"I remember you, little Doll." Moran grunted, pulling aside his vest and nearly ripping the buttons upon his shirt in his effort to anxiously undress himself. Sherlock pulled himself up to his full height, a shiver running down his body as he saw the man was not slowing down. It was in these moments, those right before the first touch, when he always felt the most afraid. It was in the approaching seconds when those footsteps were falling closer and closer, the other man's excitement growing and mounting into aggression, in which Sherlock felt the need to get to his feet and run. And yet he was never offered any such choice, all he could do was tilt his head in his most seductive manner, slowly unraveling his legs to greet his approaching partner with as much falsified enthusiasm as he could manage.
"Sebastian Moran." Sherlock muttered, hearing his words muffle behind the mask and escape without any distinction to his regular pitch. Sherlock was going to attempt to flatter the man; he was going to try to speak about how important he was to the Holmes family, how he was proud to be representing such an industry with his body and cooperation. Any speech which Sherlock had prepared, however, wasn't required. It wasn't even considered. Before the man could part his lips for anything more he collided with the weight of Sebastian Moran, pushed back upon the vanity desk and rattling the mirror against the back of his head. It was a painful crash, as his spine curled upon the sharp edge of the vanity and his eyes began to spin with the impact against his skull. Despite the apparent pain he had caused Sebastian did not stop, he didn't seem to care what had happened to the Doll which was now his in entirety. Sherlock let out a low breath of misery, feeling the whole of Sebastian's weight settling down upon his waist as the man positioned himself over top of the poor fragile frame. His was animalistic in his loving, rough with his movements, scraping his teeth rather than kissing, clawing his fingernails rather than embracing. Sherlock felt the whole of his body behind devoured under the man's urgency, his bones cracking under the pressure, his skin ripping under the ferocity. Whatever he had imagined from his evening with Mr. Moran it was not this, this being torture rather than romance. Sherlock felt hands slide underneath his thighs, grabbing upon his flesh and heaving him up off of the bench. Moran was strong enough to pull Sherlock on top of him, and yet instead of flinging the man upon the bed he instead tossed him upon the carpet, taking heaping handfuls of Sherlock's black silken robe and ripping it across his body in a maddened tug, twisting the poor Doll across the rug and dragging his skin through the rough, cutting fibers.
"I could snap you in half, little Doll." Moran insisted, his voice gruff and angry as he turned Sherlock onto his back, tugging upon his limbs to arrange them into his desired orientation. Sherlock winced as the man descended upon him, now having shed his trousers and falling upon Sherlock's legs, taking his knees in his hands and descending his foul mouth upon Sherlock's exposed body. The poor man writhed under the pressure, catching his fingers within the carpet and clenching his teeth against the sculpted upper lip of the porcelain mask. There was nothing pleasant about this, nothing beautiful at all. This was painful, vulnerable, humiliating. Sherlock was terrified, feeling nothing but horror amount within his nerves, though he understood the fragile egos of men. He knew that if he didn't appear to be enjoying himself that Moran would be quick to anger. Sherlock understood that if he did not show signs of compliancy that the man would grow even rougher, trying to force the passion out of Sherlock's withered frame instead of tempt it out with the gentle touches that usually did the trick. As of now Sherlock was basking in disgust, afraid of his partner and afraid of what could come next in his list of disagreeable vices. And yet he had to enjoy it, somehow he had to obey. Not only was his current safety depending on it, so too was the deal struck between Moran and the Holmes brothers.
"Come on then." Moran demanded from above, grabbing at Sherlock's thighs and squeezing them tightly within his grasp. Sherlock winced again, feeling tears well within his eyes as he tried and tried to feel something even remotely passionate. "Come on!"
