John didn't remember moving; he was staring at the carpet and watching as his feet indented into the stiff new fibers of the unfamiliar carpet. It was the same color as the last, though noticeably newer. The path to the bed was still hardly tread, and it felt as if his feet were one of the first to christen it. The Doll steered him slowly, though when at last John's legs pressed into the mattress he was turned to face the mask again, staring into the dark depths that hosted no more than a faint sparkle, only a slight reflection that might represent a set of human eyes on the other side. The arms captured him, and together the two fell back upon the blankets of the bed, with John's back pressed hard into the mattress while he struggled to accommodate the whole of the Porcelain Doll's weight upon his body. The other man tangled their legs, capturing John's face within his hands and pressing the cold shell upon his lips, as if he had forgotten he would never make direct contact. It was uncharacteristic of him, even John could tell by the way it was executed. It was awkward, uncomfortable for the both of them. It was an action the Doll must have acted upon in his own human intentions, not of his responsibilities as a whore. There was an impulse here, almost as if he wished as much as John that the Porcelain did not separate them. On John's first visits he was never made to kiss the mask, in fact he hardly expected any man to pay for that and enjoy it remotely. The Porcelain was smooth yet unaccommodating, tasting like various smells of polish and lacquer, with hardly a slit to even represent what might be an actual pair of lips. Instead it was molded into the expected form, unmoving, unyielding, and emotionless. Though on the other side there must have been passion, movement enough to justify John's continual affection plastered onto the porcelain he was faced with. He couldn't feel the other man's lips but he knew they were there, he knew they were just as active as his own. The Doll was moving his head, he was pressing harder and harder until the mask was in danger of chipping one of John's teeth. His grip was sliding, now finding John's skin to be slippery and difficult to anchor within. The heat was growing, the humidity dominating, filling the room to such a degree that they might have been swimming in a manmade fog. John clutched his fingers through the divots of the man's arms, finding the folds where his muscles flexed and grabbing on with his fingernails, sliding through the perspiration and dropping his lips down onto the Doll's neck, just to taste something familiar, to taste something human. The man enjoyed it, he could tell, he could feel it! The Doll leaned into him, for but a moment he seemed to give up his role as leader, he seemed to be just as smitten as was his customer. It was a moment John would never forget, feeling that all-encompassing body slacken within his own, falling almost desperately under his well-timed kiss. Tonight they were both enjoying themselves, they were both lavishing in the other's company. Their evening might have gone on forever, their enthusiasm never dwindling and their passion never subsiding. John might have lay in that bed for days, weeks even, with his legs curled backwards around the waist of his companion, his face pressed into the silk pillows which smelled of fabric softeners and felt gritty between his teeth. He might have complied for as long as he could manage, until the heat stifled him or his heart gave out entirely. And yet as with all good things, this too had to come to an end. And before John knew it their bodies separated, his partner pulled away, and by the time John was able to look back he was met with the retreating back of the most impressive Porcelain Doll, the man collecting his robe from the floor and draping it gently across his body as if in mourning.
"I should expect Wilson's knock any moment now." The Doll explained quietly, turning back to face John only after he had secured his robe across his chest and hidden himself away behind the silk. John lay back within the blankets, unable to get up until he was given a direct order to go.
"It has not come yet." John pointed out.
"All men have time limits." The Doll sighed.
"I might pay again, and lay back with you once more?" John suggested. His companion was silent, his long white fingers tangling within the cuff of the long draping sleeve of the other arm, as if he was trying to hide even his hands from the temptations of his customer.
"There is bound to be a line."
"I may be bound to wait in it. I will be the last, Sir, if only for the honor of falling asleep next to you." John promised, at last clambering to his feet and approaching the Doll once again. The man stepped back, as if he was afraid to be confronted so abruptly. John stayed his step, approaching as one might with a wild animal. He allowed his movements to be predicable, he allowed himself to appear quite tame.
