John POV: There were still leaves in John's hair as he hailed a cab from their driveway, still ashes smeared upon his hands as he waved his fingers across the familiar New York City crowd. The night was falling, this time a more agreeable and familiar display of colors as they splashed overtop of the building tops, rather than the canopy of trees that John almost had to get familiar with. Their morning had unfolded quiet perfectly, as only about an hour into their long trek they had found passage to a gas station on a small milk truck, one which was able to carry them back to their own vehicle to fill it and move it as was needed. The car itself was now parked back within the garage, in line to be cleaned by the servants when the morning sun allowed it. The two had only arrived back an hour ago, though there was no warm welcome, not even a sigh of relief from the lady of the house. In fact Irene looked perfectly upset to see her husband returned, as if she had hoped he might have died along the road and left her in charge of his massive estate. The children were of course quite glad to see the pair, though they rushed to hug their tutor before they embraced their father, and even that was after some stern suggestion by Mary, who was pushing the two children along in Sherlock's direction. The man had been silent and miserable all day, having erased any trace of his optimistic mood just as soon as they hit the city limits. In fact he had been rather irritable all morning, ever since he wandered into the woods with that box and appeared once again with his hands empty. John knew what was inside, or rather he strongly suspected, though he kept his mouth shut of his suspicions. He felt as though it was not his place to question his master's doing, especially not when his face was already cemented into a permanent scowl. Criminal or not, the deed was done, and the man was no real threat to the rest of the world. John assumed that whatever murder had been committed was done out of self-defense, and that Sherlock was perfectly justified to deal with the aftermath as would any innocent man, seeking to avoid a courtroom. Oh but those little details were already fading away, just as the city air blew the last of the country dust from his clothes John's mind was beginning to forget the past, he was beginning to ignore what the day had already brought and instead focus on what it had yet to bring. Sherlock himself had already vanished into the city, just ten minutes after he got out of the shower he was already bustling out the door, claiming that he had most urgent business and that he would not be home until late. This seemed to relieve his wife, though it worried the household once more. What business could Sherlock possibly have, especially after such an adventure? How could he stay focused on railroads when he almost died along the road? John tried to forget his master's ills; he tried to forget the secrets that Sherlock was still keeping. He was growing impatient; in fact he was growing perfectly desperate. As John clambered into the back of a dark cab he slunk miserably against the leather seats, hidden behind the thick curtains from any of the street lamps that might display him to the passerby, those that were passing now at a good clip. John had emphasized the need for speed, as his brain and heart were practically bursting with a strange but all together urgent need. His whole vacation to Mycroft's country estate had focused upon one thing, sex. Well not entirely the action of it, but more the thought of it. He could tell, oh with so many men stuck within the same walls, so many men who undoubtedly had inhumane preferences! The moment Victor Trevor slid upon his lap John was ready to have him there, on that chair with the two Holmes brothers watching on. And ever since the valet was dragged away from him John could not shake that feeling, he could not shake that necessity! He was feeling quite passionate, even locked within this dark cab he thought he could see eyes watching him, his lonely eyes creating entirely falsified figures on the bench opposite, figures with smooth white skin, figures who sat clothed only in shadows. He was on his way to the Dollhouse; where else could he possibly go? There was only one man in this whole city that could satisfy him tonight, only one man who might ignore the state of his clothes and the stench of his long hikes! John hadn't even taken the time to bathe, he hadn't thought of anything except where he was going next. He hadn't considered anything except that white door and that blank, beautiful mask. And the closer he got, as the miles fell away into only feet, well the more transfixed his mind became. By the time the cabbie pulled up along the curb John had almost tumbled onto the street, throwing money in his general direction without even considering the fare necessary. He might have underpaid, he might have tipped three hundred percent, oh but it was useless, it was relative... The night was hot, so thick with humidity that even the falling sun could not ease the citizen's pain. The buildings were packed so closely together, preventing any lifesaving air flow, the crowds so bustled and condensed that John felt he could not get a single breath of his own. It was no matter...it was no matter. John knocked insistently at the door of the Dollhouse, banging with his fists so many times that he nearly knocked the doorman unconscious when his head finally emerged.
"Yes?" the man asked, trying to determine if he had ever seen John's face at his door before.