"Sir..." Sherlock breathed, almost daring to suggest being gentle before he gave up trying to speak, letting his head fall instead even deeper upon the carpet, letting his eyes shut tight. He understood now that he couldn't appreciate this moment in the current reality he was living. He could not enjoy himself if he saw that man, felt that man, and understood who exactly it was looming over him. Sherlock had to take desperate measures, he had to force love from his heart even when it would not want to go. He had to imagine now, he had to imagine... Sherlock's eyes were shut, and though in his mind he could depict the entire scene just as he wanted it to go. He knew what the man would look like, he knew exactly what he would sound like, what he would feel like. There were hands upon his legs, upon his waist, and yet Sherlock's imagination was able to shrink them. Those large fingers fell back into small dainty ones, that distasteful mouth suddenly became softer, gentler. The kisses became legitimate, just as he had remembered from that single night, that most blessed occurrence. Sherlock's eyes were closed, and yet he could look above. Behind his lids, behind the reality in which Sebastian Moran existed, he saw John. And when Sherlock contorted these feelings to belong instead to that most marvelous creature, when he willed himself to imagine he was trapped under the loving embrace of his tutor...that was when he could feel passion. That was when he could begin enjoying himself, even if the man he most appreciated was safely tucked at home in the bed he had provided, in the walls he was supposed to live in. John could be in two places at once, so long as Sherlock needed him to be here. He could hear that Moran was satisfied, and finally the large man drew away, chuckling to himself and wiping the sweat from his sticking brow. Sherlock pulled his legs in, trying to curl himself into as much protection as he could manage without insulting Moran and his chosen proximity. Again Sherlock tried to think of John, he tried to look at Moran and see another, though with these animalistic movements and disgusting grunts of pleasure Sherlock could hardly fit John Watson into such a body. Never would the tutor sink to such levels, never would he be so distasteful. And yet the feeling that Sherlock had just summoned, the quick and short burst of euphoria...well it spoke for itself. His brain may not yet understand what John Watson meant, and yet his heart knew to call upon that lovely face in a moment of utmost romantic need.
"Now it's your turn, dear." Moran grumbled, clearing his throat and arranging himself on his knees, grabbing at Sherlock's feet in an attempt to pull him in closer.
"Sir, I'm sorry but I cannot oblige. There are limits to what I will do." Sherlock declared, yanking his foot out of Moran's grasp and scrambling away from the foul creature. "Come to the bed, let me entertain you..."
"I paid my fair share, you whore. I paid for my needs to be met." Moran growled. "Now come here, and take that ridiculous mask off."
"Have me here, then, have me here." Sherlock insisted, trying to keep his voice from trembling as he laid back upon the carpet, feeling the pricks of lost gravel and debris beneath the fibers, the remnants of the New York streets that had come in upon his guest's shoes. He knew exactly why Moran wanted the mask to be removed and yet it was a simple request that could not be met. Sherlock could not show his face, he knew that if Moran looked upon one of the famed Holmes brothers he would never be willing to strike a deal with them again. It would be disaster not only for Sherlock's business but also for his reputation, as Mr. Moran seemed like the type to make up an elaborate story just to crush the railroad tycoons under his massive feet. Sherlock had to entertain him one way or another, try to keep the man's interest focused upon his body and not upon his unavailable mouth.
"Take that mask off before I break it!" Moran demanded, lunging upon Sherlock and nearly crushing the poor boy upon his girth, falling down heavily upon Sherlock's stomach and flinging is hands upon the edges of the Porcelain mask. Sherlock panicked, though thankfully the man had neglected to restrain his hands in his mad attempt to get his face and mouth uncovered. Sherlock was able to fend for himself if only with the little bit of strength he possessed, clamping his fingers down upon the mask and holding it tight to his face. He could feel the fat fingers working their way underneath the Porcelain, forcing through the small space which divided his skin and the mask which surrounded it.
"Sir, Sir you cannot!" Sherlock declared. "I am not to be unmasked, it's not part..."
"I won't listen to your silly rules, I am a guest of honor! And I should be allowed! You should be the one begging me, not the other way around!" Moran growled, finally giving a great pull and ripping not only Sherlock's fingers away, but also the leather straps as well. The mask broke loose from his face, pulling straight through its restraints and yanking Sherlock's head up off of the floor along with it. For a moment the man suffered terrible whiplash, as his face had flung upwards with enough force to strain his neck before falling back and slamming his exposed skull upon the rough carpet below. Moran gave a grunt of approval, perhaps so entertained with the mask he now held in his hands that he failed to notice who he hosted beneath him. Sherlock wailed at the thought of being exposed, clamping his fingers across his face in an effort to keep his identity a secret for as long as he could manage. Through the gaps he could see the man bent over him, tossing aside the mask and turning his foul attention back upon the prey he had captured.
"Let's get a look at you, now that you're only human after all. I bet your face is just as beautiful as the rest. Pity to hide it behind such costumes." Moran growled.
