White Noise

Strife With A Housewife

John lingered around the city when the work day was finally over, he felt no need to rush back home, just in case Mary wasn't prepared to see him just yet. He window shopped along some of the stores, and even went inside one to try on a nice pair of running shoes that caught his attention in one of the displays. He had always wanted to try running, or at least some sort of exercise, to get his mind off of things that were happening around him. He felt like it would be a good way to burn off steam rather than let it sit in his head and boil over, but after seeing the price tag he politely declined and decided that there were better ways of getting exercise. In the end he decided that there was nothing else he could do with himself, obviously he couldn't stay out all night, and the only man in this entire city that he would want to interact with was obviously not taking any visitors, so John miserably made his way back to his house, deciding that in the end it was probably the right thing to do. Besides, Mary was probably more miserable than he was, and his absence would only fuel her misery rather than do anything to prevent it. A happy wife made a happy life, and despite John's sweltering hate for his wife he knew that the only thing worse than happy go lucky Mary was miserable Mary, who had it in her power to starve him and force him to spend the rest of his life in the equivalent to a suburban trash can. So John made his way home, going so slow down the smooth asphalt roads that he was passed not once but twice, both by minivans making very illegal passes over the double yellow lines, driven by very exasperated middle aged moms who looked like their only joy in life was white wine. John felt their pain, although certainly not to the extent of having screaming little kids. They could never understand what it was like not to be loved, they could never even wrap their head around the pain that was inflicted when their soulmate wanted nothing to do with them. Sherlock, poor Sherlock, looking so miserable and alone, what prompted this pain, what started it? Was he just tired, did he have a headache, or was his soul hurting, and not his body? John had claimed both for himself, so he wondered what could be done to help heal him, would it take more love, or simply a blanket and some warm soup? Whatever it was, it would have to wait. Surely John couldn't sneak out again, he couldn't stumble home half-dressed and drunk while sober again, he had to be more careful, Mary was starting to piece things together, she was starting to suspect. So John simply pulled into his driveway, sitting in the darkness while the hum of the garage door welcomed him into his cavern of never ending misery, the hole which he had forced himself to call home. John finally crawled out of the car, a feeling of unmeasurable dread hanging upon his shoulders and he trudged inside. The kitchen light was on, and he could hear sizzling, like vegetables that were being sautéed in oil. It was a very curious sound, unusual for this type of household, and when he came to investigate the wonderful smell of garlic wafted through the house, almost making it smell more pleasant than it ever was going to be in his lifetime. His house was a structure of misery, it was four walls and a roof that were simply tainted by the hate that radiated off of its inhabitants, it was permanently stained, stained with the misery that dripped from John's skin, stained with the very image of Mary and Rosie lingering around every corner, reminding John not only of what he has done, but what he had committed himself to doing for the rest of his life. Living, living here, with these revolting humans, never getting to leave or take a breath to himself. He was in a never ending loop, a loop that would never cease to end unless he did something, unless he tore his way out of this painful oblivion, unless he took a mallet and pounded his way out of the tunnel with no light at the end.
"Mary?" John called, hanging his coat on the rack and making his way to the kitchen. Mary, indeed, was standing over the stove, wearing a simple little sundress with her hair pulled into a messy braid down her shoulder. Rosie was sitting under the table, pulling at the table cloth and throwing her dolls this way and that over the linoleum. Mary looked over at John with a very forced smile, as if she really didn't know how to react to his being there.
"Hey John." she muttered with a smile, poking at what looked like spinach cooking in a small frying pan. John stared at the food curiously, wondering when on earth they had decided to add something as foul as spinach to the menu.
"What are you doing?" John wondered, looking around the kitchen to make sure it was still his own. Was this some last ditch attempt to keep his love? Was she trying to make sure he was happy with her, in turn making what looked to be shiny grass?
"I'm cooking John; it's what good wives do. And good husbands don't complain." She snapped, turning on the oven light and stooping down to see what was cooking. John blinked for a moment, trying to process what on earth was going on. She never cooked, she was never a good wife, and John always complained, therefore making him the world's worst husband. Of course those titles fit perfectly, for different reasons.