"Mr. Watson, I do not sleep here." the Doll muttered.
"Then I shall follow you home." John suggested.
"I will have you arrested." The Doll promised. John merely smirked, reaching out his hands to grasp the man's shoulders again, pulling their bodies close so that he could press his lips once more to the cold, unyielding mask. He hoped the Doll might feel the love that was exchanged, even through the barrier which was forced between them.
"I can take no for an answer." John assured at last, drawing his lips away and looking up remorsefully upon the dark shadows above him. "I just wish I could love you as a man should."
"I am not made to be loved, only to be experienced." The Doll assured.
"Perhaps not, but sometimes our hearts are beyond our control." John admitted. The Doll sighed heavily, as if this was not his first time hearing such declarations. All of which were unacted upon, all of which fell through. Was it John's duty now to be the first to capture this man's heart, or had he already succeeded?
"Every man sees a different face behind the mask. You love who you see, not who you are faced with." The Doll muttered regretfully, finally lifting his hands towards John's arms and trailing his fingers lovingly down towards his hand. However hard John tried to catch the Doll's fingers they escaped, and before long the man had lingered away, pushing his hand down upon the coated layers of his hair.
"Get dressed, Mr. Watson. I have another customer soon." was his final instruction, before at last the Doll vanished behind a dressing curtain and was lost to John for the night. 

 Sherlock POV: One of the rules Sherlock had learned early in his makeshift career was that thinking got you nowhere. An overactive brain led to an underperforming heart, which made for a very unsatisfied costumer. He was not made to think, he was not made to feel anything remotely accurate. Sherlock was made to be loved, and he was forced to love in return. He was supposed to anchor himself upon any man he was faced with, he was supposed to show enthusiasm, to demonstrate passion, and yet tonight he could hardly see out of the mask. He could hardly care who was in his bed or who was in his arms. He stared out into the room and was met only with his own hallucinations, his rapidly progressing thoughts and his dwindling attention span for his duties as a whore. It was impossible to feel for any man tonight, in fact his mindset was so far gone that some men left with their money, assaulting Wilson at the door and taking their due refunds just minutes after they had entered into Sherlock's quarters. He tried, well perhaps not as hard as he ought to, though he did at least give the men the benefit of the doubt. If he thought they might stir anything inside of him he would at least give the effort, though usually he ended up rolling upon his back in despair, staring up at the ceiling and trying to listen to his own thoughts rather than the spew of insults and complaints he got from the man lying next to him. Before long Sherlock trudged towards the door, pulling his robe around his chest so that he hardly showed an inch of unnecessary skin, telling Wilson to call it a night and not accept any more visitors for the evening. He could not satisfy anyone tonight, not even himself. It was best that he did not ruin his reputation, it was best that he took a leave of absence so as to preserve at least some of his customer's good faith.

"Sir, Mr. Watson left you his card." Wilson announced, catching Sherlock just as he was about to slam the door and retreat into his own troubled thoughts. Sherlock hesitated, his fingers looped around the door frame and his body weight shifted away, though upon hearing John's name he had to retreat, nearly stumbling over his feet in an attempt to claim what was rightfully his.
"A card?" Sherlock clarified, not bothering to hide the enthusiasm which was mounting even from behind the contained lips of the mask.
"A business card, sir. Name and address." Wilson corrected, as if trying to emphasize that the gift was not as personal as Sherlock might have hoped. Sherlock nodded, extending his hand so that Wilson could set the little square of thick paper within his palm. Sherlock held the card up to the mask, using what little light was provided in this dark hallway to make out the expected letters, piecing them together by memory to read John Watson, followed of course by Sherlock's own address. It was an underwhelming gift, though if he did not know his customer outside of this room it might have been the opportunity of a lifetime. If Sherlock had to travel up the city, not up the stairs, he may have joined John Watson tonight.
"Thank you Wilson." Sherlock mumbled, pocketing the little slip of paper despite its insignificance.
