Three Is Company

Supervisor On Speed Dial

John POV: Standing in the dark took on a whole new purpose when you felt the need to be hidden. An innocent man would fear the shadows, while a guilty one would feel at home, blended perfectly with the darkness as if being absorbed. John could feel that now, that acceptance, as if he had finally passed away from the world of the pure. He felt that now, standing at the foot of his marital bed. There was a spot empty, from the moonlight he could see the pillow still indented with the shape of his head. The mattress, with a tell-tale cavity where his body was supposed to go. His wife, contorted in the covers, tangled with the excess fabric, perhaps in her sleep wondering where her husband had gone. The emptiness, perhaps never going to be filled with the same man again. John watched the clock for what felt like hours, what might have been minutes instead. He wished the sun would never rise, that this darkness would never fade. He didn't want to be discovered, to be called out, to be vilified. The moment her eyes opened, what would they see? Would Mary see her husband, the man who had left the bed? Or would she see a cheater, a liar, a man with the ghost of his lover riding upon his back with limbs like tendrils? Ensnared. John shuttered at the thought. He stood, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, twisting his wedding ring with the other. Twisting it around and around, leaving tread marks, chaffing. The gold peeling away to reveal the rusted iron beneath. Sprinkles of false promises falling at his feet in shining, reflective flakes. John hadn't breathed since he pulled his mouth away from Sherlock's. In some ways he was still there, in that room, in those arms. In other ways he had never been there at all. John's legs were still numb with the weight of Sherlock's body; his chest was still tangled in his dangling arms. There were fingers still attached to his head, continually brushing through his hair like combs, and lips continuing to suck the contents of his lungs. John had taken Sherlock home with him; he had pulled him across the threshold like a parasite. John, in his indecisiveness, was not quick to act. Not quick to fall into bed with his wife, not quick to go racing back downstairs to comfort the man he already missed. Perhaps he was better wandering, going from door to door, house to house, leaving his footprints in the snow? Mary's waking was abrupt, though delayed. It had been about an hour since she had a strange guardian angel, staring down upon her as he decided what to inflict upon her confused, startled soul. A sharp inhale, a quick collection of blankets, the flickering of a lamp.
"John?" Mary whispered, having curled into the headboard to make sure her feet were not exposed to the figure at the end of the bed. "Are you sleep walking?"
"There was an incident next door." John explained truthfully.
"What sort?" Mary wondered, her voice still raspy and convoluted, as if she wasn't sure whether or not John's words were mere subjects of hallucination. Was he awake or asleep? John wished she could tell. He wished she could answer that question for him.
"Sherlock fell over. Collapsed at the window." John admitted.
"Collapsed?" Mary insisted, blinking for a moment as if expecting a continuation. "Well have you called someone?"
"It's handled." John assured, fitting his hands across the frame of the bed and leaning his weight upon it. He gave his wife a smile, who seemed to hesitate her return.
"John, are you alright?" she wondered, tilting her head in worry.
"Can I come back to bed?" John whispered, tapping his fingers anxiously against the wood, his fingernails making a most ominous click throughout the midnight silence.
"Of course you can."
"You're not afraid of me?"
"Why would I be afraid?" Mary's eyes squinted, as if she was starting to wonder what her husband's intentions were. She was trying to determine if he was going to give her a reason to run. John didn't answer the question; in fact he wasn't sure he had an answer at all. It relived him to know that nothing had changed about his appearance, about his voice or expression. He had almost believed that he would have melded into the body of his lover, so that when he turned Sherlock would be sunken into his spine. Perhaps Mary could see the lip marks from here. Perhaps there was another pair of lips stitched onto his mouth. It would have been a frightening sight. Though by the lamplight Mary did not seem to find an issue.
"Is Sherlock alright?" Mary wondered as John started around the bed, hesitating at his side before sitting down heavily and rolling himself under the blankets. Mary pushed some of the covers in his direction, realizing that she had been hogging them in his absence.
"He's fine." John muttered, staring at the ceiling.
"You went over there?"
"I had to." John promised. "Mary...I had to."
"I'm not doubting you." The woman assured, chuckling halfway between humor and fear. John trembled where he lay, staring up at the ceiling and watching the grain of the wood begin to transform into the face of Sherlock Holmes. The face he had most recently seen. Eyes shut, mouth open, heart exposed.
"Mary, what if I ever cheated on you?" John whispered. Mary laughed again, though this time there was substantially more worry within the octaves.
"What are you asking me that for?" she wondered apprehensively, finally rolling over to stare at the side of her husband's shell shocked face.
"What would you do?" John repeated.
"I don't know." She admitted quietly. "It would depend on the situation, I suppose."
"Would you kill me?"
"It would depend on the situation." Mary repeated.
"So if I...if instead of Sherlock's house I was at another woman's?"
"I would probably run my car into her house. But kill her? No." Mary admitted with a chuckle. John nodded, pursing his lips and feeling his heart tremor. Was there a double standard, an unwritten justification, if she was still the only woman in his life?
"Alright." John agreed, settling a bit more comfortably into his nook in the bed.
"That's it?" Mary wondered.
"Ya, that's it." John agreed. The woman sighed, propping herself up on her elbow for only the ability to examine her husband from a better angle. The light of the lamp was probably shadowing most of his face, giving his usually gentle features a rather pointed expression, a threatening feeling. Mary stared for a moment, and John never returned the attention. He continued to stare at the ceiling, which continued to blink at him. Eventually Mary gave up, exhaling powerfully as she fell back upon her pillows and reached for the lamp. Darkness, as it should be at this hour.