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. 

 John POV: Looking forward to something that may never come to pass was a dangerous pastime, and John knew full well that he could be leading himself up to distress if he continually watched that mail slot. He knew that the job offer would be a shot in a million, how could he expect to compete with so many talented candidates? His interview had gone well, about as well as it could have considering his sharp tongue and Mr. Holmes's good mood, though his past experience was certainly lacking. He was not college educated, so how could a man such as Sherlock Holmes chance the position in such a prestigious household? No, it was an impossible dream, one that John was destined to wake from in the coming days of disappointment. Despite his better judgement, every day when he heard the clanging of the metal flap and the flop of the envelope pile John raced to the door, thanking the postman as quickly as he could before diving towards each of the letters. Every morning with jelly stained fingers John took to throwing bills and letters from relatives onto the carpet, searching frantically for any sort of seal that might bear the mark of the Holmes. And every morning he arrived empty handed, sitting upon a carpet filled with discarded rubbish, wondering if today was the morning another man from the more glamorous side of town had received the invitation of a life time. This morning was different than John's usual routine, for with the rising of the sun so too did the schoolmaster trudge from his bedroom, walking with bare feet against the cold wooden floors to the echo of the clock which sat ticking on the top of the oven. Not yet half past six, though still too late in the morning to be longing in bed. School started at eight o'clock, and yet John made a point to arrive in plenty of time in order to prepare the materials for the days lesson. Each day John wondered if he would have to eventually bid farewell to the children he had taken under his care, he wondered just who he would leave in charge of their education while he was gone. Of course the city could probably find another teacher, as there seemed to be an excess of trained professionals in any field you could name. Somewhere there had to be a man out of work, though it would take a special eye to spot the exact match. Perhaps Mr. Holmes had kept his pile of applications even after he had chosen his tutor, a list which might still prove useful for filling open positions. John settled down with his morning toast and coffee like any regular morning, tuning the radio to his favorite station and listening as the DJ went over the mornings top stories. The news around the city traveled quite quickly, and with such a rapid turnaround of crime and scandal there never was a dull stream of headlines. Last night's news had sported completely different headlines than this morning, proving that the hours in which John had slept had been alive and rampant with criminal acts. He listened to multiple stories of bodies found in rivers, murders along the streets, robberies of the prestigious shops in the downtown area, and even more hints of corruption within the oil companies. Just like every morning he took interest in other people's suffering, crunching upon his crisped toast and wondering if his life would ever amount to something so newsworthy. Hopefully his would not be the body in the river, but he could imagine a headline sporting the name John Watson in a positive light. Perhaps Mr. Holmes would offer him an opportunity to make his life mean something, perhaps that man could personally build John's ladder to success. From a tutor in a grand household, well who knows what other horizons he could reach? Perhaps John would be met by a beautiful woman from the Vanderbilt family, marry rich and secure his legacy with a more renowned family tree than the one he descended from. He could have all the money he needed, all the fame he craved, and all the success he knew he was destined for! Could it really be so easy to ascend once you placed one foot on the right track? The coffee was quite bitter this morning, though John was so focused upon the recent discovery of the police station that he was not too bothered by the foul taste. He continually checked the clock, watching for the time the postman usually delivered the morning's mail. It was not always on the exact minute, though the walking schedule never varied by large lengths of time. If the postman kept to his usual rhythm that flap should be ringing in any moment. John was getting overly worked up about this silly little job, never had he been so fixated on a single thing! Oh but he just felt so confidently about its potential, he felt that he was destined to land a position in the Holmes household! Something drew him to that place like a fly to honey, in some way or another he knew his fate must be linked! This shabby apartment was not where he was meant to be for the rest of his life, this job in a small and dumpy schoolhouse was underachieving for a man of his talents! His heart swelled with the idea of living within the golden halls of Sherlock Holmes, though his rational mind warned of each and everything thing that might prevent him from ending up there. It was impossible to think too positively, dangerous to get his hopes up! Who knows how many days he would sit here with his breakfast, waiting on a letter that was never destined to come? The squeaking of the unoiled hinges alerted John to the door, and as quick as a bird of prey he leapt upon the swinging metal flap, almost catching the mail before it hit the welcome mat below. It was a smaller pile than usual, which in most cases was a good sign. Usually the absence of bills made the day a little bit brighter, though today the mere couple of envelopes he held within his hands meant an even smaller chance of one of them being the one he so hoped to receive. A letter from his sister was thrown towards the kitchen table, followed quickly by a letter from one of the parents of his students, lastly went flying the monthly charge from his landlord. Just as his hopes were beginning to die, as he prepared himself for the now twenty four hour wait until his next opportunity, John's fingers clenched around a much thicker envelope than he was used to receiving. A thick envelope made of coarse and expensive gray paper. John's breath caught in his throat as he held the thing within his hands, staring down upon his own name written with an expensive fountain pen, a handwriting he didn't recognize having scrawled an address he never disclosed. For a moment he was too afraid to turn over the envelope, searching for a return address which may very well be contained within a wax seal. He was afraid to be met with disappointment, now being so close to his goal! Could this be the very letter he had spent long nights pondering, the very invitation he had been waiting for since he stepped through the doors of the Holmes manor? With trembling fingers John turned the envelope over, looking down triumphantly upon a stamped seal, inked upon the paper as if with a rubber stamp and not with the traditional wax method. It bore the Holmes family crest, a shield with an arrangement of symbols and designs, nothing that John had to worry about just yet. All that mattered to him was the name printed in a circular fashion around the coat of arms, the name that he was bound to use more frequently in the coming days. 