"I could dispose of it for you, sir." Wilson offered. "I know you care not for your customer's cards."
"It's uh...well it's fine. I might keep this one, if you don't mind." Sherlock mumbled, patting his pocket for good measure and trying to put on his best look of innocence (despite of course the thick layer of porcelain which rendered all of his facial expressions obsolete).
"Sir, I dare not intrude, though it seems you may have chosen a favorite." Wilson commented, his aged eyes growing stern, as if he was about to offer some grandfatherly advice upon the subject. Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, hoping that the blank expression the mask offered would be enough to demonstrate his true feelings.
"I have not." Sherlock defended. "I am merely going to throw it away inside."
"Oh yes?" Wilson chuckled. "Then why not cut out the middle man?"
"Because...well because it's already in my pocket. Don't question me, Wilson; I am your boss after all." Sherlock scolded.
"Your brother is my boss." Wilson corrected. Sherlock held up a single finger, sighing heavily for his own ignorance in his most vulnerable times. Occasionally he forgot that Wilson had been let in on the family secret, and it was only times like this when he was painfully reminded.
"You were not supposed to know that." Sherlock scolded.
"I don't care who you are, Sherlock. I care for your wellbeing." Wilson assured.
"Don't use that name." Sherlock insisted, almost desperately shushing the doorman for fear of a lingering customer hidden in the shadows of their hallway.
"We are alone." Wilson pointed out. Sherlock stepped back and forth, beginning to wonder if Wilson was just trying to be difficult at this point or if this was in tune to his normal personality. In fact after some consideration Sherlock realized he didn't know what Wilson was like as a person, as he had only ever known him as the doorman. This may even be the longest conversation they had ever shared.
"Yes well, keep it that way." Sherlock suggested. "No guests tonight."
"Except one, if he returns?" Wilson presumed. Sherlock paused for a moment, squinting his eyes and tapping his fingers rapidly across his forearms.
"You could ruin me, Wilson. You could ruin me." Sherlock muttered, finally turning upon his bare heel and disappearing into his room before the doorman could pose any more revealing and all together personal questions. Sherlock stood for a moment by the closed door, one hand clenching around the shape of John's business card, the other feeling for the leather strap that had been newly repaired around the back of his head. It was impossible to work the thing off with one hand, though Sherlock stumbled towards his vanity and sank down upon the bench before at last he could put all of his fingers to work, releasing the clasp and freeing his face from the sweaty confines of the thick, suffocating material. Every breath he took within that mask was trapped inside, the moisture accumulating until his face was nearly dripping by the time he was able to escape it. As the mask rattled unevenly upon the wooden vanity Sherlock took deep, thankful breaths of unfiltered air, rubbing his fingers along the indentions of his face in an attempt to erase all signs that were imprinted upon his skin. One of these days the mask would cut in too deep, or perhaps he would wear it too long, and it would be stuck upon his skin forever. That would be the day that he had admitted to his double life, though until his skin grew around the mask and absorbed it into his body he would not breathe a word of his true identity to John or to anyone in his household. Mycroft and Victor were the only ones to know, that being because the entire ordeal was their genius creation. A business man's whore, one who could sit over dinner and discuss figures before sealing the deal in the bedroom. A man of many faces, a man with many hats. Back then it had seemed to be the perfect situation, for a struggling man forced to marry and begin a family, one who never saw the horizon to host any pleasure at all. Those were the days when he was struggling merely to conceive a child, forced to continue the Holmes family bloodline with a woman he might as well have been assigned to. He winced to remember it, when he had to invite Victor into his bed to spark up enough passion for a second child. When Mycroft offered this position of Porcelain Doll Sherlock had jumped upon the opportunity, he figured that he would get all the satisfaction he needed, he figured that he would be entertaining only the wealthiest, most beautiful representations of their city. He imagined he would be treated with kindness, and with loving respect. And yet here he sat, miserable and alone within the confines of his decorated prison, bruised, battered, and marked with all sorts of foul play. Here he was with a disinterested heart, a wandering mind, and an exhausted