"Mommy's making dinner!" Rosie said excitedly, crawling onto one of the chairs and smiling with a very crooked, toothless smile.
"Ya, I guess she is." John agreed rather reluctantly.
"How was work?" Mary wondered, turning off the burner under the spinach and setting it aside while she finished with the rest of the food. John noticed mashed potatoes sitting in a large metal bowl, and the food that was simmering in the oven still remained a mystery. He had to admit, he was rather excited. The one thing Sherlock lacked, the one and only thing (other than real human emotions) was his inability to be a good house wife. He could barely keep his apartment in order, it seemed like he never did laundry, never swept or dusted, and John was sure that his idea of a nice dinner would be ramen noodles with two flavor packets instead of just one. If he even ate at all. John wouldn't be surprised if that man simply lived off cigarettes, alcohol, and the unrequited love thrown so carelessly at him by other men.
"Work was...fine." John agreed, leaning up against the counter and looking around to see if there was any alcohol present. There wasn't, at least none availed without making too big of a show, so he decided to just wait it out, and see if he could survive family night while sober.
"You stuttered, what happened at work?" Mary wondered, sounding as though this were an interrogation other than a simple over the stove discussion.
"It's work, nothing happened, it wasn't fine because it was miserable, but it wasn't miserable enough for me to say miserable, nothing out of the ordinary happened at all." John insisted, talking very fast just to get his thoughts out of his head, not so much in guilt, simply laziness.
"I understand." Mary said simply, her voice so passive it was almost aggressive.
"How was your day?" John wondered.
"Rosie was fine; we went to the park together, played on the playground and what not." Mary said with a shrug.
"Everything's alright then? With...us?" John wondered, feeling as though he were physically throwing words out of his mouth just to get Mary to ease up a little bit.
"That depends, I suppose." Mary muttered simply.
"Depends on what?" John wondered, watching her curiously as she observed the simmering spinach resting on a cold burner.
"Depends on how tonight goes. It's supposed to be a nice dinner, and I don't want you ruining it." Mary demanded.
"I never ruin things! Name one meal that I ruined!" John defended, throwing his hands up in defense.
"Every single one!" Mary cried. "Everyone this week at least!"
"I wasn't even here, how could I have ruined them?" John defended loudly. Mary tightened her grip on the rubber spatula, wielding it like some sort of weapon just in case she needed to defend herself from john's irrational wrath.
"Exactly John, exactly. You wouldn't know, would you, because we just sat here, waiting for you to come home, waiting with your place set while the food went cold. And where were you John, where were you?" Mary demanded. That was a rhetorical question; at least John hoped it was, because he didn't answer, he didn't even know what she was expecting him to say. As they sat down for dinner the mood was already tense, and when Mary seated herself next to John it only got worse. The strange object in the oven turned out to be ham, it sat there proudly in the middle of the table, gleaming in all of its glory, and John only wondered how much it had cost to get such a thing at the grocery store. Once they all loaded up their plates there was silence, and John had to admit, the food was good. Most meals Mary attempted usually didn't turn out all that great, but this ham coupled with the mashed potatoes and spinach, it tasted like an actual home cooked meal, it tasted good. And yet, John kept staring blankly in front of him, chewing on his food absentmindedly and imagining that he saw Sherlock seated in the emptiness. What would he be doing here, what would he be doing right now? Eating, most likely, eating and downing alcohol by the gulp, not talking save for little complains on the food in front of him. And then he would sit back in his chair, stretching his legs out so that they overlapped with john's, pulling out a cigarette and smiling as he lit it, puffing smoke in small little clouds while he watched john with antagonizing eyes. And when Mary did the dishes John and Sherlock would linger off into the living room, and they would hold each other in a shadow where they couldn't be seen, and whisper unreliable promises in each other's ears while their hands worked their way up and down the other's chest, and their lips brushed against each other's skin. But no. Here he sat, and there she sat, and that chair remained empty. There was no conversation. Maybe Mary couldn't think of anything to say, or maybe she simply knew that there was nothing to say at all, but either way it was silent, and they sat there with their forks in their hands and their hearts nearly inexistent in their chests. When dinner was over they washed the dishes in silence, the plates going in and out of the frothy water while Mary scrubbed very agressivley with the green side of the sponge.
