Mycroft began to pace around in large circles once more, tramping through the carpets lost in thought, not uttering another word to his acquaintances until at last his footsteps were lost through the doorways, as if his pondering had ultimately led him to need a book from the library. Sherlock cast a bored eye to the retreating back of his brother, almost wishing that his silent presence was still lingering about through the drawing room to suck all of the confidence out of the conniving Victor Trevor. Certainly the servant would not be so brave as to confront Sherlock in the presence of his master, though as soon as Mycroft's range of earshot drew too far for even their casual conversation Sherlock could feel those eyes settling upon him from the other side of the couch. Slowly Victor eased his long legs onto the couch, hooking his heels into the divots between the cushions and heaving the whole of his bodyweight closer and closer to his stagnant prey. Sherlock remained still, grinding his teeth and trying to ignore the approaching figure that was so obvious within his peripheral vision. At long last Victor approached within arm's reach, for Sherlock could feel his fingers sliding carefully up his arm in an uninvited appreciation.
"Well Sherlock, how did you like him?" Victor whispered, drawing in ever closer upon his knees, now running a very excited finger along Sherlock's jawline so as to feel the sharpness of the bone structure. Sherlock was used to such attention, so much so that an unwanted hand didn't even make him flinch.
"I figured that you were behind it all." Sherlock growled. "What audacity you have, to put me in such an uncomfortable position."
"You've been in all of the positions before, Sherlock. I doubt any of them are truly uncomfortable any longer." Victor taunted, pushing his finger between the corners of Sherlock's lips so as to press his nail up against Sherlock's barred teeth.
"Stay away from my household, Victor. Stay away from my servants, from my tutors, and from my family." Sherlock growled, finally coming back to life and pushing the valet away, sending a hard stiff hand into the boy's chest to at least force Victor to recoil and steady himself.
"Oh but your household is just too much fun." Victor complained. "Filled to the brim with impressionable young men. Sweet, put together things, all so timid. All so youthful. And you say you don't have a type."
"They're not here to be your playthings!" Sherlock growled, shooting a defensive glare in Victor's direction so as to display his utmost dislike of the foul creature. Usually his most hardened stare produced a reaction, at least a flinch in those who lived and worked within his household. Victor, unfortunately, did not seem so fazed by Sherlock's most determined glare. He seemed amused, in fact, as if he thought it was delightful to see the man try to defend himself.
"No they're not, no there's only one whore in this house." Victor chuckled, lunging upon Sherlock without a moment's hesitation. Suddenly Sherlock felt the boy's knees clench across his torso, the whole weight of Victor's momentum pushing the two of them down upon the couch in a tangle of limbs and a struggle for dominance. If Sherlock had not been so exhausted he might have been able to fight back, he might have at least given Victor a proper struggle. Though this morning he found it was not within his power to fight against Victor's strong a determined grip, and all the while the boy contorted and twisted along Sherlock's squirming form he was not met with enough of a struggle. Perhaps Victor considered this some form of silent acceptance, as if he was being given the approval without any form of verbal consent. Sherlock could not bring his mouth to utter a word, and yet he felt Victor's tongue pressing hard upon his lips, using a strong grip to separate Sherlock's teeth and slide the rest of his mouth inside. Sherlock growled, though his limbs felt impossible to move. For the moment he was left sprawled upon the cushions of the couch, with Victor's weight holding him down and those clawed fingers holding down his limbs just in case they wanted to suddenly put up a fight.
"What was John Watson like?" Victor wondered with a chuckle, pressing large and aggressive kisses upon Sherlock's outstretched neck all the while his captive began to whine, slow and exhausted gaps for relief. His lips would not form words, though his brain was filled with statements he would very much like to spit. "Did he like you, Sherlock? Did you make that little body squirm?"
"He's none of your business!" Sherlock managed at last, finally finding strength enough in one arm to bat upon his aggressor, trying at least to score a reasonable punch into the exposed back of the vile servant. Though Victor was faster, much faster, and before Sherlock could even ball his hand up into a fist Victor had already steadied his hand, pushing it down at an unnatural angle towards the floor, immobilizing Sherlock probably by dislocating his entire shoulder.
