degrade him any longer, I won't..." John's words were cut off abruptly when he felt a pair of hands envelope him from behind, fingers grabbing at the lapels of his jacket and pulling it quickly off of his shoulders. John's arms were yanked with this sudden undressing, and when he recollected himself he felt now much more vulnerable than before, turning to see the naked form of the Porcelain Doll now throwing the discarded jacket into the crowd. The man looked terrified, his skin which was usually so white had now turned an unhealthy shade of gray, as if the blood from his veins was seeping slowly away, leaving each of his limbs to slowly rot from the inside.
"You're not actually going along with this?" John whispered.
"To save your life, Mr. Watson? Why should I not?" the Doll responded just as promptly, closing the space between them with one large step as his fingers went towards their familiar route down the buttons of John's dress shirt. There was a certain element of danger; John could see even now that glimmer of the stage lights reflected off of the shined barrel of Victor's gun. Though for some reason he could not make himself appreciate this, he could not even begin to tolerate it. Was the Doll really so prepared to be a plaything, was he prepared to display himself and degrade himself in the eyes of his boss? And for what? How many more minutes could he add to John's life, and what difference would it make?
"I don't want you to suffer for me. I don't want you to have to be humiliated." John protested, though all the while he was speaking the Doll continually undid the buttons, soon leaving John's bare chest exposed. He was undressing him slowly, undoubtedly trying to buy as many seconds as he could. All the while Mycroft decided to sit back upon his throne, with Victor standing guard over the lovers. John was trying desperately to see into the mask, there would never be a better time to know just who it was he was prepared to die for.
"I am humiliated every waking moment of my life. I am belittled, and abused. Only when I'm with you do I ever feel truly loved. I should like to feel that one last time, if I may." The Doll whispered, dropping his voice deliberately low so as to keep their exchange private. John felt his face begin to heat up, suddenly flushed with the pleasure of recognizing his own passion reflected back. He had never been so sure of this arrangement, never so sure that they were meant to be together in one way or another. John dared to reach out; he dared to forget about the eyes which were upon them, the spotlights that may have shone. He didn't care if Mycroft had sat back with a drink in his hand, he didn't care that Victor was watching eagerly on. It felt special; somehow it felt just as private as if they were hidden in the bedroom under the stage. John's fingers caught onto the crook of the Doll's neck, he pulled him closer, allowing their chests to collide between them, allowing their lips to draw together from the either sides of the porcelain.
"Won't you tell me who you are?" John whispered anxiously, taking up the other side of the Doll's head and pressing his forehead up against the mask. He could see only darkness from where the eyes were supposed to be, not even a glimmer to promise humanity.
"You won't like who I am." The Doll promised in return, his voice strained and mournful. He spoke with such pain, as if he longed only for the ability to tear off his mask and stare unrestricted into the face of his lover. But there was something, something preventing him. Something more than the leather strap, or the watchful eyes of his employer. John ran his fingers underneath the greased hair; he felt that familiar scalp, the shape of the skull he so often held. He breathed slowly, allowing the hands of the Doll to begin unfastening his leather belt, pulling it carefully through the loops as he decided to go on with their assigned task.
"I do love you, Mr. Watson." The Doll whispered, trembling as he managed the words. The music, if it had even been playing at all, suddenly grew silent. The crowd had stopped their mutterings; the lights had stopped their buzzing. John couldn't hear a thing except the words as they echoed through the space between their lips, the way the air manipulated them, magnified them, made them whole. He absorbed those words, absorbed their meaning. He took a breath, and exhaled them back. John inhaled the Doll's love, and exhaled the same potent feelings in return. He didn't have to say anything, certainly the Doll already knew of his affections.