"How far is the drive?" John wondered a bit apprehensively, just realizing that the country seemed incredibly far away. As far as his eyes could see there were buildings, and it may take a concerning amount of time before they reached open land.
"About two hours if I don't get caught breaking the speed limit." Victor decided.
"Oh wonderful." John muttered, wishing that he had managed more breakfast when he had the chance. His eyes were becoming awfully heavy, and he wondered if the sound of the engine would be too distracting for a nice nap against the side of the door. Perhaps these hours could be put to use, making up for lost time?
"I never asked you, John, if you had any plans to return to the Dollhouse." Victor began, interrupting John's sleepy state and erupting quite a bit of nervous energy into his veins. John hated when Victor brought up their singular visit, for he felt the servant was not a good man to trust a most delicate secret. He was still embarrassed by his actions that night, even if he wasn't too hesitant to repeat them.
"Return for the...for the company?" John clarified nervously. Victor chuckled, though he nodded his head with a grin.
"The company of one particular man." He agreed. John shivered, drawing ever nearer to the door as if he was trying to keep his unconscious mind just about as far away from victor as he could manage. For some reason he felt as though every thought going through his head had already been examined or anticipated, he felt as though nothing he said would come as any surprise at all.
"I hadn't made any plans, no." John admitted.
"Do you want to? Certainly you enjoyed yourself, I would not believe you if you tried to deny it. What good are life's greatest pleasures if they are not enjoyed again?" Victor wondered with a tempting smile.
"Well I'm not sure I should. Not only could I not afford it, but it feels rather...well rather strange." John admitted. "I hadn't known what to expect the first time, and I went along with it to be...polite."
"Liar." Victor snapped.
"I'm not lying! You never told me it was going to be a man!" John defended.
"That part is true, though I kept that information deliberately. But to say you were only being polite, that you of all people would throw away ten dollars just to protect the feelings of some masked whore, well it's perfectly incomprehensible. You wanted it, and you liked it, and you'll do it again." Victor declared, stealing any hidden emotions right out of John's trembling heart. John whimpered in defeat, though he allowed himself to fall silent for a moment, trying to recollect himself before he tried to defend his position upon the matter. Evidently Victor understood his stance better than he did, and to be honest there was no point in defending his character from it any longer. What crime was it really, to enjoy something that was designed to be so wonderful? He had only given into the most common vice of man; certainly he should not be embarrassed to admit it? Furthermore, he was sitting next to a man who was unapologetically addicted to the man behind the stage door. Certainly it would do no harm to admit to sharing the same feelings?
"I suppose I'm just waiting for another invitation." John admitted at last. Victor smiled, daring to clap John upon the shoulder in his pride.
"That's precisely the attitude I was hoping for. We shall go again, then, once we get back to the city." Victor proposed.
"I would like that." John admitted, feeling as though he ought to just spill out his utmost feelings. No matter his feelings towards Victor he had to at least appreciate that he had a companion who was so transparent. Emotions were best understood if they were spoken about out loud, and if John would try to discuss his feelings towards the Porcelain Doll with Mary Morstan he may very well end up with a beaded purse smacked into the side of his face. Yes, perhaps John should appreciate this little interrogation, for he was never going to say any of it on his own. With his heart empty of all secrets John began to nestle into the door once more, finding that the window was a very bumpy pillow but managing to settle his head upon the leather cushion that protected the passenger from the bumpy rides. This felt much better, and just the luxury of a head rest began to make John feel very tired.
"You can sleep if you would like to." Victor offered. "I don't think I could hold a conversation for two hours anyway."
"Will you be okay driving for that long?" John wondered nervously.
"What choice do I have? If we switched off our journey would last much longer, for we would have to continue on foot after you slammed this thing into the Hudson River." Victor chuckled.