body. He was not even thirty and yet he knew that he was growing too old for this job. How could he sustain this abuse any longer, after having a killed a man in this very room, after having dismembered the corpse? How could Sherlock continue to live on the very floor that Sebastian Moran bled through? And the long, endless nights, the stamina that was required! Sherlock knew that the end was drawing near; he knew that he would either have to quit this position or die trying. That realization had dawned upon him long ago, though he had been waiting for the right moment to separate himself from his secondary profession. He had been waiting on a sign, some sort of Heavenly symbol that would lead him away from his responsibilities and into the world which was waiting. Sherlock knew there would be someone, a man that would appear in his life with the sole purpose of changing it forever. And tonight...well tonight he had heard a choir of angels. Tonight he felt something he never experience before, he felt a sort of eagerness that had never welled up within his chest, save perhaps for the first couple of evenings he spent in the company of his brother's valet. He felt just as young, just as clueless, just as frightened as those early days! When Sherlock was around John he felt as though everything he had ever learned went out the window, everything he had ever practiced became irrelevant. He loved John Watson not to satisfy him and match the price, but instead because he wanted to, because he felt it too. He felt love, love so strong it nearly choked him, love so powerful it nearly paralyzed him when fallen into the arms of his tutor. Sherlock never saw a future for himself until this very moment, he never thought he had any chance to find his other half in this city crawling with perverts and heterosexuals. And yet he had accepted this man into his home and into his workplace, he had offered John Watson a place in his family and in his heart! He felt...he felt connected in a way which he never had before. John was as much a part of him as was his arms or legs; John was the other half of his heart that he thought was lost forever. And what was he supposed to do now, how was he supposed to concentrate on any other man if he was suddenly so fixated upon one? Was it finally time to hang up the mask for good, was it time to elope to some far away city, some distant country, and disappear with the one man in his life that actually mattered? Could it be that he could leave this all behind? Would the Porcelain Doll finally be shattered? 

That morning at breakfast Sherlock was hardly able to take his eyes off of John, though the man didn't seem to recognize his presence just yet. John was speaking with the children, his ability to communicate increasing almost exponentially in the past couple of weeks. From the shy, reserved shells of children he was able to bring out their enthusiasm, their personality, and for the first time in a long while the joking tutor was able to get the children to laugh from across the table, balancing his bacon between his fork and knife to make a little bridge for grapes to roll across. It was the first time Sherlock had ever heard laughter in the dining room, in fact it may be the first time anyone attempted a joke at all. And yet he felt their smiles, he felt their joy. His heart was full to bursting, watching as the sunlight simmered in from the bay windows, illuminating John's blonde hair to a crisp golden glow, his smile stretched from ear to ear. And yet John's eyes never passed along to his master, his glance never questioned whether or not Sherlock would be entertained. As Sherlock's lips were beginning to twitch upwards he began to feel terribly excluded, and before his smile could ever take hold upon his face the man doubled down into himself, hunching over the table and staring at his breakfast, not his tutor. Perhaps John kept his humor reserved for those he thought wanted to laugh. How different it might be if Sherlock sat at the head of this table with his face covered in Porcelain. As usual, the most miserable person at the table proved to be his wife, as Irene was staring miserably down into her breakfast plate with her eyes glaring straight through, focused so hard on her uneaten food that she might have seared a hole through the table. Sherlock could understand for the first time what her strife was, where her misery was rooted. It was quite hard to be blatantly ignored by someone you had once loved, it was hard to see into beautiful eyes and watch them stare straight through. Sherlock curled his fingers around his silverware, his feet twitching on the floor as he dared another glance towards Irene, wondering if this morning would be a cheerful enough morning to engage her in conversation. She must have done something worthy of a story in the past...six years? Perhaps there was something to share.