"Did you like it, Sherlock?" Victor whispered, whispering those words right onto Sherlock's lips so as to inhale his response instead of listen to it. Sherlock wouldn't respond, he couldn't respond. He couldn't think upon such a question, he couldn't even consider the myriad of different answers without beginning to tremble.
"Get off of me." Sherlock demanded.
"Say it like you mean it, darling." Victor insisted, squeezing his legs together even tighter and keeping Sherlock's torso locked up as if in a bear trap. Sherlock struggled to catch another breath, finding now that his lungs were struggling to inflate.
"Get off of me!" Sherlock growled again. "You foul, disgusting..."
"Victor!" came another voice, a sharper voice. One which would be obeyed rather than ignored. Thankfully Victor's attention was grabbed, the boy sitting up straighter upon his victim as if he had nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of. He kept his position, unapologetically holding the younger Holmes brother beneath his strong grip and uncompromising weight. Sherlock was able to lift his head, at least high enough to meet his brother's eyes from his most uncomfortable position. He was not expecting to be met with pity, and as expected there was not a sparkle of shame or regret evident within his brother's hallowed eyes.
"You know the rules. He's not free." Mycroft insisted, strolling closer to the scene and grabbing at the back of Victor's jacket, yanking him aside like a mother cat would handle her kittens. Victor squealed as he was pulled away, fumbling off of the side of the couch as his momentum carried him off towards the coffee table and into a heap upon the rug. Sherlock scrambled into a sitting position, his face pale but his expression perfectly unmoved. He was used to being treated like this, especially by Mycroft's most insulant serving staff. No apology was given, as it never would have been expected. His face was flushed, and yet that emotion would soon fade. Everything faded when it was forgotten, and here it felt as though Victor's inexcusable actions were forgotten just as soon as the three were summoned to lunch. 

 John POV: John's appetite still had not returned, and yet he tried to at least take some reasonable bites out of his tuna sandwich to fake enthusiasm. For a man who had come from a most desperate food situation, having lived off of oatmeal for about two straight weeks when money was at its most tight, he should have been jumping upon every opportunity to eat something with flavor and variety. Especially now, when the security of his job still lingered apprehensively in the corner of his mind. Perhaps that was why his lunch didn't want to go down, why it sat in a lump at the bottom of his stomach, threatening to reappear should he attempt to swallow but another flake of crust from the edge of his sandwich. By now the events of the evening had processed completely within his mind, the whirlwind of the moment now calmed and the reality of it all sinking even deeper into his brain, permeating each layer of memory and tainting them with foul deeds and irrevocable acts. When John thought back to that evening he could remember each and every detail in perfect clarity, and yet the excitement of the moment allowed everything to be examined through a more moral lens, an eye that was not distracted by beauty or swept up in a flourishing and unpredictable passion. John looked back upon his actions with a heavy heart, a shameful heart, sinking his chin lower upon his chest as if he couldn't even face reality without ducking his gaze in shame. He felt eyes upon him at all times, the eyes of God who was staring shamefully through the roof and watching every move, expecting John now to be signing his passage down to Hell. To have accepted the Porcelain Doll was a pitiful mistake, one that had seemed almost too unavoidable when the man was lingering so closely and with such inviting words. John had been locked in the moment, immobilized by the lust that each man tried to fight away every moment of their life. It was no use to battle such passion, and so now it was John's sole duty to make up for his mistakes. He couldn't think back upon his evening spent with the Doll, he couldn't force the memories back into his mind when he felt that he needed an extra helping of bliss. And most importantly of all, John couldn't go back. What use was it to repent his sins if he was prepared to replay them upon a whim? Besides, even if he wanted to return to that stage door he didn't have the money to allow himself entrance. The ten dollars had been Victor's personal donation, and without such funding John would not be able to cough up a nickel for the Doll's services. It would amount to be an expensive habit, degrading John's life into a money funnel and saving him nothing for his future. And what future would that be, exactly, if he allowed himself to get swept into this life of crime? Certainly he couldn't stay hidden for long; someone would catch onto his movements and grow suspicious. He'd be thrown in jail for sure, and when he died he would find himself sinking even farther into the ground than where the gravediggers had placed