"So, what is it you had to say?" John wondered at last, noticing that this silence had gone on for an unbearable length of time. Sherlock smiled, though it was not the sort of grin that one would expect a joke to spawn from. Instead it was lifeless, sarcastic, as if he had perfected the trade from his brother.
"John, I was wondering if you had any questions for me. Anything that might feel out of color to ask." Sherlock admitted at last, pulling his hand up only to tangle it across the edge of the bath, the long fingers catching across the rim and depositing small droplets of accumulated moisture onto the bath.
"Out of color?" John clarified anxiously.
"An answer that might not be appreciated in front of a court of law." Sherlock clarified at last. John blinked, his mind immediately reaching towards the murder, to Sebastian Moran. It wasn't a topic he would dare admit to knowing, it wasn't a name he could ever allow to leave his lips. It was none of his business, not even when Sherlock was trying to sound accommodating. John wasn't a secret keeper anymore, he was a snitch. And he knew the fate of such people enough to keep quiet. He knew to be scared. And yet there was a question, one which he had been meaning to ask for some time. One which never seemed to have the proper moment.
"Is it true that you own the Dollhouse?" John asked at last, spitting out the question before his tongue had the chance to reject it. Sherlock chuckled for a moment, finally dropping his arm back into the water and disrupting the smooth surface. He rolled his head along the rim, allowing the lower curls to sink into the bath, a smile stretching across his face to display barred teeth.
"The Dollhouse again." he muttered at last. "You have an obsession with the establishment."
"You asked if I had any questions, Mr. Holmes. I think it is only fair that you might answer the one I provided." John declared at last, figuring that this method of exasperation was only a way to dodge the question. Sherlock sighed heavily, as if he found such a stern voice to be incredibly audacious. If he was insulted, however, he never said.
"Yes, John. My brother and I own the Dollhouse. It was a business investment some time ago, created with the intention of a meeting place for powerful men. It has since become something much bigger, something much less professional. I am, in some ways, very ashamed of the fate of our club." Sherlock admitted at last.
"Because you employ prostitutes?" John presumed. Sherlock rolled his head back towards John, allowing their eyes to meet once more. There was a strange fire behind those pupils, one which seemed to radiate a sort of desperation. In some ways John did not imagine he was being scolded, though it would seem as though the conversation necessitated it.
"It is not something I am proud of. But Mr. Watson, how silly of me to only come to this conclusion now! Certainty you have employed one of them before?" Sherlock presumed at last. John's face grew quite red; suddenly his hands began to tremble where they hid within the folds of his clothes. For some reason the idea of admitting to his pass time was almost impossible, and in the face of such a powerful man he felt the need to deny it. A love so strong, a passion that could not be stifled, and he wished to hide it in the farthest corner from Sherlock's penetrating gaze.
"I..." John hesitated, finally deciding that he had been met with honesty, and might as well return the favor. "I have."
"Ooh, you must love him." Sherlock whispered excitedly. John was silent to that, figuring he was not obligated to answer either way. "He comes with excellent reviews."
"Sir, I'm not sure I feel comfortable discussing this with you." John whispered at last.
"Oh why else do you think I'd hire such a man? Why do you think that's a position that we offer? I am more open minded about these things than most people in this country, certainly John it feels good to get it off your chest? To open up a little bit, to share?" Sherlock presumed.
"I don't see why my romantic life is of any concern to you."
"I seek ratings, Mr. Watson. I want reviews." Sherlock insisted, rising up out of the water just high enough for the tips of his shoulders to emerge. John kept his eyes fixed upon Sherlock's, now realizing that he ought to keep his gaze in the only definitive spot he was allowed. Any wandering might be presumptuous.
"He is...well to put it gently I feel as though my money is well spent." John admitted at last.
"He'd like to hear it." Sherlock whispered, his eyes dropping into a low and almost solemn gaze. "He appreciates a satisfied costumer."
"Have you ever been with him?" John wondered, speaking without first thinking, and blurting out some of the most incriminating questions he could manage. Sherlock's eyes widened, John watched them as they grew, though the water merely stirred, his foot emerging to trail his toes across the opposing rim.
