Reginald rung his hands apprehensively in the doorway, looking as if he was ever so anxious to help Sherlock with whatever other morning activity he could need. The boy looked so small within his tailored suits, his pale skin jutting from the sharp edges of the waistcoat, his small hands cowering within the folds of white protruding fabric. He always reminded Sherlock of a scruffy gray mouse, with the same pointed features though in a sort of long, drawing manner. He looked as if he had hit fifty before his twentieth birthday, as poor Reginald was cursed with gray hair probably from the moment it started to sprout upon his head. Sherlock had lost track of just how old the boy was, though if he was but a foot taller he may very well be mistaken for Sherlock's father. Nevertheless he had a sort of charm to him, a handsome complexion and just the right amount of somber tones to fit him in very nicely within the Holmes manor. If everyone else wore their gray moods internally, well Musgrave was the only one who protruded his for the world to see.
"Can I select a suit for you this morning, Sir?" Reginald suggested quickly, lurching forward as he spoke as if he wanted his words to be a bit quieter and closer, so as not to harm his poor master's pulsing eardrums. Sherlock grumbled, though he knew he better not trudge about his night clothes like some sort of invalid. Yes, he would have to at least present himself as a healthy gentleman, even if his inside was festering with exhaustion and regret.
"Yes, pick your favorite. I don't mind." Sherlock sighed, falling back upon his bed once more and willing his brain to start accepting the Aspirin. As of now the tablet was probably dissolving slowly in his stomach, no closer to helping his aching skull than if it was sitting on the counter in its jar. Musgrave fumbled about the closets for a moment, probably happy that Sherlock had decided to sleep very close to his wardrobe as opposed to down the hall, or upon the first floor. Sometimes the poor boy had to lug those suits across the whole floor just to fit his master into them, running about with the fabric draped across his shoulders so as not to wrinkle it or let it drag upon the floor. Sherlock watched the back of Musgrave's head, just trying to focus on something that didn't bring him utmost pain. No matter how the servant bobbed and weaved around he still couldn't stay focused, for all Sherlock wanted to think about was the man who must now be in the classroom. He wanted to think about John Watson, he wanted to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Was the man as caught up in emotions as Sherlock was, as torn apart by regret? Was he beginning to suspect there was a more closely knit relationship between the Dollhouse and the Holmes family, one that was kept secret for the security of the brothers? Or was he seeing the world as a brighter place, a happier place? Was he living in bliss and looking back upon his night as the most delightful he had ever spent? Sherlock didn't know what he wished for in John Watson's mind. Half of him hoped that John would not return, just for the sake of their shared morality. Though the other half was growing increasingly anxious to see him again, perhaps just for the knowledge that his talent had not yet faded even to the unexperienced man.
"How about a nice black suit?" Reginald suggested. "With a red trim about the collar, and a red pocket square?"
"You have an eye for color." Sherlock muttered, forcing himself upon his feet so that he could dig his bare toes into the treads of his carpet, trying to summon any positive feeling from his atmosphere. This morning, however, the carpet felt scratchy and irritable. It made him want to step upon the hardwood even though he knew the bare floor would be cold. Musgrave shut the door to give the two of them privacy, for he was always very suspicious of the maids of the house and their spying eyes. It was no secret that half of the serving hall downstairs was in love with Sherlock, the half holding a healthy admiration and perhaps a small and curious infatuation. Although Sherlock had never witnessed anyone peering through the keyholes or sneaking a peak into the bathroom window he imagined that it was a highly probable discussion down within the servants' hall, thus sparking up his faithful valet's strict protectiveness. Oh but Sherlock didn't mind eyes upon his body, he didn't mind perfect strangers staring upon him for the satisfaction of memories. He was trained to ignore what others thought, and even more so he was trained to put on the best impression even when he was unaware of his audience. Sherlock's body sold at a very prestigious price, though there were some who got to see it for free. Sherlock held his head high, allowing Musgrave to unbutton the neck of his dressing gown and letting the garment slip across his thin shoulders, falling to his feet and leaving the man completely naked for the time being. Sherlock was very used to this state, and while most men still blushed in the company of their valet he did not bat an eye.
