Slowly the other man's hands wrapped around his waist, together they began to descend to the floor, letting their knees drop, letting their arms steady themselves. John's back hit against the carpet, descended carefully so that the impact cradled rather than shocked. He was carefully laid down, underneath the straddled legs of his companion. He stared for a moment at the white face, the looming mask that hovered ever so steadily above. He felt those familiar hands, running up and down his torso so as to appreciate each crevice which had been made available. The ceiling was dark, the lights bright, still there was not a sound to be heard but their breathing.
"Get on with it." growled Mycroft's piggish octaves from above. He clinked his glass twice against the chair, nearly shattering the thing with his ferocity.
"You can't rush love, Mycroft." Victor's voice responded, deep and stressed, as if he was sacrificing his concentration only to utter a few choice syllables. There was a grunt of reply, though John adhered to Victor's rebuttal. He knew there was nothing to be done except appreciate, he knew that every second they were gaining was another tacked onto the very end of his life. Each appreciative hand that slid down his body, each press of the Porcelain against his skin, each motion of pressure, applied in dynamic, emotional waves as his body collided silently against his companion, they were all delayed. They were all slowed. It was intimate but it was maddening, as even John had begun to ignore his surroundings for the betterment of his passionate abilities. He had forgotten about the eyes watching him from every other corner of the room, and as the slow movements began to grow slower still, as it began to grow apparent that the Doll may never get around to fulfilling anyone's desires, well that was when John figured his life may not even be worth all this anticipation. He hooked his arms around the Doll, he aided in his rhythm, and yet suddenly he got the overwhelming urge to throw the man to the ground. He felt the need to get it over with; he felt the need to be aggressive. Peacefulness, tenderness, intimacy...well there was nothing so sweet within the air. There was violence, coated on their intentions. There was an animalistic behavior that might take hold if the Doll continued to play with his food. John closed his eyes, trying to restrain himself, trying to keep hold of himself. He bit his tongue, clawed his fingers, keeping his muscles stiff and anxious. He was ready, and yet the chance never came. John might have been willing to do anything; in fact he was growing excessively tired of lying on his back, though never was he properly flipped. John expected either a lover or a bullet, though the arrival of an uninvited guest may very well promise that neither of these privileges would be met. At first the commotion went unheard to his ears; John had been deaf to anything except the particular tone of his companion's voice. He cared not for the words of others; he cared not for the music being played. Evidently he didn't care for the screams of the other guests, either, for it took a couple of shrill yells in order for John's euphoric state to finally dissolve around him.
"Oh that Devil!" Mycroft shouted, his words having the same effect as a slap across the cheek. John's eyes flew open, a scream emitted from his lips, and he grabbed hold of the Porcelain Doll even tighter now, beginning to realize that there was a commotion building within the upper tier of the domed club.
"I knew it; I knew we shouldn't have delayed!" Victor protested in a whine, his words followed immediately by the unmistakable bangs of the pistol. The noise was deafening, suddenly the screams of the many funneled in within John's ears. They sounded horrified, men screaming like little girls, hitting the same pitch as they scurried away through the exit doors, some half-dressed, some perfectly naked. With every gunshot John was prepared to be hit, in fact he was almost expecting that each small explosion had lodged a bullet into his body. He might have been too numb to notice.
"What's happened?" John whispered, clutching onto the squirming body of the Doll, trying to keep the man where he was, trying to keep him so close.
"The police. It looks like your friends have come just in time." The Doll chuckled.
"My friends? How could you know about that?" John snarled, growling in exasperation as the Doll finally broke free from his grasp.