"Curious about me, Mr. Watson?" Sherlock wondered.
"About you, sir?" John muttered stiffly.
"Yes. About me." Sherlock whispered, his voice dropping into a such a low octave John might have taken it to be sarcastic.
"No sir. I think I know all there is to know about you." John managed quickly, though he knew it to be a lie. For a moment Sherlock was silent, though for a moment his smile returned, a small, unconvincing little grin.
"I wish that were true, Mr. Watson." He whispered regretfully. With that Sherlock dropped his gaze, staring at his foot where it was just poking gently from the water. With no eyes to look at John stared instead at the curtained window that stood behind the bath, illuminating the scene with a sheer film across the filtered sunlight.
"I wish to trust you, John." Sherlock muttered.
"You can, sir. Of course." John promised, though he clenched his teeth to envelop the lie.
"But you've given me reasons to doubt that trust." Sherlock reminded him, his eyes snapping back in such a harsh motion that John almost recoiled. There was a flash of anger within those pupils, a sort of gaze John might have expected to see hosted within Mycroft's eyes instead of his younger brother.
"I have?" John whispered, choking on the words as they came from his throat, as if he had to push them from a great collecting bubble of guilt that was swelling within his mouth. There was only one way to explain such a confrontation. Sherlock knew.
"John, I am your employer." Sherlock reminded him quietly. "I am not your nanny, not your detective. Nor will I ever be your judge."
"Mr. Holmes, I beg your pardon for whatever it is..."
"John, don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." Sherlock scolded. John stayed quiet, clapping his ankles together and forming himself within his practiced military composure. It was easier to straighten his back than to stand within his hunch, shivering.
"What you've been telling to that Investigator, I don't care." Sherlock admitted at last. "If you think it's within your best interest to see me hanged, well then so be it."
"I don't want to see you hanged!" John protested outright, stepping forward with a jolt before back stepping just as rapidly. He wanted to defend his position; he wanted to defend his reasoning. But could he manage to formulate the words? What was there to say any longer, what was not implied? John's face had turned quite pale, though in contrast Sherlock's cheeks had flushed up with determination. He didn't look mad, though there was a particular silence to him. His lips were pursed and his eyes were staring, as if he was looking inside of his brain rather than in the real world, contemplating something more important than his audience.
"John, I wouldn't mind the noose. So long as my brother hangs first." Sherlock admitted at last. "Remember him, John, when you are making your case. Remember to add his name." John tightened his fist within his pocket, his vision turning red. Suddenly the heat of the room began to overpower him, the dense and humid fog accumulating upon his skin, choking him. John wasn't sure if he had heard those words correctly, and furthermore he wasn't sure what he did to deserve such a statement. Though he wasn't given much time to think about it. In fact his concentration was wholly interrupted, jolted from his head at the first sign of motion, the first ripple that began to grow into large, circling rings within the smooth pool of bathwater. From the disruption from the water erupted an arm, one which hooked across the edge of the bath and wrapped its wrinkled fingers across the porcelain. And then another limb, a leg, falling out upon the carpet as the whole body began to shift, began to splash. John shut his eyes tightly, stiffening to the rigid making of a steel plate, clenching his muscles and pulling his limbs as close as they would go to protect himself. He heard the water splashing upon the tiles, he heard the feet as they made land fall. A soft squish of bare toes as they invaded the collecting puddle. The man took heat with him; he made an immense fog as the warm water evaporated from his bare skin into the cold room beyond.
"Look at me, Mr. Watson." Sherlock demanded, his voice dropping into some of the more serious octaves John had ever been faced with.
"Mr. Holmes, you know I cannot." John whispered.
"Look at me." Sherlock said again. John did not yield. He kept his eyes closed tight; squeezing with so much concentration that his whole face was shaking with the effort. He could feel the breath coming closer, he could feel the body heat approaching.
"I won't." John breathed helplessly. John felt a pair of warm hands envelop around his face, he felt fingers take hold of his eyebrows, pulling them sharply up and forcing some of the room to come back into focus. He could only make out the white shade of skin, the one which seemed almost paler than the complexion he had grown used to upon his master's face.