"Sir, you are hurt?" Musgrave commented nervously, looking upon what had to be teeth marks left upon his shoulder from one of his many admirers the night before. Sherlock smiled apprehensively, patting along his shoulder and trying to hide the mark with his long white fingers.
"You cannot blame a man for his marital affairs." Sherlock muttered quickly, figuring there was no reasonable excuse that he could offer that did not involve some form of sexual involvement. Musgrave turned quite red, though he nodded quickly and turned away to fetch Sherlock his clothes. Certainly the boy must have been confused, though thankfully he did not voice a word of doubt. It was common knowledge that Sherlock and Irene hardly even spoke to each other, much less slept together, and it was even said that the servants had a betting pool downstairs for the next time the two showed any sign of positive interaction. This wouldn't count, as Sherlock's lie was poorly crafted and hardly convincing, though for Musgrave's sake he hoped the boy was on the receiving end of the cash. At this point in time one might be able to bet for ten years before even a glance across the dinner table that did not include a scowl. As Reginald was fitting Sherlock into his trousers he must have noticed the scratches upon his legs, though like a good boy he didn't mention it. Perhaps he didn't want to be sat down and explained all the ways that men and women interact, or maybe he was just too uncomfortable to even imagine his master in such intimate affairs. Either way Musgrave's silence was met with the same formality, and as Sherlock was being dressed he merely stared at his reflection in the mirror, watching as his chest slowly vanished behind buttons and fabric, watching as his figure was tucked away behind vests, jackets, and ties. Sometimes Sherlock considered himself more attractive without any sort of clothing stealing his spotlight, though it was not the time or place to take advantage of his more natural beauty. He must present himself as an honorable gentleman, now more than ever with John Watson involved.
"Thank you Reginald." Sherlock sighed, patting down his own hair to try to make the curls cooperate upon his flattened head.
"Of course sir." Reginald muttered, gathering up Sherlock's discarded nightclothes and folding them neatly within his arms, to be taken down to the laundry as soon as he was dismissed. Sherlock insisted that all of his clothes be clean when he wore them, especially the clothes he slept in. Who knows what his pores leaked out through the night? One sniff of his garments and a man might become drunk! Sherlock dismissed his servant with a careless wave of his hand, sitting down heavily upon his bed once more to recuperate for the long walk to the drawing room. Mycroft would probably be there already, going about his business as if it necessitated the city house instead of his country estate. Sherlock never knew when his brother would leave, though every day Mycroft lingered was like another weight upon his shoulders! How he detested that man's face, that smile which always seemed to slither right into Sherlock's mouth and force its way down his throat. Nevertheless Sherlock faced greater evils, and so he hoisted himself to his feet and tried to fit into his usual posture, his aching muscles throbbing with the effort of keeping his head high and his back straight. There was always a price to pay for reputation, and here Sherlock was, cashing in his comfort. As Sherlock descended the staircase he heard the usual sounds of the house moving in its normal rhythm, the dusting of the fireplaces, the squabble of the children, the high heels of the servants clicking about upon the marble floors. The smells wafting from the kitchens alerted him that lunch would soon be served, and while his stomach growled he still turned away from the aroma, feeling as if he would be sick if he thought too much about the process of his lunch's creation. Sherlock deliberately avoided the classroom despite his promised efforts to take a more forward approach to his children's upbringing. If his absence was severe enough for even John Watson to comment upon it (this surprise coming before he knew just how bold the usually shy man was) then certainly the children were being treated unfairly. He could not allow himself to be absent from their lives, no matter how busy his work got! Though today was not just work, today he wasn't busy, he was suffering. And to expose his children to the state of their father after his most trying nights, well perhaps that would produce a counter effect upon their impression. Instead of wishing for their father's presence they might instead begin to fear him. Sherlock made his grand entrance into the drawing room by nearly falling through the doors, his arms having collapsed as they tried to push the immense weight and his entire body deciding to take upon the effort instead. Thankfully Sherlock was able to keep to his feet, though for a moment he stumbled about in a daze, not sure which way was up or down as his head spun madly upon his neck.