him. It wasn't worth it...it simply wasn't worth it. As lunch progressed John began to wonder just why he could feel such a stern gaze upon him, now wondering if it was not God who stared but instead a much more tangible companion. Finally through the midst of silence John was able to lift his head, looking down the row of people to see that he had caught his host's attention. Sherlock also didn't appear to be hungry, for while he had his plate filled with the same foods as the rest of his family he seemed content with sitting back in his chair, messaging his pale thumb against his opposite palm and staring with lost eyes across the table towards his most humiliated tutor. The moment John noticed such a transfixed gaze he forced himself to look away, nearly jolting the whole table as his elbow smacked upon the wood in an attempt to go about eating his lunch in any normal way. While he still wasn't hungry he forced a baby carrot into his mouth, trying to chew and swallow as any normal man might even when under such an investigative glare. John was filled with irrational fears about the consequences of the night previous, beginning of course with the prospect of the Holmes brother discovering his new and accidental vice. Being as though Victor Trevor had deliberately led him to this misunderstanding, paid his way and hand delivered him, John had to imagine that Mycroft Holmes had some part to play. What exactly his advantage was in luring John underneath some strange prostitute still remained unclear, though he had to imagine that it was a plot to let Sherlock's household fall into even more distress. Perhaps Mycroft had noticed that John was bringing a positive energy to the manor, one that he disliked and wanted gone? By framing John in such an impossible situation he was certainly building up the leverage he needed for a justifiable sacking, especially when such a high profile family was being taken under his care. Certainly Mr. Holmes would not want such an immoral man to be teaching his children, worried about the impression John's questionable pastimes would leave upon his children. Could that be why Mr. Holmes was staring, had he already been informed of his tutor's most concerning evening? Undoubtedly he was deciding just how to do it, how to sack the tutor without admitting to an inside scandal. John quivered in his chair, wondering if he should start filling his pockets with the silverware to pay his way out of the Holmes household and back into the real world. Tomorrow was his payday; could he make it until then? Could John manage to linger just hours longer within these walls to ensure he had a check in his hands when he was kicked to the curb? When finally Mycroft dropped his fork back upon his plate, the clanging of the china signaling that everyone had finished with the midday meal, slowly the master of the house rose to his feet, leading the small shuffle of chairs and heels as the rest of the crowd followed suit. John hastily stood, trying to beat everyone out of the dining room so that he could not be caught up within the crowd and thus prime for interrogation by either one of the lingering brothers. He tried to keep his feet moving, speeding up towards the classroom so as to be prepared for the children when Mary delivered them to his door. As John climbed the stairs he could not hear any feet following, and finally he allowed himself to relax when at last his soles hit the carpet of the second story. Certainly he was safe up here, alone and unbothered. Perhaps Sherlock was merely waiting for a more private time, some place where their voices would not be overheard? John tread the carpet carefully, daring just one look over his shoulder as he reached for the classroom door handle just to ensure that he really was safe within his supposed solitude. It came as a surprise, for good or for evil, to see that he was not as alone as he previously assumed. No, today he had a silent shadow, footsteps which had tread unheard in the path John had left from the dining room. His blood ran cold, and yet John had to force a smile upon his lips to at least present himself in a more humane light.

"Mr. Holmes!" John exclaimed, turning the handle to the classroom with a short twist of his wrist, keeping his back towards the classroom even as it emerged from behind the slowly swinging door. For whatever reason Sherlock's stalking had alerted a strange fight or flight response, in which John felt the need to keep his eyes fixed upon his opponent at all times. He never knew just when the businessman would lunge.
"Mr. Watson, why are you going towards the classroom so early? Mary has the children until at least one o'clock for their midday naps." Sherlock pointed out, looming closer towards his tutor and clicking a previously unnoticed cane down upon the plush carpeting. John winced, expecting that cane to be the one used to beat him out of the house, breaking against his backside until at last he fell upon the sidewalk in shame.
"Yes well...well I figured I'd get their materials prepared. There are so many things within this room that it takes me a good twenty minutes just to find it all." John admitted with a little chuckle.