"Fair point. Well then, if you are not opposed." John muttered, snuggling even more into the door and daring a small smile upon his exhausted face. For a while he stayed quiet and still, trying to fall asleep despite the bumpy roads and the noisy engine spewing exhaust from under his feet. All the while he pretended that he was not awake, just for the luxury of not maintaining any sort of conversation in these most precious moments of relaxation. Or a while the car was silent, interrupted after about ten minute with Victor beginning to hum popular radio tunes. This quiet music, set in his deepest baritone, was enough to finally draw John into dreamland. It was a strange time to dream; for the uneven roads were shaking his body back and forth even throughout his deepest sleep. This motion was worked into his recent memories, and in the midst of his brain somewhere there was a nerve firing, producing just one image, one feeling, and compensating for all of the external interference from the automobile. In his dreams he was in the arms of a man, a familiarly constructed body with a delicate touch, soft skin brushed against his own and limbs intertwined. John could feel the cold mask pressed against his cheek, the leather of the car door becoming the closeness and the pressure, he could feel the soft breaths of the man with the gaps between the poorly fitted glass windowpanes. And they were moving, together, in synchronized motions, jolting back and forth, pinned down and tangled, pressing themselves closer and closer so as to merge their bodies into one. John could feel his heart racing, he could feel his lips parting, he could feel his breaths gasping. And he could move, he could move along, he could keep up. He could merge with this man's movements; he could go along for the ride. But of course he could not control every aspect; perhaps he was safe within his dreams, though he had left his living body behind in the car. His brain was occupied by a single man, though the rest of him was still being observed within the real world. It was something Victor would never mention, even with his most uncomfortable modes of communication. He did not think it right to comment upon poor John Watson, who was balled up against the door of the car and moaning in his sleep. 

 Sherlock POV: There was only a dim light to see by, a singular orange bulb struggling on its chain in the darkened garage, with the windows shuttered by thick woolen curtains and the doors locked with iron bolts. The light was only enough to see by, basking the scene in its arranged color palate and making the blood on their skin turn black, looking more like ooze as it began to dribble in great drops down Sherlock's thin white fingers. He shuttered, shaking his fingers against his apron and closing his eyes for one moment, trying to convince himself that he was in a safe place, a legal place, and the tools in his hands were for baking, or for gardening. Not for butchering.

"Sherlock are you going to be sick?" Mycroft's voice wondered, sounding as if he was speaking from much farther away. As if his voice was echoing from the top of a mountain, growing more and more faint until his syllables were caught in Sherlock's eardrums in the most minute form, a quiet little whisper that sounded more soothing than it was intended to be. The man forced his eyes to open, staring down at his hands which were griped around the fat forearm of Sebastian Moran, his fingers squeezing into the decomposing flesh and tearing through the bruised white skin. He winced, yanking his hand away but keeping the saw level, not wanting to lose the gap in the bone he had already begun to notch.
"No, I'm fine." Sherlock whispered, forcing the lie out of his teeth even though he would like nothing more than to scramble out of this garage and head for the river, diving in head first to wash himself clean of any debris that may have escaped his apron's coverage. He continued to saw, slowly pulling his arm back and forth so as to ease the sharp teeth of the blade through the man's wrist, trying to remove his hands and therefore his fingerprints, which could be used to identify the body should anyone unearth it from their planned disposal. Sherlock really shouldn't be complaining, for his job was not nearly as brutal as was his brother's. Then again Mycroft did not seem to have a problem with sawing off the head; in fact he seemed to have some fun with sticking his hand down the corpse's throat in an attempt to steady his head from a more centralized location.
"He's a fat brute." Mycroft growled. "I've been sawing for about ten minutes and I've only just gotten past the flaps in his neck!"
"Imagine this thing coming at you naked. You would've shot too." Sherlock agreed with a shiver, suddenly finding the necessary motivation to put his back into his work, using his foul memories of this man to motivate him past his squeamish tendencies.
"It was an impulse thing to do, and it may still cost us dearly." Mycroft warned, his voice falling into his most serious tone so as to make sure his brother did not start joking around about this serious felony. Certainly even tycoons could not get away with murder, though for the moment Sherlock felt that he was in more danger from his nightmares than he was from any law enforcement. Somehow Mycroft was an expert at body disposal; he dealt with this situation as if it was not unfamiliar to him. As if he had done it before.
"He saw my face, what was I supposed to do?" Sherlock challenged with a growl.
"We could have figured that out together, brother mine. But now we have bigger problems on our hands." Mycroft growled.
"Bigger than Moran? I doubt it." Sherlock chuckled. Mycroft sneered, and though Sherlock assumed there was some spark of amusement hidden very deep within his expression.
"I mean we have to deal with his replacement. As miserable as he was, Moran was easy to control. He had all the expected vices, and therefore was wrapped around our finger. Who knows who they might elect in his place? Perhaps some pastor, or even a woman?" Mycroft suggested worriedly.