"Mycroft, there's too many of them!" Victor's voice began to protest, sounding more panicked than one might expect. The gunshots were nearly constant now, though it was only another minute until another gun was fired in return. It was a pistol, shot expertly from the cover of the banister, with a bullet so well placed one would have imagined Victor's forehead had been painted with a bright red target. John watched his body fall, for the head was no longer a point of interest. The head didn't have the chance to fall, that beautiful face was blown to bits. Victor's body fell, the rest of him flew. A wail of agony emitted from Mycroft's lips, though both John and the Doll were too numb to react. John saw out of the corner of his eye that the Doll was desperately dressing himself, trying to drape his robe across his shoulders before the police descended from the upper tiers. It was ever so obvious who their target was, they were headed for the king. It was a shame, however, that the prince must have escaped the net. As John lay still, as he lay stunned, he realized that only one of the Holmes brothers had shown their face tonight. Sherlock, wherever he may be, was absent. John sat up warily, listening to the sound of Greg Lestrade's booming voice echoing through the building, filling the void that had been left when the musicians had vanished from their stations. He was demanding things, demanding in such a way that both men were forced to comply. As John's head spun he watched Mycroft's hands begin to rise above his head, his drunken feet staggering underneath him as he hardly processed the idea of being told what to do. The Porcelain Doll complied as well, leaving John no choice but to raise his hands as well, figuring that if one innocent party was going to play along then the other ought to as well. The officers raced up to collect their prizes, two per man, supporting the weight of Mycroft before his blurred vision sent him toppling to the ground. Two other men restrained the arms of the Porcelain Doll, treating him like some sort of animal on display. His knees buckled, his robe dangling open to reveal every bit of his pale, starved body. Scars and marks dotted his skin, a canvas for which to bite, to scratch, to kiss. John's own teeth were imprinted within that skin, and now it was on display for the New York City Police. The officers held the Doll up by his arms, each holding a wrist as if it was a prize to be won. John dropped his arms, realizing that there was no one coming to restrain him. Despite his proximity to the scene, despite his open shirt and his blushing skin, no one seemed to think him a threat.
"A job well did, Mr. Watson." Greg said with a little smile, descending from the tiers and landing each footprint hard against the carpeted stairs. He was dressed as a formal cop, now with his shining badge swinging from his belt and the tails of his coat trailing near his ankles.
"Lestrade, you don't need them both." John protested. "Let the Doll go."
"The Doll? Is that what we're calling this thing now?" Greg chuckled, descending in upon where the Doll was dangling and brushing his fingers up against the sculpted porcelain chin.
"He's mine, don't touch him!" John growled, finally finding the strength to rise to his feet and charge upon the Inspector. For better or for worse Greg was much quicker than John ever could be, and with such an outburst it seemed as though he had expected some sort of attack. Before John could even land a fist of redemption Greg shoved him hard, throwing his hand fiercely against John's exposed chest and sending him falling unceremoniously back to the floor. John wheezed, finding that his lungs had been drained with the impact, finding that air was hard to come by. For a moment he gasped and coughed, though all the while he struggled it seemed as though Greg found considerable amusement.
"So this is why you've been so cooperative, Mr. Watson? You have found love with this...this Doll?" Greg presumed with a harsh little chuckle. John couldn't respond, he was still trying to find the air to breathe, much less to manage a word. Instead he merely rolled onto his side, trying to get a proper glimpse at the scene unfolding before him. Mycroft was still struggling, though it would seem as if he had forgotten about the circumstances entirely. In fact it would seem as if he was holding the two policemen, rather than the other way around. He was so drunk that he may not have realized what exactly was going on, and of course what the consequences might be to follow.
"I hate to trouble you, Mr. Watson. But sometimes irony has a funny way of punishing us." Greg chuckled.
"Don't." the Doll demanded, kicking his feet out and forcing his captives to hoist his weight with considerable effort. "Don't touch me!"
"Stay still." Greg growled, grabbing the Doll's head and trying to steady it between his hands. The Doll was struggling, whipping his neck back and forth in an attempt to save his identity from those wandering hands.
"Resisting arrest only makes things worse!" Greg warned.
"Arrest?" John growled, finally able to manage a single word of protest.
"Yes, Mr. Watson." Greg chuckled, finally taking hold of the Doll's neck with one hand and successfully steadying him into submission.