"I'm here to see the Porcelain Doll." John announced, breathing the words without any hint of the shame he had felt in previous times. Upon his first visit he could not stand the idea of people knowing, he could not fathom his vices getting loose within the public eye! And yet tonight he might have announced it to the world, tonight he might have taken the Porcelain Doll on live television if it meant satisfying this horrible, aching pain within. Something had erupted inside of him, but what had triggered the emotion could not be so easily deciphered. Victor had begun the landslide, though there must have been something else, something from his adventure with Sherlock that his unconscious mind found terribly romantic. Perhaps just lying aside his master on the ground had gotten his heart stirring, and when finally they were squished together in the passenger seat of the milk truck his body set its mind upon another man for the evening. Whatever it was, it was a feeling more intense than hunger, even of thirst. His head pounded, his stomach clenched, his muscles cramped. John felt as if that doorman didn't admit him he might just have to break through.
"Have I seen you before?" the man wondered.
"I came here a couple of nights before, with Victor Trevor." John admitted anxiously. The doorman's eyes narrowed, though obviously the name rang familiar. John could see his hands working towards the knob, as if that was enough of a password for him.
"Alright then." The man grumbled, at last swinging open the door and allowing John to pass through, the tutor nearly running past the coat rooms and the curtain into the large ballroom below. His feet were in control right now, his body was in control. Any sort of rationality, and sort of composure had been lost the moment that knob had been turned. John hadn't expected so much of a crowd on a weeknight, though the staggered levels were all full of diners and dancers. The room was perfumed with varying scents of tobacco, alive with various tones of laughter, and swimming with various sorts of people. Flashing dresses of silk, crisp black suits with brightly colored ties, fedoras and headbands, earrings and cufflinks... each person dazzled under the thick stage lights above, each one swaying to the orchestra and eating their dinner at a dizzying pace. Wine was being drunk, secrets being exchanged, hands being held. John forged through the crowd, noticing everyone without ever allowing a single eye to linger upon him for long. He was nothing to look at, nothing impressive. Perhaps his state of dress attracted attention, perhaps these crowds noticed that they were being infiltrated by an outsider, a poorer man, a wanderer. He still had half the countryside pressed onto his skin and trapped in his hair, and yet John pushed through the dancers with a firm entitlement, descending the floors until at last his feet hit that familiar marble, his heels clicking as he ran towards the white door, that familiar door which had haunted his dreams ever since he first passed through. By now he could see the veins painted upon the wood, those which seemed to be throbbing just as urgently as his own. They were beating erratically, just as his own heart had begun to do. John flew forward, feeling as if he might explode here under the orchestra if he did not fall into those familiar arms! It was a desperate measure, an urgent affair, and as his hand twisted upon the doorknob he felt as though some of the pressure was relieved from his back. As he stepped into the darkened hallway, shutting the door and blocking the noise from the outside room, only then was he able to truly relax. John found himself once again faced with the doorman, the older gentleman with the bowl of money in his hands. John plunged his hand within his pocket, trying to count out as many dollars as he could think to use. He could not afford so generous a price as Victor had supplied him with, though when he was able to find five crumbled bills within his coat the doorman nodded in satisfaction, as if that was enough to let him inside. John thanked him profusely, dumping the money into the bowl and watching the man closely, wishing that he might go ahead and open the door. Certainly he could tell that John was in a hurry by now? The tutor tapped his fingers anxiously upon his leg, lunging this way and that just to keep his momentum going. He felt as though the moment he stopped moving was the moment he collapsed to the floor, having gone deprived for too long, his heart eating him up from the inside out.
"He is occupied, sir." The doorman explained, finally realizing that his next costumer was perfectly desperate.
"For how much longer?" John wondered, trying to keep his voice calm and collective. He didn't feel the need to frighten the doorman, the poor old fellow who had little to say and almost no control over the situation. It was the Doll's control now, just as fast as he was able to go, just as much money as the costumer had paid. Anything over five dollars and it would certainly take much longer than John would appreciate.
"Not much longer now, sir." The doorman assured, nodding his head in respect all the while John grinned forcefully, weaving his fingers together and bouncing upon his toes. He could hear no sound from inside the room, nothing but the faint music that was playing on the stage above their heads. He could hear the impact of heavy shoes, the vibrations of a powerful piano, the rocking of the dancers as they swayed upon the floor.