"We're better at sex than Moriarty, and we're better at more traditional persuasion. New politicians like to make powerful friends, and when compared to that upstart, well we look like Gods. Not to worry Mycroft, they'll be in the palm of our hands without ever having to fall into my bed." Sherlock assured, at last cutting through the last of the skin and digging the saw's teeth into the wooden table below. Sherlock winched, cursing his ignorance as he wrenched the blade from the wood and examined the bleeding stump he had created, now severed completely from the large hand which was free floating and mutilated, with all sorts of strange flaps of skin and lone muscles worming their way out of the bloody mess. It was a terrible sight, and yet Sherlock felt strangely proud of himself for having accomplished such a task. Who knew he could be so morbid when the situation necessitated it? Mycroft's saw cracked through his end of the body, perhaps cutting through the windpipe with a terrible raking sound. The man merely laughed, flexing his fingers across Sebastian's upper jaw and yanking his head even farther back off of the table, now bending abnormally far as his head began to separate from his neck.
"The other one then, Sherlock." Mycroft instructed. Sherlock nodded, stepping through the pools of blood as he worked his way around the table towards the man's other extended arm. It was during this short pause when his ears were most alert, for there was only one saw cutting loudly through their prepared corpse. It was the perfect timing for the full earshot, for it may have been the only time to hear anything at all. They had been working on Mr. Sebastian Moran for some time now, and yet they had not had a single interruption. Though the sound was unmistakable, and by the way Sherlock froze Mycroft also paused in his work, the two brothers listening intently to the crunching of gravel and the dull whine of a car's motor. Sherlock's eyes widened, imagining that a police car was pulling into their driveway with guns drawn, the entirety of the local force coming to bust the two men for their dismembering of a murdered corpse.
"Are you expecting anyone?" Mycroft asked quietly, his voice laced with the same sort of fear which was mounting within Sherlock's chest.
"No. are you?" Sherlock whispered.
"Of course not." Mycroft growled. He abandoned his work in an instant, leaving the saw stuck in the neck of his victim as if to make sure he could not possibly come back to life in the moment Mycroft turned his attention away. The man headed towards the window, easing back the woolen curtain and peering out through the dusty windows into his long driveway. The sunlight was blinding for them both, making Mycroft's observation come much later than originally expected. When at last his eyes had adjusted the man was quiet for some time, as if he was trying to get a good look at the approaching vehicle before he could say anything for certain.
"It's your car, Sherlock." Mycroft announced.
"My car? It couldn't be, Irene doesn't know how to drive." Sherlock protested, figuring that the only one with the audacity to borrow his vehicles would be his most detestable wife.
"Irene's not the only one living in that house of yours." Mycroft protested.
"What, is Elizabeth at the wheel?" Sherlock chuckled. For a moment his brother watched intently, those black eyes squinted and observant. The slamming of a car door was heard, and for a moment Mycroft's lips upturned into a conniving little grin.
"Make yourself decent, brother mine. We have guests." Mycroft muttered.
"Who is it, Mycroft?" Sherlock growled, walking up to the window and pushing his brother aside. Evidently Mycroft was not going to make this any easier for him, for the man so enjoyed to hold his conversations in the deepest suspense. Sherlock squinted against the harsh sunshine, noticing that it was indeed his car parked in the long circular driveway. And the two figures walking towards the house were just as undeniable, the wandering shapes of Victor Trevor and John Watson.
"Oh what are they doing here?" Sherlock muttered, torn so completely between delight and inconvenience that his voice maintained a perfectly neutral tone, as if he was commenting on the weather and not on two obedient and perhaps untimely servants.
"Well Victor would have known where to look I'm sure. Perhaps he took John Watson along for a road trip. The two do seem to be getting along quite nicely." Mycroft suggested. Sherlock tore away from the window, securing the curtain back into place and frowning at his brother through the semi darkness.
"What is that supposed to mean?" he clarified with a frown. Mycroft merely laughed, crossing his hands behind his bloodstained back and giving his most innocent smile.
"Friendship is not so controversial a thing, is it Sherlock? Or are we feeling jealous?" Mycroft whined.
"You're the one that ought to be jealous. Can't be sharing your playthings with others." Sherlock pointed out with a wave of his finger.
"Don't talk to me about playthings, brother dear. Need I remind you what Victor told me about Mr. Watson's little visit?" Mycroft chuckled. Sherlock's face fell, his eyes squinting defensively and his lips down turning into a little scowl.
"Now don't go bringing that up. It was a deliberate attempt by your disgraceful servant to make everything within my household all the more complicated!" Sherlock growled.