"Don't! He can't see me, he can't..." the Doll's voice was cut off when Greg's hand reached across the back of his head, when fingers emitted a click, when the leather strap came loose, came dangling down. The mask was not so quick to fall; in fact the Doll's face must have been clinging to it with as much dedication as the rest of him. It would seem as though the two had molded together, becoming one indistinguishable form. It was not until Greg finally fitted his hands underneath the crevices that the porcelain began to slide, and before John's eyes he watched as the mask was slowly eased off, revealing the face that he had so long waited to see. At first he couldn't be recognized, there was nothing familiar with that face despite John's ever increasing familiarity with it. He had sat across from that face at the breakfast table every morning; he had seen that face in the library, in the car. He had studied that face down to the last detail, and yet tonight he couldn't seem to place to whom it belonged. At first the defined bone structure seemed as if it was universal to the whole of the human race, those lips must have just coincidentally been shared. Those eyes, as unique as they were, must have been repeated at least once within the city. There could not be a connection; they could not be the same. That face, the one which he recognized, and that body, the one which he loved...they did not fit together so smoothly. The skin color remained constant, the angles, the bones, the softness...John was sure if he examined that skin time and time again he would find no creases, no stitches. He could never prove that Sherlock Holmes's face had been sewn on only for tonight, only to reveal to him what a fool he had become.
"Mr. Holmes, what an honor to meet you in person." Greg chuckled, holding the mask delicately to his chest. Sherlock...Sherlock gave a mere sigh of defeat. He dropped his head in a motion John had seen a thousand times before, though never paired exactly with the same look of defeat. He had seen them separately, never together. Never molded. Never the same. 

  Sherlock POV: The police had not let him dress; though by the way they were driving Sherlock could quickly figure out why. He had been unceremoniously led to the police car, escorted by nearly half of the cheering squad of New York's finest. They all corralled around the vehicle, waving their hats in the air for a job well done, a tycoon captured, another life ruined. Another industry doomed to go under. Mycroft was put in a separate car, though for the life of him Sherlock did not care. If he never had to see his brother again it would be no bother. That monster may very well be in the back of his own car sliding twenty dollar bills to the drivers, trying to barter his way out of the car before it arrived at the newly constructed gallows. There would be two nooses tied tonight. Sherlock's skin was cold against the leather seat, his robe having collected across his elbows and leaving his back exposed. He wiggled his bare toes against the dirty floor below, listening to the whine of the engine and wondering just how the police had managed to afford such luxury vehicles. Evidentially the police had not yet taken a driving course, for the car was swerving dangerously back and forth through the traffic, Sherlock's body getting whipped around in the back seat as they drove like drunkards, putting everyone's lives in danger for no better cause than entertainment. He could see the city passing by, though Sherlock was familiar enough with the landscape to determine they were not heading for the police station just yet. It was no surprise, really. He had always known cops were pigs. This was a situation he was entirely numb to, his body wouldn't comprehend and his mind seemed to have turned entirely black. He wouldn't let himself think too deeply about the betrayal, nor about the reveal. He didn't want to examine the memories he had lost, he didn't want to decipher John's screams into any intelligible words. Sherlock was afraid of what might have come from his tutor's mouth, he was afraid that with a level of understanding came an even deeper chasm of hatred. Perhaps the one redeemable side of him, the Porcelain side, had been all but erased from John Watson's mind. There was only one whole being now, a body placed with a name, and the whole creature was condemned. Sherlock pushed his hands through the crusted remains of his hair, trying to break up the bits, trying to let it hang looser. He had no reason to hide anymore; he had been exposed body and soul to the world. The Porcelain Doll, such an impressive persona, disgraced now by association with the disgusting Sherlock Holmes.

"This'll do." one of the officers grunted, his voice distinguishable from behind the wall of glass the department had installed between the driver's seat and the passenger's cramped little couch. Sherlock peered out of the window, feeling the car turn sharply and watching as the familiar streets were replaced by the ever present bricks, a grimy and dreary backdrop that never preluded anything decent. Sherlock sighed miserably, pulling his robe upon his shoulders to at least maintain an aura of decency. It was difficult to remember who he was supposed to be in this situation. His confidence was obscured by the fact that his face was visible, that each motion of his lips could be seen, that each twitch of his eyes betrayed him. The Porcelain Doll never exposed his face, yet Sherlock Holmes never exposed his body. To be sitting nearly naked, here where the moonlight brushed his cheeks, he felt perfectly tangled. His two lives were getting too close, now colliding upon each other to make such a perfect mess. The car stopped halfway down the alley, the engine cutting into a low whine before finally silencing. Save for a few hisses and clicks of the relaxing machinery it was silent. Sherlock pulled his legs together, clicking his ankles and knees so as to keep himself safe from whatever the officers had in mind. They were chuckling amongst themselves, and it wasn't until Sherlock caught a glimpse of a most pristine white that he realized they were fitting the mask upon their own faces, laughing for a while as they modeled the sweaty, stinking thing upon their own skin. Sherlock's heart jolted, for a moment he was tempted to smash his hands through the glass in an attempt to retrieve his property, his disguise. He hated that mask with as much passion as could be managed, though he felt strongly protective over it. For some reason Sherlock wanted to snatch it back from their disgraceful fingers, if only for the opportunity to smash it against the bricks himself. Finally the men grew bored of the mask, tossing it upon the seat as they clambered out of their doors to retrieve their prize for the night.
