John POV: Sherlock was out, as was his older brother. The house was cleared of any wandering Holmes eyes, or rather any eyes who would care. Irene may very well have a seat in the library for all John cared; she may even help him search. It seemed as though the woman was equally invested in her husband's downfall, though she may never be motivated enough to lift a finger to prosecute him. Instead she would sit back, age within her unappreciated skin, waste away her breath until it filled nothing but the single room around her. She would like to see Sherlock Holmes behind bars, and as the days wore on John began to share the same obsession. He hadn't any particular dislike of the man, though it was a life for a life situation. If Sherlock Holmes was thrown away, locked in a cage, then the doors around the Porcelain Doll would open, and he would be free to join John in whatever happily ever after they wanted to imagine for themselves. It was a sacrifice John was willing to make, and for now it was one he almost couldn't wait for. Though his own satisfaction relied entirely on his own daring, and if he was going to seal the fate on his master then he would need evidence, solid evidence, of a murder. John had already tried recount what he had overheard within his bedroom, that night the men were talking about disposal. He took his thoughts to his notebook, filling the pages with snippets of incriminating information, words that were spoken with forked tongues. And yet it would not be enough, no solid proof that it was the body of Sebastian Moran, no proof that Sherlock Holmes had ever pulled the trigger. The best information John could provide to the police was a map, a crudely drawn stretch of country road where they might be able to find the hat box, Sherlock's carry on during their trip through the countryside. If the police were able to find that, and if it indeed contained the very thing John expected, well then it would be a done deal. Sherlock Holmes would be taken away in chains. Though tonight was the night to search the desk, the one place where Mr. Holmes kept his important documents, the place John had nearly lost his job and life trying to search. Who knows what that man had been doing, hiding within the curtain rods and making fun of John's most vulnerable character traits. Had he been drunk, or high, or was he just feeling particularly hostile that afternoon? There had been a charm in his voice, though not something friendly enough to relax to. It was as if his casual mannerisms came only at the expense of his more natural tendencies getting forced out by internal aggression, managing a smile all the while his brain turned and fought with itself. He had been wholly unnatural, and all together unrecognizable. Perhaps something had snapped inside of Sherlock Holmes after all. Perhaps taking a life had affected him in ways he never imagined. But he was gone tonight, gone and wouldn't be back until the early morning hours. Business, he claimed. Affairs, John began to suspect. The tutor's footfalls were silent against the marble floors, his shoes removed and sitting upstairs in his bedroom to allow for his socks to slide softly and unheard. Though tonight there were no ears left to listen, as the night had fallen and the children were in bed. the servants would be tending to their business downstairs, the lady of the house will have long vanished into her favorite hiding holes, and even the mice were too busy with the after dinner crumbs to worry about peering their beady little eyes upon a guilty party. John was free to creep towards the library door, feeling his hand across the brass handle in the darkened hall and pushing it ever so gently open. As the door swung forth he was met with a gust of wind, the curtains blowing violently on the opposing side of the room as the air pressure escaped from the open window. The moonlight was enough to see by, without the need for a candle or a lamp to forge through the vast open room, treading upon soft carpets and avoiding the small maze of furniture that had been arranged around the fireplace. Mr. Holmes's desk sat in the middle of the room, the very table that John had once sat on the other side of, a vulnerable schoolmaster at the time, afraid of those who had more money than he. To imagine that such a timid creature, dedicated only to making a good name for himself, would now be breaking and entering within the same room. A man who smiled at the face of his boss, now so eager to send him to the gallows. Oh but it was for love, was it not? What crueler motivator was available? John may have torched the entire home, children included, if he could escape the ashes and loop fingers with his most precious Doll when the smoke cleared. He had priorities these days, most heinous priorities. John settled first upon the top drawer, pulling it free and squinting his eyes to better read the contents. Carefully he lifted the papers from the pile, scanning over them a couple of times to ensure that there was nothing incriminating. From what he could read it seemed to be things about