"Have you worked here long?" John wondered, figuring he ought to make conversation to make this wait a bit more manageable. The doorman peered at him through the darkness, with watery eyes that had seen too much in their day.
"Yes Sir." The man responded at last.
"And you, well I suppose you know him pretty well?" John wondered.
"No Sir." The doorman muttered, which John found to be rather odd. The tutor recoiled, feeling as though that might have been a direct attempt to end the conversation.
"You don't know who he is then?" John clarified.
"His identity is a well-guarded secret." The man responded, as monotonously as humanly possible. Perhaps he had been asked that question before, and had since prepared the perfect answer.
"I should like to know, some day." John admitted with a grin.
"Wouldn't that ruin the fun?" the doorman presumed, his first attempt at either humor or a rather low blowing insult. John realized with that last remark that his conversation was not needed, and so instead he crossed his arms across his shoulders, frowning in the semidarkness at this surprisingly snarky old man. It took another five minutes before the doorman knocked upon the door separating the waiting room from the main event, wrapping his aged knuckles against the wood and waiting patiently for a response.
"Wilson, send them in!" called that muffled voice from the other side of the room. Those beautiful octaves were enough to get John's heart palpitating, and suddenly he found this single sheet of wood to be an unbearable barrier! He was about ready to knock the door down if the doorman did not do him the honor of opening it first. Thankfully Wilson did his job well, for he pushed the door open and allowed John to stumble inside, falling into the same room which had been trapped within his daydreams for the past couple of weeks. Suddenly he was overcome with emotion, and upon hearing the door snap safely shut behind him an influx of passion began to nearly cripple him on the spot. And there was his Doll, the most beautiful figure, cloaked in tightly wrapped black silk and molded, elegant porcelain. His figure was just as dominating, just as breathtaking. The mere stance that he took, with the strong yet frail shoulders, the massive height in which the top of his head stood, the way his bare feet braced themselves against the soft fibers of a presumably replaced carpet. John was transfixed, helpless but to stare and hope that the Porcelain Doll would be kind enough to make the first move. All of his enthusiasm faded into helplessness, and in the face of those black, lost eyes he felt as though he had turned entirely to stone.
"Mr. Watson." The Doll muttered with that muffled, almost undecipherable tone of voice. John swung his hands behind his back, nodding his head with as much grace as he could manage. For some reason he felt as though there was an aristocrat behind that mask, a man who deserved to be respected.
"You remember me." John declared, half wondering if he would get the same emotionless greeting as he was first met with.
"I remember many of my clients, especially those who seem so innocent." The Doll agreed, stepping forward with his hands trailing along the long and securely fastened straps of his black silk robe. His white fingers curled so beautiful along the fabric, pulling them tightly through his clasped fists as if demonstrating how easy it would be for another to undress him.
"I would not call myself innocent." John defended, allowing himself a miniscule step in the other man's direction, as if attempting to meet him halfway.
"I would not anymore." the Doll agreed. "And yet your face shines of Angelic purity. Your eyes are...well they are quite deceiving."
"I wish I could see your eyes." John admitted, allowing his deep longing to leak into his crackling, nervous voice. By now the space between them was dwindling, it was vanishing.
"Do not wish for things which can never be." The Doll advised, at last stepping close enough to settle his fingers around either side of John's waist, digging his fingertips into the hem of his trousers and rocking him slightly forward, so as to bring their hips together while the rest of their bodies stayed quite far apart. John grasped onto the arms which held him, though he was not foolish enough to disrupt what the Doll had planned. Already the very sensation of contact was bringing a tear to John's eye, slowly his grip became more powerful, his power more desperate, his breath lost.
"You turn me into an animal." John admitted miserably, leaning forward at last and bringing his forehead into the Doll's shoulder, wincing and barring his teeth all the while the Porcelain Doll's movements became slower and more planned, allowing John to step closer into his grasp and wrap his leg around the tall waist of his companion.
"And you turn me into a blushing schoolgirl." The Doll admitted.
