For a moment the tutor was shocked, staring upon the driver as if he was beginning to wonder what sort of reality he was living in. Was this all a dream, where such large sums of money were thrown around without much reasoning at all? Was he actually seated next to a man who could write a check for five thousand dollars and not overdraft on his bank account? And that money, that ridiculous sum...that was going to his school? John caught a breath, one which whistled through his teeth and forced its way audibly down his throat. It came as more of a gasp than anything, as if he was beginning to choke on all of the dust particles that were swirling up from underneath the carriages in front of them. As realization began to settle in, as Sherlock's focus shifted back towards the road when he realized John's most amusing reaction had faded away, well that was when John remembered his manners. It was a gift with no rival, the most generous token of good faith that John had ever born witness to. And here he was, having been so caught up with the initial shock that he hadn't even thanked the man. John's most immediate impulse was to meet Sherlock's impressive gift with a most impressive show of gratitude, though John's manners had never bene fully displayed within a moving automobile. He may not have been thinking when he went to grasp Sherlock's hands, trying to hold them within his own to fully declare his sincerest thanks. John was able to wrench one hand off of the wheel, and yet Sherlock gave a yelp of disapproval as he cemented his other firmly upon the steering wheel, as if to try to remind John that he was in charge of their lives so long as he was in the driver's seat. John flushed with embarrassment, though he figured this single hand he had managed to capture was enough to get the job done. John cupped that delicate hand between his own, recognizing the soft touch of the fingers as if he had been honored to hold them before.
"I don't know what to say." John admitted at last. "Sir you are...well you are magnificent."
"You really think so?" Sherlock chuckled, casting another sideways look towards his most obsequious servant. Another sigh was heaved from Irene's direction, as if the woman was sick and tired of seeing her husband get praised. It was as if she hated Sherlock's show of kindness, as if the five thousand dollars would have been better suited in purchasing clothes or jewelry rather than school supplies and heating systems.
"I really do. I never knew that a man so rich and powerful could also possess such generosity." John muttered, trembling Sherlock's hand back and forth between his fingers as if he was trying to touch it at every angle possible, trying to feel each and every divot in the palm and fold in the knuckles. It was strange how familiar Sherlock's hand felt, it was strange to feel this hand and realize there was a time where he must have held it before. John's immediate memories denied the fact, and yet he still couldn't help but notice Sherlock's skin possessed a certain softness that could not be so easily forgotten.
"My father was rich and powerful, Mr. Watson I am merely just trying to put our family name back in the good light. And never has there been a more fitting cause." Sherlock assured.
"You care about the education systems?" John presumed.
"No." Sherlock admitted with a sigh, to which John recoiled in some surprise.
"No?" he clarified blankly.
"I care about you. I care about healing the wounds that still trouble you, and repairing the damage I might have caused." Sherlock explained.
"Oh don't be so poetic!" Irene snarled on the other side of this conversation, now perfectly blocked from the conversation due to John's unintentional positioning. Somehow he had managed to turn his back to the woman, having shifted in his seat so as to allow Sherlock to bask in every radiant fiber of his gratitude.
"Jealous, are you?" Sherlock taunted, though he shook his hand from John's grasp and held the steering wheel more securely within his grip. John cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably, shuffling back into his seat and trying to focus on the road rather than the marital issues which had erupted out of nowhere.
"Not jealous, disgusted. To flirt with the tutor while your children are riding in the backseat?" Irene scoffed, crossing her arms across her chest with a pout.
"Not flirting, darling. Expressing gratitude." Sherlock snarled.
"Well you've never expressed gratitude in such a way to me." Irene pointed out.
"That's because you've never earned it." Sherlock insisted, waving his finger through the air as if to further drive his point across.
"If you've never been so impressed why did you choose to marry me?" Irene wondered.
"I never chose to marry you, Irene. I was forced to marry, and I chose you. And yet for that I am still waiting for my thanks!" Sherlock growled. John dropped his head down once again, trying to hide in the seat even though he was very obviously protruding. Certainly he couldn't get out of the line of fire in this moving vehicle, not unless he wanted to suddenly crawl over the seat and huddle in with Elizabeth and Theo. The sheer aggression of the couple's words was burning across his face, leaving the poor tutor to wince with every snap and attack that was shared between the two. Was he really such a cause of marital strife? And what validity did any of their accusations hold, especially the one about flirting?