railroads, boring time sheets and schedules that he couldn't give another thought to. Sometimes he forgot entirely that his master was involved in such businesses, as they all seemed to far removed from any thought of trains. The next couple of drawers were quite the same, boring documents that detailed the most forgettable aspect of the man's life. A couple of letters were scattered about, written to and from senators, businessmen, and other men in positions of power. John tried to find the name of Moran, though it would seem as though Sherlock's correspondents were all alive and well. Nothing of interest, as he feared. When the last side drawer proved to be of no importance John turned his attention to the small compartment that sat hidden in the shadow, one which would have been protected by a pair of legs should the master of the house have arranged himself within his seat. It was a small rectangle, presumably one that rolled out to meet its inspector, one which was the most tempting of all. The small metallic lock which shone in the moonlight looked quite as beautiful as anything John had ever seen, considering a lock was usually assigned to protect something, or someone, from farther inspection. It was there to announce the secrecy of its contents. John had seen locks like this before, he had broken locks almost twice its size during his military days. Though tonight he would have to be a bit more gentle, tonight there would be no crowbar if he wanted to maintain his job status within the crumbling Holmes household. He was lucky that he was trying to break into the very thing which held the most useful tools, a desk full of pens and paper clips. It would only be too easy to expose a part of Mr. Holmes without a key which hung around his watch chain. John rummaged through the office supplies, coming up successfully with that bending stretch of metal, that perfectly formed lock pick. For a moment he bent the paper clip into shape, pushing aside the desk chair and squatting down alongside the drawer of interest. Even without a light John was able to work his way through the lock, keeping his ears sharp and alert for the sound of a click, the noise of his success. For a moment he pushed and poked, until at last he felt a promising twist, one which lead to the relaxation of the drawer in its sheath. John pulled the paper clip out, and along with it came the rolling compartment. John pocketed his tool as he looked upon the contents of the drawer, taken aback by the commonality of the secrets Sherlock tried to keep. From the light of the moon John could only make out bills, money of all sorts, ones and fives, tens and twenties. Even a couple of one hundred dollars dispersed throughout the massive hoard of cash. There had to be well over a thousand dollars just shoved within this desk, crumbled and neglected, withered and untouched from age. It was, well what was it exactly? Quite the same as a dragon stockpiling gold coins perhaps. Hiding away wealth for the sheer purpose of keeping it hidden and protected within your own pocket. A rainy day fund, perhaps? Or something more sinister? John fingered through the cash, feeling dust accumulate within his hands as he circulated the money from the bottom up. Though has he continued to stare, as he continued to ponder, the tutor began to wonder just how a man would have come up with so much cash. Businessmen paid in checks, usually, unless they didn't want their name to be directly linked with the transaction. Bank loans came in the millions, not the thousands, and Sherlock Holmes hardly ever flaunted around a full pocketbook. The servants were paid in checks, the groceries bought with a blank one. But cash, where could cash come from, if not an entirely secret process? John withdrew his hand, suddenly realizing just what he was witness to, just what he was stroking. It wasn't just cash; it wasn't any sort of innocent stock pile. It was thievery. The only time he had ever seen such accumulation of dollar bills was within the hat held by the doorman, the only time he had ever passed along a handful of cash was to pay his way through the door. This was the final proof, then, the final destination of his paycheck? The Porcelain Doll's funds only ended up in the desk of his handler, all of his accumulated wealth passed along and wasted in the desk of a billionaire! Well it was as enraging as anything John had ever seen, something so criminal he felt the need to make the arrest himself! Sherlock Holmes, taking advantage of such an artist, and leaving him with what, exactly? A mere quarter of his evening funds? What state did that Doll live in, if not one of poverty? John sneered as he shut the drawer, using more force than necessary and banging the back of the rolling compartment against the rest of the wooden desk. The library shuttered, though it only reflected the bubbling anger which John was attempting to stifle within himself. He didn't care of consequences anymore. In fact Sherlock was lucky that he was not here to witness John's discovery. If he had, well there might have been another murder. 