"No schoolgirl knows how to do half the things you are so talented in." John protested, bringing the hem of the black robe into his teeth, biting down upon the fabric so as to ease his urgency. There was a chuckle from above, a suddenly fingerprints were pressed against his skin, easing up under the bottom of his shirt and onto his bare chest. John's skin became electrified, and it was only then when he allowed the first noise of desperation to pass through his lips. He hadn't remembered wrapping his arms around the Doll's neck, though by now he was squeezing so tightly he might strangle the man before they could even progress. Already the room was so hot and humid that John was dripping with perspiration, certainly making for a very unattractive partner. Though the Doll didn't mind, the Doll never seemed to mind.
"Release me, Mr. Watson, and I shall undress you." The Doll promised. John allowed his arms to fall, stumbling so quickly away that he hardly remembered the process of it all. The memory was a blur, the articles of clothing mixing together in a heap in his mind just as they began to pile on a heap on the carpet. One by one he was shed of his garments, the Doll carefully pulling the sleeves, gently unclasping the buttons, dragging his fingers across John's body every time he took the liberty of freeing the garments from his customer's body. John stood bare in the middle of the room, his feet pressed into the fibers of the carpet and his heart thumping so audibly he was sure that the Doll might be able to see it erupting within his chest. He had an audience now; even if he couldn't see those eyes on the other side of the mask he knew that they were watching him intently.
"You are a rare specimen." The Doll admitted at last, stepping closer and brushing his fingers down the length of John's chest, being sure to feel the ripple of his muscle tone hidden under his soft, perspiring skin. John trembled at the touch, unsure whether he wanted this agony to go on forever or if he wanted to stifle his urgency. There was some pleasure in being desperate, and though satisfaction was his ultimate goal. The Doll seemed to know that, he seemed to sense it, and so he took his dear old time, playing with his food before he helped himself. John's original thought was that the Doll was toying with him, though upon later examinations of his memories he began to wonder if the man was not enjoying this every bit as much as he was. Perhaps the elongated time was not for John's suffering, but for the Doll's mounting excitement? John didn't know if it was possible for a whore to take interest in a customer, he wasn't sure if they were ever going to fall in love. And yet he thought he felt legitimate emotions when faced with the Doll that night, he thought they might have fallen into an accidental rhythm, and forged a partnership without saying a word.
"I've only paid five dollars." John admitted shamefully, worried that such a price would not allow him to enjoy the same schedule of events that he had been offered the previous night. Back when he was on Victor Trevor's dollar it would seem as though he could have brought the Doll home for the whole week! And yet now he was poor, scoffing up his own money in an attempt to pay for expensive pass times.
"It does not matter." The Doll promised. "I'd have you for a nickel."
"Why?" John breathed, watching out of the corner of his eye as the man began to pace quietly around his body, letting his finger drag along his chest as he went, eventually passing over his bicep and onto his back. From there the Doll steadied himself, with his fingers overlapping John's exposed ribs, feeling his fingers through the gaps in the bone structure and easing the cold presence of the mask in the crook of his neck. From here John could feel the breath being exhaled through the nose, it was hardly warm by the time it escaped from the Porcelain cage, and yet it was startlingly human. When faced with such an emotionless façade one almost forgot they were dealing with anything remotely familiar. John leaned back into his touch, into his protection, and he was surprised to feel the touch of bare skin against his back. Looking down he noticed his clothes had been joined by a familiar black robe, discarded at their bare feet. He took another deep breath, his fingers clutching within his palms as he felt the hands of his companion slowly making their way around his waist, drawing him closer.
"Everyone's allowed to have a favorite, Mr. Watson." The Doll whispered, so close that even his muffled voice sounded amplified to a deafening scale. John trembled, feeling those octaves pass through him like a cold splash of water, forcing him to shiver and try his best to stand upright. At this point he knew his voice would no longer work, he knew that he was hosting a golf ball within his throat and nothing would be able to pass through intelligently. If he managed to get a syllable at all it would be merely a groan, and that was not necessary at this stage of their courtship. From the arms that surrounded him John could feel that the Doll was experiencing the heat as well, from those beautifully smooth arms there was already a shining layer of sweat. The room was stuffy, made all the worse by the lack of any sort of electric fan or open window. They were basking in the heat of their own creation, and at the rate they were going they might very well bake themselves to death by the end.