"Brother dear, it looks like you need a drink." Mycroft's voice commented, bringing Sherlock back into the reality he was forced to live in. The room cleared as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, though Sherlock still had to clutch a firm hand upon the back of the sofa to readjust his struggling posture.
"Yes, something...something strong." Sherlock decided at last. A chuckle on the other side of the sitting room drew his attention, Sherlock's eyes meeting with Victor's just in time for the servant to rise to his feet towards the decanter. Sherlock ground his teeth together, knowing at once that it was Victor Trevor who had set his night up to be such a disaster. It was Victor's habit to ruin perfectly good things.
"You look like you've had a rough night, Sherlock." Victor commented, reappearing at Sherlock's side with a generous glass of whiskey. Sherlock stared at him, still apprehensive to take the drink from his outstretched hand. Victor's smile was lopsided, the sort of conniving grin he so often wore when he knew his plots had been successful.
"No thanks to you." Sherlock grumbled, finally accepting the drink when he felt he could no longer take this sobriety. The man took a couple of sips before stumbling into one of the armchairs, falling in between the cushions and curling himself into a helpless ball.
"Had Victor gone to visit last night? I was not aware." Mycroft muttered, tapping his capped fountain pen upon his leg while his eyes lit with amusement. Sherlock was silent, as he didn't feel the need to explain exactly what had happened with John Watson the night before. As of now he imagined that Victor had divulged all the most interesting details, though for the sake of the tutor's dignity Sherlock didn't want to risk being the first to squeal.
"You know how it goes. I'm not getting any younger." Sherlock growled, finishing off his glass with a slow moan. He had always hated the taste of whiskey, especially that burning sensation it left in the back of your throat when the drink was swallowed. Victor seemed to think it was amusing to watch Sherlock's face pinch in irritation, and because of this he went ahead and topped off Sherlock's glass once again.
"Don't get him drunk Victor, we need his mind today." Mycroft scolded, though Sherlock took another large swig just to purposefully spite his brother and his makeshift manners. Mycroft smiled in that emotionless way, barring his teeth without curling his lips so as to merely show off his sparkling canines. Sherlock was unamused, and for a moment he merely let his head fall back upon the couch to stare up at the ceiling, trying to amuse himself with the even paint and the brackets of the lighting fixtures. As of now it didn't seem like Mycroft understood the impact of Sherlock's previous night, though by the amusement which was evident in those electric blue eyes, Victor certainly did. Thankfully Mycroft thought not to mention the state of his brother, as he usually chose to ignore Sherlock's health when he knew he was directly responsible. With every hangover, every scratch, well certainly it was Mycroft's indirect doing. He was guilty very deep down, and that was why he never questioned much farther about his brother's wellbeing.
"I am to meet Sebastian Moran tomorrow night for dinner." Mycroft declared, rising to his feet to pace around the drawing room all the while his audience remained seated. Victor curled upon the arm of one of the sofas, with his feet pulled up and his arms hugging his knees closely to his chest. He looked like some sort of deformed parrot, the sort of bird that one would swat instead of enjoy.
"What will you say to him?" Sherlock wondered. "If you're meeting him first then our leverage will not be nearly as good."
"Well you will meet him directly afterwards. I will dine at the Dollhouse." Mycroft assured.
"What excuse have you made for my absence?" Sherlock wondered.
"That you have business elsewhere, as usual. I will discuss our position upon the matter, entreat him to reconsider his deals with Jim Moriarty, and if we are successful I will send him down to you without another thought." Mycroft announced, his voice drawing closer as his pacing feet began to instinctively migrate towards the back of the sofa upon which Sherlock was perched.