 John didn't know what information he had collected by searching the desk; if not just the small little hints of motivation he needed to seal the deal on his employer. At first he had been hesitant, figuring that he had never been mistreated, never given any reason to hate. And yet the situation became so clear in his head, so vivid that he wondered he hadn't seen it earlier! Sherlock Holmes was the man holding the reigns, collecting the income, persecuting for his own benefit! The Doll who craved freedom, the Doll who wanted to have his own life, how could Sherlock be holding him captive like an animal? It was enough of a vengeance to spurn John into action, for his connection to the Porcelain Doll had grown so strong that he felt they now shared the same vendettas. If he was in the position to bring justice for his lover, if he could break those chains and loose the man to the world, well then he would have to do it. It was his duty and his responsibility; he was fighting now not only for the man he loved, but also for his own future of happiness. Sherlock Holmes, the now controversial middle man, just happened to be the only thing in the way of this future. And for that, well he would have to be sent away. Though at the moment John would have to forget his anger, he would have to keep a calm and collective face. The master had summoned him, though for what he was not yet sure. It was a weekend, a Saturday in fact, a day which he would usually have to himself. Except for meals John was not very exposed to the older rulers of the household, even on weekdays the Holmes parents remained perfectly illusive. To be called in to meet Sherlock on a weekend, especially during this troubling time of betrayal, made John's mind turn over and over again, making him consider just what could be the worst case scenario. What would a billionaire do to a traitor? What sort of cruel methods of torture could he get away with? Or would it be Mycroft who did the discipline, that sadist with the empty eyes? John had imagined each and every scenario to be met with behind the door, having given his scolding so much thought that he was almost prepared to be met with an immediate gunshot wound to the chest. John had been instructed to go to the second floor where the bedrooms were, but from there he was quite unsure of what to do next. The meeting place was strange, for the library offered a perfectly private spot for a conversation. The specific location of this meeting meant it must be a matter of urgency, or perhaps one of secrecy. John tread lightly up the stairs, though as he stared down the bright illuminated hallway he was met only with the frowning portraits of the Holmes ancestors. There was a long white rug stretched down the length of the hall, with doors assigned to each member of the household. John had come to realize that the Holmes parents often slept in different rooms, and by now he could determine which belonged more permanently to each one. He arrived hesitantly outside of Sherlock's door, figuring it would be best to knock, though before his hand could wrap against the wood he was startled by the sound of an opening door. The hinges screeched to announce the presence of another, though when John turned he was surprised to see a much shorter, less intimidating figure materialize into the hall.

"Reginald!" John exclaimed thankfully.
"Mr. Watson." The man muttered, drawing himself to whatever height he could manage. When he stretched his neck the valet managed to be quite tall, though he lacked the sort of intimidation that was key in a powerful stance. He may stand about a foot above John, though his awkward posture and his nervous mannerisms might have shrunken him the equivalent two feet. John was always looking up at him, though in his head it was a much different scenario.
"Mr. Holmes requested to see me." John explained quickly, realizing after a moment that it might be strange to be caught standing expectantly outside of his master's bedroom door. Reginald's eyes crinkled, and his hands tightened around a small white towel he was holding rather protectively within his hands.
"He requested you this moment?" Reginald wondered, his voice dropping into some octaves of concern.
"I was told by Martha to meet him upstairs." John explained.
"I had just started a bath for Mr. Holmes; I dare say he is not in the condition to speak with anyone." Reginald declared at last, only now revealing a bottle of lavender bath salts that had been hidden within his grip. John readjusted his weight upon his feet, shifting uncomfortably and wondering if that was good enough reason to turn back. He wasn't very enthusiastic about the idea of being alone with a naked Sherlock Holmes, considering all the man had managed to degrade him for in the past.