"You won't get any thanks for that." Irene grumbled, turning her head away and focusing on the thinly occupied sidewalks, trying to stare down the passerby for at least a fleeting sensation of power. Sherlock huffed, shaking his head and falling silent for the rest of the ride. John, following in his boss's lead, also held his tongue for the rest of the trip. He had always been living in something of a reverse situation, imagining that Sherlock was the more terrifying of the Holmes couple. Now his perspective had been flipped, realizing now that a single step upon Irene's toes may very well set fire to the woman and anyone who dared oppose her. 

 Sherlock POV: There were foreign fingers within his hair, and yet to Sherlock this really was not a foreign phenomenon. Many strange hands had held against the back of his head, though these were the first pair to help him prepare for his nightly activities, rather than take advantage of his particular line of employment. Sherlock kept his own hands occupied with pulling his black robe across his chest, cursing the thing for leaving such large portions of his skin unguarded. It was of course tailored to be most revealing, though for right now he would rather be wearing his stuffy and concealing three piece suit rather than this thin and struggling piece of fabric. From the reflection in the mirror Sherlock could watch as Mycroft lathered in the hair gel, trying to catch each one of Sherlock's curls up within the product and smooth it down across the back of his head. Mycroft's fingers were rough and stiff, though Sherlock could tell that the man was trying to be as gentle as he possibly could. He applied pressure where it was due, at times nearly pushing Sherlock's entire body in the direction his hands had willed. Sherlock was rather grumpy in the chair, as he had always been trusted to do his own disguise work, though Mycroft seemed wholly satisfied to be lending a helping hand. In fact he seemed to enjoy it.

"I saw your picture in the paper, Sherlock." Mycroft began, breaking their long lasting silence with a tone of utmost disapproval.
"Already? I would not have thought it would make the evening news, I had expected it tomorrow morning." Sherlock muttered, catching his fingers within the loose fabric of his gown and readjusting it once more to compensate for his particularly squirmy nature.
"Evidently you are bigger news than expected." Mycroft murmured, trailing his fingers down the back of Sherlock's neck so as to secure the bottommost curls in a greased submission.
"Did you enjoy the article?" Sherlock wondered. "I figured it would be good publicity for the family, considering we're always painted in such a villainous light."
"I did enjoy the article, that being the style and the voice the author used. I did not enjoy the content, however." Mycroft muttered, sighing heavily as he greased his fingers across Sherlock's ears and dragged the tips of his fingers across the man's cheeks. Sherlock stayed quiet, his eyes squinted in disappointment.
"It wasn't a large donation when put into perspective. Think about that five thousand as...well as my own contributions to our funds. I make here about one hundred a night, just cumulate that and consider it my portion of the fortune." Sherlock suggested.
"It is not the money that concerns me!" Mycroft growled, at last letting his hands fall off of his brother's head and scooping up a towel from the vanity, wiping down the gel from his fingers as he snatched the newspaper from where it lay on the bed. Sherlock turned nervously, figuring it was a bad sign when Mycroft went to prove his points with in text citations.
"If not the money then what is the problem? Have you a problem with charity work?" Sherlock wondered.
"I have a problem with our reputation." Mycroft insisted.
"This is positive press if nothing else!" Sherlock defended weakly, getting to his feet to meet his brother in the middle of the room, halting Mycroft's charge so as to make sure he didn't get full control of this conversation.
"This, Sherlock, this picture!" Mycroft growled, brandishing the paper into Sherlock's face and nearly smacking it against the tip of his nose. Sherlock snatched the paper from his brother's hands, giving him a sneer before at last settling his eyes upon the picture in question. Well in Sherlock's eyes it was just a picture, one which would be splashed upon any news article within the Times. Sherlock remembered posing for that photo, with the current schoolmaster arranged within the Holmes family and holding a check in her hands.
"I don't see a problem with it. I think I look great." Sherlock assured, letting the newspaper flop unceremoniously across his hand as the weight of gravity finally overtook the topmost corners. With the paper having fallen he could see his brother's face, still blotchy and red with his dissatisfaction.
"When I look at that picture I see you, standing there between your wife and your tutor. Irene, for one thing, is not smiling. And there is your hand, very obviously hovering upon her shoulder without actually touching! You can see the gap between your finger and her dress even within this grainy photograph! And with John, well with him you're practically hugging him to your chest. I look at this picture and I see a struggling marriage, I look at it and I see a wandering heart." Mycroft snarled, jabbing his pointer finger once again at the photograph as if to further prove his point. Sherlock frowned, examining the article once more and searching for the little details which Mycroft found so unsatisfactory. Unfortunately each one of Mycroft's observations were correct, and as Sherlock squinted he saw indeed that there appeared to be no visible love between himself and his wife.