"You're being abnormally quiet." John decided after a moment. Mary sighed heavily, shaking her head by the light of the sink and continuing to wash, as if she hadn't heard him. John, of course, was perfectly happy with silence. The more his wife pretended to not exist the happier he was. However, even John knew about the philosophy of pleasing your wife, and while he was certainly tempted to never talk to Mary again, he knew that if he wanted to keep his affair below the radar then he had to make sure any suspicion she might have was swept from her mind entirely.
"So we're not talking then?" John wondered.
"Are we?" Mary asked, pausing with a plate in her hand, the hot water running over her still hands almost painfully. John blinked; to be honest he had no idea how to answer that question. Women were so vague sometimes, and he was sure it was some sort of attack technique, leave the man confused so he was unable to think of a good comeback.
"Yes I hope we are." John agreed.
"Because every time you seem to want to talk, it turns into lies, and then more fighting. I feel like I can't have a conversation with you anymore." Mary snapped, scrubbing at some ham residue left on a plate before rinsing it and plunging it into the dish rack.
"If you want me to talk, I'll talk. Just don't get aggressive." John warned.
"I'm not aggressive, I'm worried John, about you, about us." Mary insisted. She had every right to be worried of course, however John had to act like her suspicions were absurd.
"What are you worried about?" John wondered, playing innocent here, as if he hadn't been running around with a strange man. Mary paused, turning off the water and dropping the sponge, crossing her arms and facing her husband with a very accusing stare.
"Where were you last night?" she wondered, getting right to the point with this. John's mind flashed to the terrace, to the wonderful man with his wonderful kisses...
"At a work dinner, I told you that." John said carelessly. Mary didn't seem satisfied, her manicured nails tapped away on her forearm and John tried his best not to look guilty.
"Why'd you come so late then, and why were you half dressed? Why were you stumbling around the hallway, yelling at Rosie?" Mary wondered in a very stern voice, as though John was her second, less behaved child.
"Those dinners turn more into parties, we all get drunk, you know that. They're terrible company really, and one of those idiots spilled cocktail sauce on my shirt. So I tried to wash it out in the sink, and it wouldn't come off, and I was only half sane, so I simply tossed it." John said simply.
"That sounds like a cover story." Mary decided, not impressed by John's terrible tale. Of course she was right, but once more, he had to pull that exasperated 'what more do you want from me' face.
"For what Mary? What on earth are you accusing me of doing?" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air in defeat.
"John I can tell you're not happy, I'm not an idiot, I feel as if the moment we got married I never saw you again. I suspected that you were having an affair." Mary said flatly. John blinked, holding himself steady on the counter and shaking his head repeatedly.
"I'm not unfaithful." He said flatly, the first lie he had ever told her. How could he even think of being faithful with a man like Sherlock Holmes swooning this way and that, smoking and scowling and flaunting his abnormally long limbs around. John was sure that if Mary was in the same position with a slightly straighter version of this demigod that she would do the exact same thing. But he couldn't help but feel bad, John Watson, the ultimate ice man, and yet here he was, feeling bad. Mary didn't do anything wrong, it wasn't her fault she was horrific in every way, it wasn't her fault that John would never be happy as long as he knew of her direct existence, and yet somehow, someway, he knew that it was almost his obligation to look for the satisfaction he craved with other people, more specifically with Sherlock Holmes. He saw something shine down her cheek, at first he thought that it was dish water, but then it sparkled, and traveled down her face in a curved pattern of despair. A tear.
"Mary..." John muttered, dropping the dish towel and holding his arms open for her. She let out a sob of relief, collapsing into his arms and holding him tight. John winced, his nose deep in her hair, smelling of roses, and her heart right over top of his own. And it was terrible, he held her stiffly, weakly, he couldn't pull her closer because he didn't want to be closer, and yet she clung to him like a lost child, and he knew that he wasn't allowed to let go. Good husbands held their wives when they were crying, good husbands patted there back and insisted that it would all be okay, and so that's what he did. Good husbands didn't cheat on their wives with dark, romantic strangers, and so he had to pretend that he was indeed a good husband. Because then no suspicion would fall on him again.