"I'll wait outside, then." John offered at last. Reginald nodded, as if he thought that might be best, though he still turned back towards the door and opened it slightly. John only now realized that it was indeed the bathroom door, betrayed now by the sweet smelling steam that was being emitted through the openings. For a moment Reginald spoke, his voice low enough that John could only hear the deep baritone. No words were clear enough to distinguish, though John could sense that their voices were getting more serious, as if an argument was about to ensue. Finally there was a sharp yell from the other side, as if the master of the house had finally lost his temper. With that Reginald scurried his head out of the doorframe and pulled it anxiously shut, as if he was worried he might get hit with a projectile bar of soap. The man's face was flushed, though it was unclear whether it was from the hot bathroom air or from the pure humiliation of getting scolded.
"Go ahead inside. He's expecting you." Reginald announced at last, with a voice that sounded like it was forced through his clenched teeth.
"Inside." John muttered apprehensively, dropping his gaze towards his feet but managing to change it from a nervous tic to a quick and agreeable nod. "Right." John muttered again. Reginald twirled the towel between his fingers, staring towards the tutor with squinted, suspicious eyes. He was quite obviously thinking, turning a single idea over in his head until it stung. Though whatever he took to pondering was kept quite secret, as John never asked, and Reginald never shared. Instead John moved past him, stepping aside and turning the handle with five frightened fingers. The valet waited on the carpet outside, watching the back of John's head as he loosed the knob and pushed the door gently open. To avoid any uncomfortable scene John decided to keep his eyes averted, to stare onto the moist tiles and watch as the steam circulated in a great loops around his feet and out into the hall.
"Mr. Watson." came a familiar voice, sounding low to the floor but incredibly close.
"Mr. Holmes, you wanted to see me?" John wondered quietly.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed, the sound of splashing water making it seem as if he was readjusting himself within the confines of the hot water.
"Should we postpone, at least until you are dressed?" John suggested.
"Are you uncomfortable, John?" Sherlock wondered quietly, using the name as lavishly as one might be able to. The single, intimate syllable rolled from his tongue and intermingled into the lavender scented steam, making John heave a breath of some relaxation, some acceptance.
"No sir." John muttered at last, stepping fully into the bathroom so that he might be able to secure the door behind him. With the door closed the room began to stifle, with the heat of the bath intermixing with the almost flaming complexion of the poor, terrified servant. Perhaps it was the humidity or perhaps it was the anxiety, either way he could feel his body temperature rise to a nearly unsafe level.
"Good. Though it is rather rude to speak to the floor when addressing your master." Sherlock reminded him.
"Sir..."
"I don't want to hear any excuses. I have you in my service to obey my orders, and to be respectful. I will not modify such basic commands because of your romantic inclinations." Sherlock scolded, his voice dropping to a serious and unyielding tone. John shivered, running his fingers across his jacket sleeves and trying to determine if the spots in his vision were merely representing the strangely patterned floor.
"Yes sir." John muttered, drawing up his head with the goal of immediately locking his gaze. Well of course his eyes had to find Sherlock's head first; he had to find those eyes that he would stare into. And that process necessitated taking a full gauge of his surroundings, despite his original intentions. The bath was low to the ground, a porcelain claw foot that was painted the most remarkable color of cream. Thankfully the bath salts that Reginald had added were a particularly painted variety, as the bath water had become a deep and impenetrable shade of deep purple. The water was as private as would be any layer of clothing, that is if the man had kept his limbs safely under its depths. For now one bare arm hung from the rim, a long and pointed finger brushing lazily against the slippery tiles as his head reclined back against the warm brim. Sherlock's hair had yet to be wet, and he must not have submerged his head yet. Instead the curls were just as styled and perfected, framing his relaxed face and complimenting the pale complexion that matched so well with the bath he now lay in. He was a beautiful creature, his face sculpted, his arm thin, his curls ever so defined. If John hadn't held such a grudge he might have been intoxicated, though he saw this man and only noticed the oppression he was covering beneath that pristine complexion. That hand which now dragged across the floor held an invisible leash, and at some end of it was the Porcelain Doll, bound and gagged. Their eyes met, and John stayed rather rigid, catching his fingertips in the pockets of his trousers and managing a quick, nervous smile.