"Are you accusing me of something?" Sherlock growled at last, feeling his defensive walls begin to spring up.
"Not yet. But you won't like it when I finally do." Mycroft assured, finally stepping aside and checking his own reflection within the mirror. For a moment the man adjusted his tie and suit jacket, preening himself to look his best for when Moran finally arrived.
"Ten minutes, brother mine." Sherlock warned, checking the clock on the wall to see that Mycroft's dinner date was soon approaching. Mycroft sighed heavily, as if the idea of talking business was slowly growing more exhausting.
"This is an important night for us all." he declared at last. "And we both have our parts to play."
"So long as you talk nicely everything will be fine." Sherlock assured. "He likes men, so he'll like me. And if he likes me, well I suppose your offers will begin to look much more appealing."
"Do whatever he wants and more." Mycroft suggested, turning again towards his brother and stepping in closer, looming down upon where Sherlock stood very timidly upon the carpet. Mycroft chuckled, examining Sherlock for a moment before sliding each of his hands under the shoulders of the man's dressing gown, messaging his hands upon the bare shoulders and nodding slowly to himself. Sherlock stood still and silent, keeping his eyes cast over his brother's shoulder and trying to ignore the feeling of those rough hands upon his delicate skin.
"You're allowed to enjoy yourself tonight, you know. You can think of other faces, if you'd like." Mycroft suggested. Sherlock stayed silent, biting down on his tongue so as to prevent any snide remarks from escaping into the open air. He knew that Mycroft said half of these things just to irritate him, just to get a reaction that was punishable. Mycroft liked to demonstrate his own power, even if that meant growing to his tallest height just to step upon his poor brother. Sherlock knew that there were accusations being made, he knew that as Mycroft's tongue curled between his teeth it began to fork, speaking in the words assigned by his more devilish nature. He wanted Sherlock to admit to something, to admit to preferring a particular face above all others.
"You best be going, Mycroft." Sherlock suggested at last. Mycroft chuckled, letting his hands fall back to his sides but taking the fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown along with them, yanking the sides down off of his brother's shoulders and allowing the entire robe to shift downwards, catching upon the man's elbows and just barely covering him where it mattered most. Sherlock remained still. Mycroft offered no goodbye, he merely gave a click of his tongue and turned upon his heel, marching out of the bedroom and clicking his walking cane upon the carpeted floor, strutting with all the confidence he would need for the remainder of the night. Sherlock hissed just as soon as the door was shut, readjusting his clothes and drawing the cord as tightly as he could around his waist. He would have time to work until Moran was delivered, and yet Sherlock would have much preferred a moment of solitude to reflect on all that he had done and all that he was still expected to do. The man sunk back into his vanity desk, smoothing his hair along his head and retrieving the newspaper once more from where it lay among his hair brushes and perfume bottles. With careful fingers he stared down upon the grainy photograph, deciphering the smiling faces of each member of his household. They were positioned in front of the dreadful schoolhouse, the one which John lead a complete tour through with nostalgic eyes. The children had all been gathered around him, remarking about how much they missed him and how he should quit his job and return. Of course these comments must not have helped the self-esteem of his replacement, though Sherlock figured they were all meant with as many good intentions as their little mouths could handle. It had been a lovely trip, for John spoke with so much emotion, and he led Sherlock about the classroom as if he felt honored to introduce the businessman to each and every student. Irene and the children had waited out on the playground, careless as to what life on the other side of the city was like. This only meant that Sherlock had the man all to himself, and John was still lost in that entreating stage, in which he felt that he still owed Sherlock each and every ounce of gratitude that he could muster. He was practically fawning by the end, which had prompted Sherlock to hug him in so close when finally he got the opportunity during the photograph. It was a familiar feeling, holding John Watson's body against his chest, a most appreciated feeling that had obviously been noticed by the most studying eyes. As usual Mycroft was one step ahead of his most pathetic brother, having read his emotions through his actions before Sherlock could take the time to properly investigate his own feelings upon the matter. Sherlock sighed heavily, hanging his head upon his hands and letting the newspaper flutter back down onto the desk, the smiling face of John Watson staring up at a Sherlock from another plane of existence. He wouldn't recognize this form of his master; he wouldn't recognize the greased hair and the vulnerable eyes. He wouldn't know him in this form, nor could he ever love him. Was that what pained Sherlock the most, to know that however much he wanted to commit his heart to someone else he would always have to divert that attention in seek of a profit? Or was it the fact that the gaps between them were too lengthy, even if he did decide to begin falling in love? A married business man and the lowly tutor, how could it work even in the most idealized world? How could he even begin considering it when his first thought was that of impossibility? The man shuttered for a moment, drawn back into reality by the taps upon the door from his most obedient servant.
