The Porcelain Doll

The Porcelain Is Properly Sorry

The woman's hair was done up in her elegant bun, with some stray black hairs dangling around her pale face, framing her permanent scowl as if it was an exhibit at a museum. It might as well have been carved into marble, for it was just as indestructible.
"Irene, how... how are you?" Sherlock managed at last, nearly choking out the words as he tried to remember just how to phrase a sentence that was not hostile in the direction of his wife. It was a question that was heard by all, even throughout the commotion of the children. John's little bacon bridge, now collapsed under the weight of the dropped grapes, ceased to be any entertainment when compared to the first words spoken by the married couple. Once again the dining room fell into the familiar silence, though at least people were somewhat entertained. For once they were looking in the direction of the mistress, as if their usual occupation with their food had been forgotten. Irene's eyes hardened, and yet her head began to move upwards, as if she was saving such a lethal glare for her husband alone.
"How am I?" she whispered, her voice cracking of disuse, her painted fingernails digging into her placemat.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed apprehensively. "How was your morning so far?"
"My morning was fine." Irene muttered. Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat and poking his napkin upon the corners of his lips, just to make up for the silence that might have been filled with a question on Irene's side, had she been experienced at making small talk.
"Any plans for the day?" Sherlock managed again, his stomach churning uncomfortably and his white face turning quite crimson. John and Mary both sat with jaws dropped, staring unapologetically as if they were expecting aliens to descend from the roof next. Even the children seemed to notice this interaction was special, for they had abandoned their breakfast cakes in an attempt to hear every syllable explained.
"A letter came, from your brother." Irene explained. "He will be arriving this morning."
"So the day will be wasted once more." Sherlock complained.
"He is terrible company." Irene agreed, with the smallest hint of humor that Sherlock almost lost it. And yet he nodded, daring a quick smile, one second if that, in the direction of his all-knowing wife.
"Yes, he is quite terrible." Sherlock agreed. "Business, I presume?"
"Something about upstate politics." Irene agreed.
"The worst kind of business." Sherlock murmured, settling the back of his head up against his chair, regaining his kingly posture as he took on the role not only of businessman, but also patriarch. Perhaps he had suffered not only a change of heart but a change of lifestyles last night! Perhaps when passion overtook his body a sort of humanity followed, and before long he was invaded with empathy and understanding that he thought was reserved only for the decent folks in society. What was he growing into, what sort of unearthly change had befallen him? While that was the end of their conversation Sherlock felt the octaves ringing through the dining room until they were replaced by the calls to action, John herding the children upstairs while Mary followed behind, admiring Elizabeth's braids as they all ascended into the classroom. Mary followed John around these days as one might expect a puppy to follow its mother, the poor girl probably smitten out of her rational mind. The charm she saw in John was undoubtedly the same as Sherlock had been enchanted with, though he had some pieces of information that Mary could never handle, nor could she ever expect to know. He knew not only John's smile but his body, not only his glance but his touch, not only his heart but his ultimate preferences. Mary was at a severe disadvantage, as was Irene, when it came to loving the men they chose. With the departure of that small parade Sherlock and Irene were left in the dining room, and while they were beginning to move to their feet the silence became suddenly deafening, and the room began to feel quite cold. As Sherlock settled his napkin back upon the table he noticed his wife watching him again, with her hands folded upon the top of her chair and her frown sinking into her face at its unavoidable curve.
"I see those marks on your skin." she declared at last. "I know you make Reginald cover them in powder, but it doesn't work."
"Marks?" Sherlock muttered, feigning ignorance all the while his blood began to run coolly through his veins.
"Yes Sherlock, marks. Imprints. Left from the mouth of your lover." Irene scolded. Sherlock blinked, almost opening his mouth to ask which one. There were multitudes, she must realize by now. Even if she had assumed an affair, how could Irene expect Sherlock to have been entertaining the same person every night for how many years?
"I do not have a lover." Sherlock debated, whether or not it be the truth. Originally that was a safe defense to use, being as though his heart had never been captured by any one of the foul creatures he was forced to take to bed. Though this morning something was different, and perhaps Irene sensed that as well. Sherlock's body was here, lingering within the dining room while the servants watched nervously from behind the doors, though his heart was off somewhere, in the pocket of a man who didn't realize.
"Then who made that?" Irene wondered, lunging towards her husband and prodding the side of his neck with a long, pointed finger. Sherlock winced, the indentation of her fingernail aggravating an already sensitive bruise that must have been forgotten in his daily routine. His face paled, though hastily Sherlock batted along his neck, trying to cover up the bruise with his hand and forget just how beautifully John Watson had taken that section into his teeth.
"I was hit, at the club. There was an argument and one of the guests smacked me with his walking stick. It was handled, really." Sherlock lied quickly.
"Is it a woman, or a man?" Irene growled.
"Well it was a man, women don't carry..."
"Sherlock!" Irene yelled, her voice hitting a tone that might have shattered the stain glass murals which hung on the opposing walls. Sherlock backed up instinctively, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stumbled into his chair, trying to distance himself from his wife and all the silverware that was at her disposal. He could already imagine this conversation going even worse than it already was, he could already feel the blade of the butter knife impaling him.
"I'm sorry, Irene I'm sorry." Sherlock promised, holding up his hands in surrender.
"Sorry for what, for lying to me?" Irene presumed, her eyes flashing just as brightly as her golden jewelry when the sun hit in the right place. Her fists were balled, and yet Sherlock figured that was better than her claws being barred. He had been slashed a couple of times with her fingernails, and those never felt good against his paper thin skin.
"I'm just sorry. For everything I've done, and will do." Sherlock admitted at last, figuring that was a long awaited apology that had never been uttered in their years of marriage. He might as well go right back to the day they exchanged vows, and apologize for lying through his teeth about loyalty and love. He might as well apologize for the day he proposed, for the day he was forced to meet her. For the day she fell in love. Thankfully each of his mistakes was summed in that small statement, one which could be elaborated on while his heart was still open for examination.
"I don't believe you'll ever be properly sorry." Irene muttered, her teeth barred, though that seemed to be the final word of their morning conversation. As with most exchanges their final words were angry, though it might have been the longest conversation they had sustained since John's arrival into the household. As Irene's footfalls faded away, as her high heels clicked away on the marble stairs, well Sherlock felt he had offered her at least some closure, if not some relief from the pent up anger. Carefully he messaged his neck, wincing as the pressure applied stung even now. He looked down upon John's place setting, the breakfast he had abandoned, and wondered what their house would have to sustain if his desired future would ever come to be. Perhaps they would all be happier if this mirage was disbanded, and they all didn't bother pretending to smile.