"You'll see why I will hang. You'll see why I want to do it." Sherlock growled, now wrestling with John's head in an attempt to manually pull his eyelids open. John grappled with the bare arms; he was grabbing at the wrists, wrapping his fingers around the almost familiar bone structures and yanking them away.
"Sherlock, stop! You're mad!" John exclaimed, stumbling backwards and replacing those foreign fingers with his own, covering his eyes as he pressed his palm to his nose.
"I wish I was mad. Madness would make this much easier." Sherlock whispered.
"Sherlock..." John muttered, stepping back again as he felt the voice approaching. Finally his back hit against something solid, something which rattled against familiar hinges. He was trapped, thoroughly.
"I enjoy hearing you use that name." came a voice now so close John could have breathed in the words; he could have absorbed them before they were released. John allowed his eyes to open only slightly, he allowed his fingers to part, to block his peripheral vision but stare instead at the pair of eyes which were directly in front of him. From this angle he could only see darkness, as the room had fallen into shadow. From here he could only make out the shape of Sherlock's face, and where his eyes should be there seemed instead to be voids. It was a familiar face, though not familiar enough within this mansion. It nearly tricked John into enjoying himself. John recognized that smile; it paired well with every other emotion he had memorized upon the man. Though this time it seemed legitimate, as if there was emotion hidden behind it rather than a cold, blank slate. Mr. Holmes seemed to be pleased. John closed his eyes again when he felt his lips press into his teeth. He dropped his hand when he felt the pressure of another face upon his own, when he recognized the sensation of a tongue within his mouth. For a moment it was exhilarating, for a moment he could forget the man, he could forget the room. He braided his fingers together, convincing himself he ought not to touch the bare body of his employer. Though the lips were present, they were constant. And if John didn't think too much he could kiss back. If he had switched off his brain, maybe he might have been able to do more.
"Mr. Holmes!" John exclaimed at last, forcing his head back against the wooden door to avoid whatever proximity seemed to be best fitted to them. Finally he took a breath of unrestricted air, pulling his tongue into his own mouth, pulling his lips shut and forcing them to recede between his teeth for safe keeping. He took a glance, a single glance, at the man who stood before him. It was a silhouette he could not forget, a mere shape that had been lost within the harsh backlighting of the almost directed sunlight. It was a look of terror, a stance of shame. The man had brought his arms up to his head, he pulled his fingers through his curls in agony, turning suddenly upon himself and letting out a wail of self-loathing. John had no choice but to turn, he couldn't stay within this bathroom any longer. He turned the handle to the door, falling out into the hallway and collapsing upon the carpet in his own despair. He opened his mouth against the open air; he tried to fill his mouth with something other than saliva of his employer.
"A good talk, I presume?" Reginald's voice wondered from above. John grumbled, rolling onto his side to see a pair of shoes that must have belonged to the valet. He hadn't the energy to respond. In fact he found this carpet quite comfortable, and vowed to stay up it until his body drained of its shock and filled again with the blood which used to flow unrestricted.  