"One moment, Wilson!" Sherlock called anxiously, lowering the octave of his voice to make up for his lack of muffling. Frantically the man grasped for his messenger bag, unearthing the mask which lay hidden inside of it. Sherlock took one last look at his exposed face, staring within his own eyes and nodding slowly to himself as if to summon some extra motivation. It was time to change, it was time to absorb another personality and forget his own qualms. It was time to become the Porcelain Doll. And so he fitted his face into the sculpted material, lining up his facial structure with the details of the mask and hiding away his own face, his own emotions, behind the blank white sculpture. Sherlock winced as he tied the straps across the back of his head, securing the face upon his own and rising slowly to his feet. All emotions must be left upon that bench, all feelings that Sherlock Holmes once had must be forgotten. Tonight it was about the costumer, as was every night. Tonight he had to forget himself and reappear within his own body once the morning sun arrived. 

Sebastian Moran was drunk when he arrived, as Sherlock had expected him to be. Sherlock's previous customer had been shooed off rather quickly when Wilson announced the special guest, and as Sherlock scrambled to remake the bed he tried to recompose himself in his natural state. He tried to get his breathing under control, thinking it might be rude to meet a romantic partner while still out of breath from another. He was not nervous, no he was never nervous for jobs like this. Each and every man was alike, no matter how much power they carried upon their shoulders. Men of higher status had fallen under Sherlock's body before, whether it be peasant or king they all left quite satisfied. There were many things depending on his performance tonight, a monopoly that could not be reckoned with, millions of dollars that had the potential to merely walk away from the Holmes's income. So long as it all depended upon Sherlock's performance he felt that their cooperation was safe. It just depended on how sweetly Mycroft could talk over dinner. Sherlock sat upon the vanity bench to meet his guest, facing the door and leaving his robe almost completely undone across his chest and folded legs. Before arranging himself he made sure that each of his curls was tamed, just to ensure that none of his stray hairs could give away his true appearance. None of his costumers knew his true identity; even Wilson was never trusted with such sensitive information. Sherlock was not sure how any of the most important men might handle the information, knowing that the whore they slept with was soon to be the businessman they shook hands with in front of the press. In some ways they might enjoy the knowledge, being as though Sherlock's face was much more beautiful than the mask would ever allow for. Then again if they realized they knew him from another world they might also realize that he would know them, and with this mutual understanding many secrets could be spilled without ever intending it. Not to mention the blackmail capabilities! If the men realized that they were trusting their secret passions to sensitive and powerful men they might never come back to the Dollhouse, for fear that Sherlock Holmes would use their vices as ammunition if ever their businesses came within conflict. No it was best for all parties that the Porcelain Doll remained a mere character, a nameless thing, an inhumane prop. It was best that the mask held no recognition, nor expressed any emotion. As the door opened to reveal his company for the evening Sherlock remarked upon how large Sebastian Moran had grown. Upon their last visit the man had been about five sizes smaller, still a beginner politician clumsily trying to handle the land he was put in charge of. Sherlock had been just as unexperienced, just beginning in his business, back when he still enjoyed the rush of it. Both had grown since then, Sherlock in mind and Sebastian, evidently, in body. Already the man was undressing himself, looking drunken and piggish as he swarmed in upon his prey. His face was flushed, his blonde and thinning hair smeared back across his head in a poor attempt to hide the sparkling patch of exposed skin on the very top of his head. He used to be attractive, or at least acceptable. Though ten years had aged him about thirty, perhaps with the combined stress of work added with the vices of powerful men. Ten years ago it had been much easier to pretend to be interested, and yet tonight Sherlock would have to put on just the same effort. Tonight he would have to convince himself that his type of man was a large, bumbling oaf.