"Sherlock Holmes." John whispered, pressing a single finger upon the fold of the envelope as his eyes widened in amazement. Suddenly he got to his feet, unable to contain his enthusiasm within the small shell of his own body. Without any purpose he yanked the door open, waving the letter around in the open air as he jumped down the short staircase upon the nearly abandoned sidewalk. His feet landed within the cracked and weed strewn paving slabs, the sun just now breaking through the morning clouds and illuminating his most triumphant expression.
"Sherlock Holmes!" John yelled again, calling out the name for any onlooker who might care to listen. The postman did him the honor of looking back, though the two women on the other side of the street shuffled along faster in fear, as if they were worried John's sudden outburst would be followed by a string of unnecessary violence. "I'm going to live with Sherlock Holmes!" 

Arrangements had to be made, bags had to be packed, carriages had to be hailed. Each and every step of John's transition to the Holmes manor was a welcomed one, even during the more stressful times of finding himself a successor in the schoolhouse and collecting the remaining percentages of his apartment's rent from his stingy landlord. It was an emotion farewell to the students within his school, though John left them in competent hands, allowing his position to be overtaken by a woman assigned to the school by a rather overweight city advisor. She seemed bright and sprightly, her eyes shining with determined intelligence and her heart already just as devoted to the children she had been instructed to teach. John felt that the schoolhouse was beyond his fears by now, as he felt confident that his role at the helm of the classroom was being replaced with equally able bodied hands. Packing was not as much of a struggle as it ought to be, considering John could fit the wide majority of his possessions into a single suitcase. He was still unsure of just what he would need to bring with him into the Holmes manor, however what he was sure he didn't need, such as the furniture, he sold at almost criminally cheap prices to the parents of his students. He took their money merely as a donation, insisting they pay only what they could afford within their monthly budgets.His sofa, which had cost him at least fifteen dollars, he sold for a mere two dollars to the family of one of his favorite boys, a household which was gifted with nothing except large hearts and dedicated brains. For the first time in his life John was not so concerned about money, for he imagined he had an excess of it coming his way in the near future. When at last each corner of his apartment had been cleared of his shabby possessions John hailed a carriage to take him away for the last time, standing on the stoop of his old apartment with a smile on his face as he stared at the blank, dreary windows which looked back upon him. He was moving onto bigger things, better things, and more beautiful things. There was no use in mourning for the things you were leaving behind when you were upgrading almost tenfold. And so John scrambled into the cab, calling out the address he had already memorized as he heaved his bags into the seat with him, sitting back in the worn leather chair and feeling the clopping of the horses' rhythm loll the carriage from side to side along the badly paved roads. As the roads became smoother and less familiar John knew he was approaching the appropriate house, and he anxiously stuck his head from the curtained window and watched as the architecture became more precise, more expensive, and better maintained. The street addresses became more famous, the crowds more wealthy, and suddenly he was staring upon the very building that he might have gawked at as a child, envying the occupants and wishing to be allowed to step foot inside. Though this was no dream, no sorry delusion he was living under.