Sherlock POV: Sherlock tried to match his heartbeat to the tapping of his spoon against his cup. Clink, and beat. Clink and beat. He tried to keep it consistent, under control, and relaxed. Though he was aware of John's presence within the room, he was aware that if he picked up his head he might be faced again with the very lips he had tasted through the lavender scented air. Soon his spoon was hitting the cup so rapidly that it was nearly constantly ringing, constantly banging, and when finally Sherlock realized he was drawing more attention to himself than he ought to be he finally allowed the little spoon to fall deep into the cup of tea. A small splash concealed the spoon within the dark liquid, undoubtedly where his lips would soon find it if ever he was brave enough to stomach a sip. There was something growing on the table, some sort of influence that became larger and larger until he might not have any chance to disregard it. The longer he looked down at his breakfast the larger this bubble grew, the one made up of the words which might have been exchanged, the ones which were trapped within their mouths and contributing to the suffocation. Sherlock might have stopped breathing, just in order to keep the rest of his exhales from mingling within the air of his tutor's. There was something terribly bothersome about the interaction, as ide from the flat out rejection. The goal of Sherlock's grand reveal was intended to be a grand reveal. Yesterday he was prepared to display his body matched with his face, he was prepared to let John recognize what had been hiding under his suits this whole time. He wanted the connection to be made. He wanted to be noticed as one whole entity, rather than two split men, to separate men. And yet that modest little brat! That ridiculous man, a poor excuse for a homosexual! He wouldn't even look. Who knows what kept his eyes locked within Sherlock's, who knows what sort of honor he was attempting to protect? It was as if he thought he had some sort of obligation to his whore, as if he felt the need to neither look at nor acknowledge another man's naked body. It was loathsome, made even more intolerable by the fact that he would have been faithful to his true love, even if he didn't realize it! And he would've. Sherlock grumbled over his English muffin. He would've. Under the complexity of the strawberry jam he could still taste John's lips, as he swished juice between his teeth he could remember how thorough the man's tongue had been. There had been a moment where he was enjoying himself; there was a moment where he had gotten lost. Just as Sherlock intended, the poor man had been overwhelmed with the sudden passion! Oh for someone who never slept alone John Watson was still deprived of lips, for the last ones he had kissed belonged to the loathsome Victor Trevor. Certainly John had been starved for the taste of another; he had been longing to host another man's mouth within his own. What had been wrong, what had gone wrong? It was weighing so heavily upon Sherlock that he could hardly lift his head, instead he let his eyes drop, he let his hands tremble, he allowed himself to sip from the dark tea and bite upon the spoon which was floating inside.
"Irene, have you received my invitation in the mail yet?" Mycroft wondered, breaking the silence as if he was entitled to such a luxury. Irene's eyes flashed, though she hesitated to bring her eyes up to meet her brother in law. Sherlock watched with just as much interest, wondering if the two had ever truly spoken a word to each other.
"Invitation?" Irene clarified, not bothering to hide the confusion within her voice. Mycroft's smile continued to grow, as if he was ever so happy that his motives remained mysterious.
"For my birthday party." He explained. "My thirty fifth?"
"I hadn't realized it was coming up so soon." Irene muttered. "No Mycroft, we did not receive an invitation."
"It really is no use sending one." Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft turned his dark eyes upon his brother; his smile continuing to linger upon his face long after his humor had disappeared. Now the tugging of the lips resembled something of a haunting photograph, one which hung in the shadows and falsely represented the ancestors as pleasant, easy going people.
"Well you don't get an invitation, Sherlock. You are expected to attend." Mycroft clarified. Sherlock barred his teeth, knowing exactly the duties he would be attending to in the midst of Mycroft's rounds of free drinks. He never liked the birthday parties; he never liked the parties in general. His business was usually private, though when the club was shut down and designated only for close friends there was a certain layer of trust. No one there had anything to lose by their vices being discovered, and therefore it was quite common for Sherlock to have a man upon the very table he had once been eating his dinner off of. They were disgusting gatherings, made even more disgusting by the clientele that Mycroft attracted. He never had friends; no in fact he probably detested everyone on the guest list. Though each man shared a certain morale, or rather a lack of morals, that made the group carry on seamlessly. They were all very good at faking their amusement, only attending to try to one up their conversational group. They were boasters, frauds, powerful businessmen with large pockets and even larger egos. They were despicable, and they were always desperate. If they couldn't get Sherlock to themselves they would watch, and if that wouldn't work they may well turn to their neighbor and offer to mimic what was going on in the back corner for free. There was something about powerful men, something that made them want to dominate each of their peers in any way possible. The small talk lasted for a half hour, usually. It was after the sun went down that the party took a turn, and at the end nearly each man had to read the tailored labels upon the identical trousers lying about the place, trying to determine which belonged to him at the beginning of the night. It was chaos, and it was never pleasant. There were women of course; sometimes they would attend alongside of their husbands. Though they never lasted long, somewhere along the line they were shown out, either forcefully or by choice. Somehow there was never a woman lingering by the end of the evening. Irene always had an excuse, she knew enough to avoid these parties after her first encounter with the family. She knew it was better to stay away, to knit a sweater, or to embroider through her fingers. Who knows what she got up to when her husband was out wearing his mask?