"Sir, I need to ask you to leave." Sherlock whimpered, trying to get as much control of this situation as his stern voice could muster. He knew now that he was helpless but to defend himself, with his face out in the open air he could not so easily call for help, lest the whole of the club rush in to see who had been hiding behind the Porcelain this entire time. The only thought that could spin without Sherlock's head was that of desperation, reminding himself that he now had every right to do what he must to defend himself and his cooperation. Sebastian Moran must be controlled, one way or another he would have to stop that tongue from blabbing. Sherlock felt those fingers clench across his wrists, and with an almost effortless tug Moran unveiled the sweaty, terrified face that had been hiding this whole time. Sherlock was forced to look upon his costumer with open eyes, the first time he had ever breathed a breath of unrestricted air while being trapped beneath another man. He was used to being naked, used to being vulnerable. And yet tonight he felt more exposed than ever, for he had always protected what mattered the most. Moran's eyes sparkling in recognition, and yet his teeth barred just as soon as he realized what an important man he had trapped under his grasp. It was a look that struck fear within Sherlock's trembling heart, a look he might imagine a bear would wear when it came upon an injured deer. Sherlock's eyes widened fearfully, his hands still trapped within the grasp of his oppressor, suddenly wondering if he would have the chance to make it out of this room alive.
"Mr. Holmes." Moran muttered at last, his teeth curling into a wide smile. Suddenly he burst out laughing, falling even heavier down upon his prey so that he was nearly crushing Sherlock's lungs with his enormous weight. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Such a powerful man and still a whore? Looking for those cheap thrills, are we?"
"You must let me go, you must! Or my brother will have your head!" Sherlock demanded. "Get off of me!"
"I'm not going anywhere, little Doll. And neither will you, if you know what's good for you. Such a relief it is, to see that I am no longer the one with the most to lose." Moran chuckled, sliding off of Sherlock and grappling at his shoulders, trying to pull the man up and into a sitting position.
"Stop, stop! I demand you to let go of me!" Sherlock exclaimed, and yet it would seem as though his words were not heard. Moran didn't even hesitate; he didn't seem to comprehend the fear which was not so obviously laced within Sherlock's voice. The unmasking of his companion only seemed to make this experience better for him, as if he thoroughly enjoyed making powerful men begin to scream.
"I'm going to choke you, Sherlock Holmes." Moran warned. "And I'll tell your big brother all about it when I'm done."
"You won't, you won't!" Sherlock screamed, giving a great lurch and finally slipping his skin away from Moran's tight grip. Thankfully he had begun to sweat in his fear, giving him the ability to slip through even the roughest of fingers and fall back upon the carpet to safety. For a moment Moran was disoriented, giving Sherlock that precious time he needed to get up to his feet and act upon his most desperate impulses. He knew that he would be overpowered the moment Moran got back to his feet, and so Sherlock reached immediately for the only solid leverage he could gain. He raced towards his drawer, pulled it open, and swung the barrel of a pistol upon Sebastian Moran before the beast could even clamber up to his feet. And suddenly, within these thirty seconds, Sherlock had grown in size, grown in power, and taken control of the room once again. Sebastian was still breathless, and yet as his eyes noticed the flash of metal between Sherlock's fingers he seemed to take the hint. Suddenly he stopped moving, allowing only his hands to rise up above his head in compliancy.
"Going to kill me, are you Sherlock?" Moran wondered, still speaking confidently despite being turned so quickly into the victim.
"I think I would be obliged to." Sherlock declared, stepping forward so as to watch the man flinch. It was rather satisfying to see those dark, soulless eyes suddenly shine with terror. Sebastian may have never been so helpless in his life, and to be honest it was a perfect honor to degrade him so thoroughly.
"Bad for business." Moran reminded him. "Who knows if my replacement in office will be nearly as agreeable as I? Especially now, Sherlock...since you've suddenly grown more convincing."
"You know who I am." Sherlock growled.
"All of New York knows who you are, dear." Moran reminded him.
"You know what I do!" Sherlock corrected, waving the gun some more while Moran's fingers trembled where they were raised.
"I won't tell." He promised.
"I don't believe you." Sherlock growled.
"I won't!" Moran demanded again, his voice deep and agreeable, as if he knew exactly what sort of octave to hit so as to make Sherlock trust him. Thankfully Sherlock had more sense within him, noticing that Moran had turned out of his animalistic nature just as soon as the bullets were able to fly. As soon as the gun disappeared he would turn back into that aggressive man, interested only in himself and his own prosperity. Sherlock would not be so easily fooled.
"Get dressed." Sherlock insisted. "Get dressed and the three of us will talk."
"Your brother knows?" Moran presumed.
