The Porcelain Doll

The Holmes Family Crest

The filling of tea into Sherlock's small teacup was the only sound which would conflict with the crackling of the fire, as a much appreciated silence had flooded into the Holmes's usually lively library. Martha made a point to keep her tea preparations as silent as possible; noticing that both her master and mistress were very invested in the novels they held perched within their hands, though even the most skilled of maids could not keep the clicking of the silver spoon to any lower decibel than fate had demanded it. Her old hands stirred the sugars in with as much delicacy as possible, though still Sherlock's eyes glanced over towards the woman, as if to wonder why she was not capable of keeping her duties quiet.
"Thank you Martha." Sherlock muttered at last, figuring he ought to distract Irene's serenity if his own had been so rudely interrupted. A small sigh was issued from the woman on the other side of the room, though she turned a page loudly as if to demonstrate that her concentration was not yet broken.
"Just as you like it, Mr. Holmes. Three sugars." Martha said with a smile.
"Only because I'm so sweet." Sherlock chuckled, to which the old woman batted her hand in delight. Irene huffed her doubt from the other side of the room, which only served to prove she was listening into the conversation instead of remaining invested in the fictional worlds she so often delved into.
"Shall I add another log to the fire?" Martha suggested.
"No." Irene demanded. "Let Sherlock do that, he enjoys it."
"As you wish, Madam." Martha muttered with a respectful bow of her head. Sherlock sneered in the direction of his wife, though now left with little options but to obey he merely nodded towards the maid, collecting his tea within one hand and balancing his book expertly between the clenched fingers of the other.
"Thank you Martha, that will be all." Sherlock sighed, to which the woman bowed and left in a small scurry, as if she could feel the tension rising between the unruly pair and didn't want to get caught in the middle of yet another domestic argument. Sherlock sipped at his tea for a moment, pulling as much air into his lips as he could in order to make a rather heinous slurping sound on the edge of the cup. Irene sighed heavily, leaning upon the arm of her chair and narrowing her eyes at the small print she was trying to absorb. Sherlock continued to slurp, finally settling the tea cup nosily into its intended saucer and snapping his book shut just about as loudly as he could manage.
"Well, I suppose I'll do what I so enjoy! Putting logs on the fire, just my...my favorite pastime." Sherlock growled, hoisting his weight upon his feet and trudging over towards the small stack of evenly cut logs, placed there for the servant's convenience and not for use of the master of the house. Nevertheless Sherlock took one up within his hands, placing it as quickly as he could into the roaring flame and yelping as he shot his hand back, afraid to get so much as a small burn upon any part of his delicate fingers.
"Oh stop being such a child! Look, it's crooked!" Irene complained. "Now all the smoke will burn in my direction."
"Well in that case I have done my job perfectly." Sherlock decided, falling back into his armchair with a satisfied huff and enjoying the smell of approaching smoke, something he knew his wife despised so much. She complained that the whole room would smell like burning wood, and that it would take weeks of keeping the windows open to finally rid the furniture of the stench. It was proper payback, and so Sherlock could only grin in his satisfaction.
"What have you been doing all day, I hardly saw you again?" Irene muttered, finally setting her page marker within the book and snapping it shut in her agitation.
"I have been interviewing candidates for our tutor." Sherlock explained quickly.
"I hadn't realized we were in the market for one." Irene admitted, her eyes narrowing across the dimly lit library to get a better look at her almost guilty husband. Sherlock didn't know why the idea of John Watson felt like a poorly kept secret, though for some reason he felt it wasn't Irene's business to know his process of selection. If she began to delve into the qualifications of the lowly schoolmaster when compared to the other applicants she might begin to doubt his place in their house! And how could Sherlock defend his choice when confronted with irrefutably more educated men?
"I felt as though the children needed a more localized role model within their lives." Sherlock admitted in a small voice, hesitant to so obviously call out his own familial downfalls. Irene looked surprised, though she nodded her head slowly as if she couldn't open her mouth to argue.
"Have you chosen anyone yet?" she wondered.
"Yes I have. A schoolmaster from Manhattan." Sherlock agreed.
"Which section of Manhattan, dare I ask?" she chuckled, obviously remembering some of the local demographics of the city. It was common knowledge that there were less desirable spots of town, though Sherlock figured that John's address had no direct correlation to his character.
"Rather...middle, I suppose." Sherlock admitted after a moment's hesitation.
"What is he, an immigrant?" Irene wondered doubtfully.
"A solider." Sherlock corrected. "A man of high academic standing and an honorable gentleman."
"Who's living in squalor in Manhattan?" Irene pointed out with a sneer, as if she didn't want to associate with anyone outside of the fifth avenue address book.
"Not if I can do anything about it." Sherlock insisted, "I have offered him a place in our house. He shall be part of our family."
"We don't need another part of our family, especially not one who does not share our last name! Sherlock you really have lost your mind!" Irene exclaimed.
"I have not lost anything!" Sherlock defended, slamming his hand upon the leather chair with such aggression that his wife fell silent, huddling into her own chair while making no effort to hide her scowl.
"Sherlock, you are gone almost every night. Hiding in the daytime, vanished at night...always so gruff and irritable. You are the heir of a fortune, at the helm of an empire, and I understand the pressure you must strain under! But to hire a man to take your place in this family will not make your disappearance negligible! Your children don't need any man off the streets, they need their father!" Irene exclaimed.
"And I shall be there for them when I can!" Sherlock defended, barring his teeth behind his smile as if to reflect the hostile attitude she had forced him in. "Do not be so quick to judge a situation you could not hope to understand."
"I understand perfectly, Sherlock." Irene muttered quickly, getting to her feet with some aggression and snatching her novel back into her hands. "I understand that you love your work more than you love your family. I understand that you see money as a way to solve all your problems."
"Don't test my love for you, Irene, for you will be wholly disappointed!" Sherlock growled, taking the final sip of his tea and smashing it down back within the saucer. The force was too much for the fragile china to bear, for with the momentum the small cup shattered into bits and pieces of broken porcelain, spearing into his palm and fingers. For the sake of Irene's dramatic exit he dared not make a sound, for he appreciated the shattering of the cup as the last sound the woman heard before escaping up to her secondary bedroom. Without turning around she might assume he had thrown the cup into the fire or something equally dramatic, something with less bloody consequences. Thankfully Irene didn't turn around to see her husband with jagged pieces of china in his hand, though when the door finally separated the two of them Sherlock pulled his fingers back towards his chest, wincing as he watched droplets of blood collecting around the white, flowering design. With a twisting stomach Sherlock pulled the pieces from his skin, erupting fresh pools of blood within his palm and throwing the pieces of porcelain down upon the saucer in defeat. For a moment he clutched his hand in a fist, trying to keep the blood flowing within the folds of skin before he got up to apply proper first aid. Despite the pain and the undeniable mess Sherlock was somewhat transfixed within the broken shards, admiring just how easily an object could be smashed by a determined fist. He wondered just how many other things he could shatter if he tried hard enough. Though the scarlet splatter of blood was enough to remind him of the consequences of destruction, and the pain of the aftermath. Perhaps it was best to leave things intact, solid and sturdy the way they were intended to be.