"And if he denies your request?" Sherlock wondered, staring straight ahead with unblinking, unfocused eyes. For someone who paid a lot of money to perfect the smallest details in the architecture, Sherlock oftentimes enjoyed his house better when it was blurred behind his bored vision. The golden trim which was embroidered with such fantastic lines and designs now looked like a fuzzy yellow bar, and the painted ceiling which depicted murals beyond the Vatican's standards now looked like blobs of strange, unarranged colors.
"Well then I will not send him. If he denies we shall have to take other measures. More extreme measures, perhaps." Mycroft muttered nervously.
"Do you mean you'll sleep with him instead? Certainly that would be more like torture, and you can threaten to do it again if..." Sherlock was silenced when he felt the curling of strong fingers upon his shoulders, gripping down into his bone structure and digging sharp nails through the many layers of his arranged suit. Mycroft's breath began to grow hot upon the back of his neck, a particular foul stench releasing through his teeth as Sherlock froze, immobilizing his body and tongue to ensure that he did not anger his brother anymore.
"Don't talk to your elders with such a snide tongue." Mycroft demanded. "Or else you might find it missing." Sherlock remained silent, knowing that there was no use apologizing for something he didn't regret. Sometimes Mycroft needed someone to comment upon his actions, he needed someone to take a sledgehammer to the self-constructed pedestal he so often perched on. If he was so ready to throw his younger brother to those lusting wolves then why should he not offer to take the place one time? Even if it would be bad for business, well it would be best to let both brothers understand the struggle of the other's trade.
"Either way, we cannot let this opportunity slip through our fingers. I will not let Mr. Moran board a train back upstate without his firm commitment to our alliance. Any means necessary, brother mine. Any means." Mycroft insisted, at last releasing his grip from Sherlock's shoulders and continuing to pace about the room in his agony.
"It shouldn't be too difficult." Sherlock assured. "But, if I may, could I have tonight off to prepare? You see the state I am in now, a full night of recovery..."
"No. No, Sherlock you cannot." Mycroft snarled. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his heart clenching within his chest as he felt an unfamiliar rush of anger. Should he not be the master of his own life, the creator of his own schedule? Seeing as though Mycroft was in a particularly irritable mood Sherlock thought it best not to argue, though his silence did not mean he was resolute with his brother's decision. Did Mycroft not see just how much he was struggling tonight, and with such an important meeting on the horizon how could he not be gifted with a night to recuperate his strength?
"How long are we expecting him to stay in the city?" Sherlock wondered at last.
"As long as it needs to be. If he does not agree on our first night I shall fabricate a reason for him to linger. I will wait a month, I will wait a year." Mycroft assured.
"And I can only imagine I am expected to be on duty for each and every night of this uncooperative year?" Sherlock presumed.
"The more the better, brother mine. Best case scenario we get him hooked on you, dependent on you. Then we can hold it over his head, persuade him even more ferociously." Mycroft decided.
"Oh I know the feeling." Victor breathed, dancing his fingertips across his chin as if to mimic the touches he remembered from his interactions with the Porcelain Doll. Sherlock scowled, turning his head away in disinterest.
"Any means necessary." Sherlock grumbled, letting his chin fall upon his fist as he heaved a great sigh. Mycroft, who had finally reappeared within Sherlock's line of vision, twisted his arms behind his back with that great and inhumane smile; his black eyes sparkling with amusement to hear his little brother finally become so cooperative.
"Invaluable, Sherlock. You are perfectly invaluable." He declared once again, his most favorite line of appreciation. In fact as Sherlock considered each and everything his brother had ever said, well perhaps the word 'invaluable' had been the only remotely positive thing. He never received thanks for his work, never any sort of gratitude. The recognition was there, and yet Mycroft never seemed to utter the thanks that Sherlock ultimately deserved.