White Noise

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

. John finally regained control of his own body as soon as the man's spell was broken, and he desperately swatted the cigarette onto the floor. It sat there smoldering on the tile, and John could do nothing but smash it into the ground with his toe and race back to the security of his room. John sat in his swivel chair for a numb couple of moments, his mind spinning with the strange encounter. His heart was pounding in his poor chest, his mind felt as though it had cracked open, but he knew what this meant, he knew what it all meant. John had told himself that he had found love before, many times before; just to justify his being with women. He didn't want anyone to think that he was dating mindlessly, so he had always defended his feelings of lust as feelings of love. He had insisted that the women he courted for a single night or a couple of days were his soulmate, and that he would marry them in an instant if they only asked. But he knew it wasn't true. John had always known that he was a man of peculiar taste, and while women were perfectly fine of keeping his attention for a night, he had always been so sure that he couldn't stay in love forever. And his predictions had come true, of course, because the one woman who he had made his wife turned out to be the one woman he couldn't stand living with. When Mary Morstan became Mary Watson, John's life took a downward spin that led him directly to the core of the molten earth. There was no more love that existed between Mary and him, and now he knew where it had all been hiding in these years he wore this disgusting ring. It was nestled in the bottom of his heart, waiting for this one man, this one stranger to sit on that bench and smoke in the clean white hospital. It had been waiting for a man, a man that could control him, one that could overpower him, one that could take his stern words and turn them to dust with a mere whisper, dancing off his cupid bow lips. His love had been waiting for the man of ivory, with curls of darkness swirling atop his beautiful skull, he had been waiting for the skeletal form of a man dressed for a burial, he was waiting for the form of beauty and the radiance of seduction. And now here he was, sitting and waiting for John's arrival as if he had known it would come. And now here John was, sitting in his chair, while the man slipped from his numbed fingers... He was the man that he been sent to restore John's humanity and dig his happiness from the hole which Mary had covered with her very presence. And he was escaping! John raced from his chair once more, finally all of his heart's beating meant something, it finally enabled him to fly down the hallways, only to find them empty. Hallway after white hallway, barren of people, of carts, of doors, of windows. It was a maze, an abyss, spiraling around him in a sea of polished white paint and sanitizer but where was he, where was his savior, where was his love? Gone, gone, disappeared without a trace, faded back into Heaven from where he had descended, not even leaving the smashed cigarette on the floor to prove that he had ever existed! John finally broke from the abyss, collapsing against the reception desk and scaring poor Mrs. Turner for the second time today.
"Doctor Watson what on Earth are you doing!?" she cried, flinging herself back in horror as he clung to the wooden desk.
"The man, there was a man here, who was he?" John exclaimed, his words dripping from his mouth like tar, his fingers clawing at the wood and his nails scratching into the splinters. He could feel the blood dripping from the wound in his heart, the wound left by the absence of the one sent to save him; it stung like a dagger and bled like a leaking dam, all over the neat stacks of papers that Mrs. Turner had so loyally arranged.
"Dr. Watson there are a lot of men here, they all come and go." Mrs. Turner pointed out, as if John hadn't already realized that they weren't gender segregated.
"I'm looking for a specific one." John insisted. Mrs. Turner nodded, looking at the schedule once more, her beady eyes scanning behind her glasses.
"Well there's a Mr. Johnathan Albert, Mr. Dennis..." she started, but John shook his head impatiently, this was all wrong, can't she see that this was all wrong?
"No, no, a man, a beautiful man, he wouldn't be on the schedule, he would be here as a mere presence, as a shadow clinging to the light..." John insisted in a breath.
"Dr. Watson, are you quite alright?" Mrs. Turner wondered.
"Oh, give me it, give it to me!" John exclaimed, grasping his outstretched hands. Mrs. Turner grew even more concerned, and John saw her eyes flicker to the phone, as though she were tempted to dial for help.
"Give you what Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Turner wounded in a very nervous voice.
"The guest list, please." John said in a more stable voice, taking a deep breath and trying his best to compose himself. This wasn't working, she was incompetent, she hadn't seen him, or else she would know him, she would be able to tell... Mrs. Turner nodded in compliance, handing John over the guest list with a bunch of names scribbled down in curvy black ink. Women's names, men's names, nothing important, nothing of relevance, names that meant nothing, names that were just place holders for worthless lumps of flesh! No, here, there, here, it was him! It was the only name that would fit, the only name that would go along with the body, the face, the aura...
"Sherlock Holmes." John whispered. Mrs. Turner nodded in agreement, her face white as a ghost as she stared up at John nervously.
"Yes, he escorted an old woman coming for an appointment." Mrs. Turner agreed in a trembling voice. John smacked the list back upon the wooden desk and made Mrs. Turner jump in horror, but he didn't care, she was fading into the background once more, with every new thought of this Sherlock Holmes everyone else simply faded away.
"And her name?" John wondered immediately.
"Martha Hudson, here for a check up on her hip." Mrs. Turner said immediately, as if she had known that question was coming. John nodded, breathing in satisfaction as a small, successful smile crossed over his face.
"Is that all Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Turner wondered as he stood there in silence.
"Yes, yes thank you, that will be all." John agreed, nodding his thanks and darting back into his room, leaving a very nervous Mrs. Turner sitting alone at the reception desk, pondering on whether or not she should call security or not. John stole into his room and locked the door, pressing his palms against the wood and letting his breath ricochet back to him in such close quarters. Sherlock Holmes, the only name that could possibly define such a beautiful man, the only man, the only name, the only existence. Finally John saw the light at the end of the tunnel, and it wasn't molten lava, or the fires of hell, it was the light from Sherlock's eyes and from Sherlock's soul, it was beckoning John, pulling him by every individual heart string until he was pulled along the tunnel like a puppet. Suddenly his life seemed to have meaning, it seemed to have a purpose rather to waste away and slink into the shadows of everyone else's life. It wasn't about money anymore, nor was it about the universal plan of success. It was about love, love that came in the most unexpected of places, love that blossomed from the most unsuspecting human beings. And yet it was love, John could feel it boiling over in his heart, collapsing in on itself until it reached the brink of insanity. John knew that there was no turning back, why he would want to he would never know, but it wasn't an option nevertheless. He couldn't crawl back to the pathetic presence of Mary now that he knew of her superior, now that he knew of his true soulmate. He had to go forward, he had to reach towards Sherlock, towards the light he provided and bask in the rays of his love until he burned. Sherlock was the sun, he was warmth, he was life, his absence would destroy but his presence would smolder and scald until nothing but ash was remained. John wanted to be ash, he wanted to be right up close to the sun until his very skin blackened and crisped, and his bones deteriorated into nothingness. It would be worth it, it would all be worth it.