"Of course he knows! He's the one who owns the club!" Sherlock growled. Moran nodded, very slowly lowering his hands in an effort to push himself up off of the floor. Sherlock didn't allow his arms to relax, sensing that Moran was thinking throughout this entire episode, his small brain whirling back and forth in an attempt to get him out of this situation. His fight or flight mode had been activated, and yet being such a ridiculous size and now in a most embarrassing state of dress his only option would be to fight. Thankfully Sherlock expected such a move, he predicted it. For as soon as Sebastian jumped to his feet, as soon as he rocketed off of the floor and began to charge Sherlock was ready, or rather his finger was ready. The man closed his eyes, screaming as his grip tightened around the trigger, the gunshots audible and yet so far away. Sherlock had almost expected to get hit; he expected that three shots into that large man would not be enough to put him down. The man braced himself, the pistol now falling from his trembling fingers as he cradled his exposed body within his arms, cowering against the dresser and preparing himself for an impact that would never come. When finally Sherlock was able to open his eyes, realizing that Moran's attack would have come about by now, well that was when he was finally able to stare down upon the carpet he had stained. He was able to stare down upon the large figure that was not moving, the large disfigured chest, the blood which was leaking through unseen holes. Suddenly Sherlock felt cold, a sudden chill, as if the last stale breaths of Sebastian Moran were encircling him with as much vengeance as they could manage, working their way into his nervous system and striking an electrical current of horror. Sherlock could not think for a moment, he could not react, and yet suddenly a monotonous sound began to plague his eardrums. He was forced to listen now, and to understand that there was someone knocking upon the door.
"Sir, sir!" called the voice of Wilson, the old doorman who was still polite enough to knock before entering. Sherlock understood that he needed help; certainly he could not erase this cold blooded murder without the aid of someone with ice in their veins! Already the man was trembling, and yet he rushed to retrieve his discarded mask from the floor, forcing it upon his face and securing it with his hand so as to protect his identity even from his most loyal door attendant.
"Wilson, get Mycroft!" Sherlock demanded. "Get Mycroft Holmes!"
"Sir were those gunshots?" Wilson repeated.
"Just get him!" Sherlock yelled, his voice breaking under the pressure of the situation. Suddenly he was a murderer, not just a whore. He had stacked his sins up against him, and now they were piled taller than he could ever stand. A life was forced inside of his own, a life he had stolen from another. For a moment Sherlock felt as if he was inhaling the foul life force of Sebastian Moran, as if the man's soul was caught up in the perfumed air and wondering what had happened to its material form. Sherlock refused to look upon the body, it was all he could do but turn his back to his victim and stumble over to the bed, slumping down upon the floor and curling his back against the soft structure of the mattress. He cowered for a moment, forcing the mask upon his face with trembling fingers and crying through the holes in the eyes, wetting the outside of the white Porcelain as if even his emotionless persona was in despair. Thankfully Wilson was quicker than he looked, for Sherlock hardly had time to mourn before the door was forced open, Mycroft's determined fingers yanking through the lock and pushing his way into the most exclusive room in the entire club.
"Sherlock!" the man exclaimed thoughtlessly, for Wilson still lingered within the door frame in earshot of every word exchanged. And yet for a moment Sherlock did not care who knew, he did not care if the man went and slandered his name through all of the newspapers in the city. Sherlock never thought the appearance of his brother could mean so much, and yet suddenly the child within his trembling form erupted, suddenly Sherlock could not face the real world alone any longer. Mycroft did not look twice upon the body; he gave it a passing glance and refused to look back. He kept his eyes fixed upon his brother, and with a loud, audible sob Sherlock jumped to his feet to meet him.
"Sherlock." Mycroft exclaimed again, gathering his brother in his arms and holding the frail, vulnerable body to his own with as much gentleness as he had ever attempted. Sherlock could not say anything in response; he could not manage an audible word. Instead he sobbed once again, allowing the mask to slip off of his face and fall upon the carpet below. He nestled his bare face into Mycroft's collared shoulder, he allowed his tears to fall unrestricted upon his tailored suits, his most expensive shirts. Sherlock cried like a child, collected within Mycroft's arms just as if they were still in grade school. He wailed for protection, for desperation, for help. Sherlock cried for the state of his life, mourning not only for what he had once done but now for what he would be forced to do. He realized that this moment, these past few minutes between the pulled trigger and the desperate confession, had just turned his life in a different direction than it had once been heading. A single reflex had transformed him from the innocent lover into the stained killer, and he would spend the rest of his days atoning for this most unforgivable crime.