"So many things? What do you mean by that?" Sherlock wondered, his eyes squinting as the tutor began to step slowly backwards, retreating into the wide and sunny classroom to avoid the grim darkness that was surrounding the master of the house.
"Well classroom things. This afternoon's session is in spelling, and between the chalkboards and the erasers, the books and the pens, well it's almost dizzying." John admitted with a little chuckle. He was forcing his good humor by now, and by the way his legs were trembling he was sure it wasn't a very convincing show. There was a look of understanding within Sherlock's glare, masked of course by his current confusion, though deep down John knew that each one of his most delicate secrets was exposed. Mr. Holmes could read him like a book, and that very transparency was exactly the thing John most wanted to avoid.
"Did you not have such things at your previous school?" Sherlock wondered, still going on about the trifles of the classroom despite both men's utter indifference. Certainly they were both pondering about more important matters, though for now it seemed impossible to discuss what might be considered improper subjects. Thankfully this question was enough to draw some of John's more immediate emotions, for instead of this utmost dread he was actually able to laugh. The sheer surprise of John's amusement was enough to force his employer's face into something of concern; as if he was worried he had misspoken or offended. Sherlock's usually carefree expression was suddenly weighted, with his mouth down turning into a nervous frown and his eyes narrowing into mere slits.
"Excuse my laughter, Sir, but I didn't have anything close to these luxuries at my previous school. Nearly half of the boards I used to teach spelling on were slabs of slate that they carved upon with smaller stones, all retrieved from the shores of the Hudson on my weekends. The paper we used had about four months of erased writing upon it, discarded only when the pencil tips broke through. Book assignments were always very easy, because I could give the children the fragments of the novels they were assigned without worrying that they would read past the point. That being because the other halves of the books were bound in rubber bands upon my shelves." John admitted at last. "So yes, having materials is a shock to me. It's overwhelming to be so...so blessed."
"I had no idea." Sherlock admitted at last, his fingers curling apprehensively upon his walking stick as his face pondered for some time about the declarations his tutor had made.
"Yes well, as you know I come from the worse parts of Manhattan. Our education systems only reflect the lifestyles we live." John assured, shrugging his shoulders as if the truth was something he had managed to swallow long ago. In stark contrast, however, it seemed as though the master of the house was choking upon it. Perhaps he had never been exposed to the bleak lifestyles of his Manhattan neighbors, or at least never presented in a way that could invoke such raw pity.
"And this was the state you left it in?" Sherlock wondered quietly.
"Well of course. I imagine nothing has changed for the better." John admitted, tucking his hands behind his back and staring in amazement at the look of dismay upon Mr. Holmes's face. His little speech may have actually struck a nerve within this man's heart of stone.
"I...well Mr. Watson, let me just admit that you amaze me every day." Mr. Holmes declared at last. John opened his mouth to respond, though suddenly he was flooded instead with uncontrolled emotion, a strange feeling of pride bubbling up within his throat and blocking any coherent words. He shut his lips determinedly, trying to play it off as if he never meant to respond, and merely nodded his head towards the floor. There was a blush in his cheeks, though John was determined to keep his eyes downturned against the floor until his face had returned to its natural color. For some reason John was ashamed to be so moved by kind words, he didn't want it to be so obvious that he hardly ever received gratitude.
"Thank you sir." Was all John could manage after a moment of recollection, finally allowing his face to rise to meet that of his employer. To John's utmost surprise he found that Sherlock was smiling, and as he concentrated he found that it was a legitimate smile, one which was presented authentically. It wasn't that snarky grin he wore when he was sarcastic, it wasn't a sneer displayed to show his amusement in someone else's humiliation. Sherlock was...well he was happy. And he was displaying that happiness for what might have been the first time in the public eye. John wasn't sure he had ever seen Mr. Holmes look so convincingly human, though today under the bright bay windows he seemed to shine even brighter than the sun. And that smile, it being so rare, could draw out a response from John's own lips. It could make him smile, despite his fears of unemployment, despite his worries about his shameful actions. John felt without a doubt that if Sherlock Holmes could find a reason to smile then surely the world was at peace, if just for these short seconds shared between them. Sherlock Holmes was happy, and so in this moment everything was going to be okay.