"They'll be looking for me, you know." Sherlock reminded them as the passenger door was opened from the outside, one of the men rubbing his hands together anxiously while the other grabbed at Sherlock's wrist to pull him to the pavement below. Sherlock stumbled from the car, hardly having time to plant his feet upon the gravel before the man kicked his knees out from under him. Sherlock fell hard, his torso getting caught by the leather seat which had once supported the whole of his weight. His feet scraped upon the pavement and yet his body was bent, his fingers trying and failing to catch onto something to support himself. It seemed as though the sheer weight of a body against his was the only thing keeping Sherlock from sliding unceremoniously to the ground.
"They'll find you." The police promised with a giggle, grabbing at the robe and bunching it up in great handfuls upon Sherlock's back. "They'll just have to wait a little while."
"Oh, it'll take you that long?" Sherlock snarled, wincing to feel the familiar pressure of an unwanted lover. The policeman cursed, using one of his hands to push down on Sherlock's neck, keeping him dormant and complacent while the deed was being done. Sherlock snarled, and yet nothing could hurt him any longer. Everything that could be done to a man, every foul deed had already been tested upon his broken body. Tonight's encounter didn't seem terribly different from any other night of his life. For the duration he kept his eyes open, for there was no point in closing them when the world was equally dark. The street lamps offered no illumination for the back alleys, and the seat was black leather, resembling the back of his eyelids as best as anything possibly could. He didn't let himself think of John Watson, though he began to wonder if he would ever have to again. Perhaps in creating this problem he had inherently solved it. Who cared what John thought of him, now that his life was soon to be over? Perhaps they would avoid eye contact when they saw each other next, though that would be only too easy when there was a burlap bag tied around his head.
"Sherlock Holmes." The police man laughed. "The great tycoon. The filthy whore."
"Not as good as I imagined him." the other complained, finally loosening his grip and pulling away to recollect himself.
"Give me my mask." Sherlock suggested, scraping his feet against the pavement as he struggled to stand. Suddenly it was difficult to hold the whole of his weight; suddenly gravity fell harder upon his shoulders.
"Why should we do that?" the man wondered, his eyes still hungry under the brim of his lowly officer's cap.
"Because I'll f*ck better with it on." Sherlock snarled in defense, pulling his robe across his chest so as to cover himself up as best he could. Perhaps he was being assaulted, but he at least wanted to look decent within the breaks. It was his face he wanted to defend, though if he could hide it that would be all the better.
"Oh why not?" the officer wondered, wrenching open the door of the car to produce the porcelain mask, an unimpressive thing when clenched within dirty fingers. Sherlock snatched it from his hands, hatefully fitting it back upon his face and securing the strap in the back. The world, somehow, looked clearer through the shadowed eye holes. Sherlock's fingers curled, his breath mingled within the collected frame and his sweat began to pool. He felt as if he had not been offered a disguise, no in fact he felt as if he had been revealed once again. His true self emerging just as soon as his face was hidden. It was almost ironic how clear it all became once he felt the porcelain once more, how evident this opportunity had become. His brother in chains, Victor Trevor dead in the club, the Holmes legacy crumbling at his very feet. Did Sherlock have to crumble with it, if he never wanted an association with the corruption? Did Sherlock need to represent his family, or could he slip through the cracks? It was the Holmes family who would burn, though Sherlock...Sherlock may go by a different name these days. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes was meant to be destroyed, though the Porcelain Doll...he still had a life left to live. And perhaps there was a man who would be willing to live it in synchrony.