"Why, are you going to have to shoot Mr. Watson as well?" Mycroft wondered. "Or is my little brother finally in love?"
"I won't hear a thing from you about any of it!" Sherlock growled. "But we've got a situation here, haven't we? We look a bit disheveled for company."
"Take off that apron then, and take off your shoes." Mycroft suggested. "You know what, take it all off."
"I will not." Sherlock defended, staring with a frown at his brother as the man began to shed his apron and bloodstained shirt, revealing his pudgy stomach which had always been hidden behind many layers of tightly pulled buttons.
"And what excuse shall we have for them?" Sherlock wondered, following suit although he did not know why.
"Leave your trousers on, so long as they are not bloodied." Mycroft instructed.
"Mycroft, we're going to look stupid." Sherlock reminded him, shedding his shirt and casting it upon one of the stools, making sure none of the sleeves hung down in the accumulating pools at his feet.
"We're going to be fine. We'll be swimming in the river by the time they find us. Come along then, latch the door behind you!" Mycroft instructed, pulling up his trouser pants and unfastening the back door of the garage, stealing off into the cut grass towards the banks of the river below.  Sherlock hesitated, rolling up his pant legs and looking back at their unfinished work. It was an incriminating sight for sure, but what choice did they have? He wasn't fully prepared; it wasn't as if they could just dump him into the river and dispose of the evidence so easily! No, he would have to wait there for some time longer. He would have to simmer in the summer heat, and hopefully stay in one piece long enough for them to separate his limbs from the rest of his body. As the sunlight washed into the doorway Sherlock noticed the stains upon his hands, the bloody flakes under his fingernails, the smears of thick crust within the topmost hangings of his curls. He shuttered, touching upon his forehead and feeling that he had been sprayed with all sorts of foul fluids, enough evidence now pasted against his skin for the servants to guess immediately what he had been up to! Panicked, the man had no choice but to force the door shut behind him, making sure it was properly latched before he took off down the sloping lawn, making for the tree line which separated the stream bank from the rest of the open property. Sherlock's bare feet stomped through the uneven grass, cutting against stones and sticks, crushing grass and weeds underfoot. He sailed through the air, running with such freedom as he could never experience within the confines of the city center. It was a path that was familiar to him from childhood, steps he retraced from his youth as he sprinting along down towards the deep wading pool which had been dug out from the banks of the river. Sherlock planted his feet at the banks, lifting off with a leap that carried him far enough out into the depths that he plunged safely into the cold water, his long legs curled beneath him and his trouser pants filling quickly with the murky mud of the running stream. Sherlock sank under the water for some time, his lungs still strained from his moments of exertion but his brain so calm, so lost within this darkness that he could not force himself to emerge so soon. There was a deep silence in his ears, the soft trickling of water as it passed overhead and the popping of bubbles that escaped from the trapped oxygen within the folds of his clothes. And the darkness, he opened his eyes just for the pleasure of seeing nothing but that green muddy tint, the sunlight streaming through the murky depths and illuminating nothing but the deep swampy colors. He felt perfectly trapped, beautifully engulfed in the arms of Mother Nature, and for a moment Sherlock wondered if it was even worth it to kick up to the surface. He could almost see himself now, the frolicking form of his childhood body kicking off somewhere in the depths, sitting upon the bottom of the river and collecting smooth stones. Wouldn't it be nice to sink down to his favorite childhood spot, the quiet confines of what had so often been his paradise? Back before he had touched or been touched, back before he had sold that innocent form for money and political power. Now here he floated, his tainted skin leaking the blood of another man, the water turning red... Perhaps if the water filled his lungs he would be clean of all the foul deeds he had forced within himself, perhaps if he sunk right now he would never have to... suddenly arms wrapped around his chest, a powerful grasp that yanked him up from under his arms and heaved him back into the oxygenated world. Sherlock emerged with some hesitation, gasping for breaths and inhaling the water which dripped from his face and hair, though for some reason he felt the most urgent need to fight off his savior and dive back into the mud. When at long last Sherlock planted his feet into the rocky gravel under the water he held his head above the currents, frowning to see his brother's desperate face just staying upright with his long nose hovering just inches above the water. Neither man said anything, for there was not too much to explain on either side. Sherlock merely frowned, running his open fingers through the underground current and digging his feet into the rough sand below.

"You ought to scrub at your face some more." Mycroft suggested before turning away and trying to remember his free style stroke, the one he had perfected in the long fading days of his youth.