White Noise

The Gatekeeper To Paradise

            John printed the picture out in the printer at work as soon as he arrived; tucking it in the depths of his folder so that no one could see it but him. He stared at it while he was waiting for patients to arrive, and while he was pretending to be listening to their stories and their self-diagnosis. They come to him crying that they had some severe disease, that they needed medicine, that they needed immediate care, and John could usually prove that they were simply suffering from a strained muscle, or a simple head cold. People tend to be a little bit dramatic, and as a doctor, they all came rushing to him. During his lunch break John bought a bag of chips (veggie chips, not regular, they would never dare to sell anything over one hundred calories in a doctor's office) and sat in his room, his computer propped up on his desk as he scrolled through Sherlock's Facebook page once more. This time he wasn't looking for pictures, he was looking for locations, anything that could hint to where he lived in this miserable stinking city. The picture on the terrace was one hint, there was a large sign for eye care just behind him, faded in with the smog that was rising up from the streets and illuminated by the sunlight behind. So John could find the sign and he could find the terrace, that would be easy enough. But that might not even be Sherlock's house, that might be his pathetic boyfriend's house, his own personal photographer. A wave of envy washed through John as he imagined that pathetic boy behind a camera, his eye fixed to the screen as his boyfriend, the beautiful Sherlock Holmes, stretched out beautiful before him, his limbs dangling before him, his curls falling over his soft forehead, shedding layers of clothing and becoming more and  more beautiful with every picture snapped. Only two of those photos had been worthy of the Facebook page, so maybe there were more, maybe there were stacks upon stacks of pictures of Sherlock just laying around that strange man's flat. If only he could somehow find them, retrieve them; take them for his own... Another picture was of a street, with pedestrians roaming aimlessly around, filtered so that it looked beautiful, filtered so that you couldn't notice the garbage tucked up against the buildings or the dirt that littered the streets or the miserable faces of the passerby as they realized how they were living and where they were living. A filter made that all disappear; a filter had been placed there by Sherlock Holmes' finger, the most deserving filter. It proved that life by Sherlock Holmes was beautiful, that the ugliness of the world disappeared with a simple tap of his finger, all the misery would be whisked away by a simple touch of his hand. John knew that street, he knew it well, it was one or two blocks from Main Street, littered with apartments stretching up to the skies. Sherlock must live on one of those, with an eye doctor sign right behind, on the building opposite. But which floor? John shook his head in determination, closing his laptop, shedding his white coat, and marching out the door. There were more important things in life than the wellbeing of others, being a doctor could wait just one day.
"Dr. Watson where are you headed?" Mrs. Turned squawked from the reception desk, her hawk like eyes fixing on him as he tried to make his escape. John pulled a very troubled face, one that made him look pale, look sickly.
"I'm sorry ma'am, but I think I've come down with something." John muttered miserably, forcing his pain easily into his eyes. All he had to do was look at her like he really felt, all he did was take of the mask he hid behind for his entire life, and it was done. He own state of mind was enough to make him look on the verge of death.
"Yes doctor, please, we don't want the patients to get sick." Mrs. Turner agreed, nodding agressivley and letting John lumber out the door. As soon as he made it to the busy sidewalk he put the mask back on, not smiling but not scowling, his neutral mask, the one people expected to see on a crowded street. John marched to where he thought the picture had been taken, looking around to try to spot the sign. He walked the length of the street but couldn't find any sign of the sign, nothing that matched the eye doctor sign he had seen in the picture. So it had been taken down, so he was looking for a billboard all the same. Well there were hundreds of billboards littering the side of these brick buildings, any of them could've been it! John examined the rooftops behind the terrace, but nothing popped out, no landmark, no tall skyscraper that could give him his bearings. Nothing. John groaned in defeat, closing the laptop and standing in a doorway on the other side of the street to stare up at the terraces, trying to tell which one his love had sat on just by feeling. But he felt nothing; he felt only confusion, hopelessness, defeat. So he couldn't tell where Sherlock lived by a picture on line, there were other ways, other methods. The post office perhaps, or the phone book? He could try to google his name to see what comes up? Or maybe this lady he had come to the doctor's office with, this Martha Hudson, maybe she knew something John didn't. Maybe she could be of some use. John decided that before he started to scheme he needed an internet connection, and thankfully there was a coffee shop on the corner that offered free Wi-Fi with every drink. So he bought a coffee, a nice frothy mocha and sat down with his back to a wall so that no one could see what was on his computer screen from behind. He started by typing in Sherlock Holmes, and all he got was a link so Sherlock's Facebook and a couple of newspaper articles that mentioned him for some sort of volunteer work. John merely skimmed the articles, and they provided no help whatsoever for locating the man he loved. Next he searched for Martha Hudson, and he was very happy with the results she brought up. Not only did she have a Facebook sight, she also had a very lovely Pinterest and an advertisement for rented apartments on this very street. It had been in the newspaper quite some time ago, maybe two or three years, but everything lives online now. John pulled up the advertisement and skimmed through it, discovering that she owned an apartment complex. Then Sherlock must be one of her tenants, the apartments were on this very street, that woman probably owned the complex with all the terraces! This was good, this was very good, so Sherlock definitely lived here, on this street, all John had to do now was find him. He closed his laptop once more and bustled over across the street, J-walking through the hordes of beeping traffic and ending up on the sidewalk outside the apartments. John pulled open the door and walked into a dingy little receptionist area, poorly lit and rather dusty. Despite its rather unkempt state, however, there were signs that Mrs. Hudson put some pride into her work. There were some nice chairs in the corner with fresh flowers in a vase, there were hand stitched pillows resting on the chairs, and beautiful photographs framed over a small refreshment area with seemingly cold coffee and some bottles of warm water. There was no one behind the counter, however there was a small little bell sitting next to a shelf of tourist brochures. John stepped up to the counter and rang the bell, not knowing what to ask, not knowing if he was even going to get any service. But almost as soon as he rang the bell an old woman hobbled out, walking with some difficulty and clutching her hip. So that was why she had been at the Doctor's office, for her hip pain.
"Hello sir, how can I help you?" she wondered, a friendly smile on her face all the same.
"Hi, I'm looking for one of your tenants; I was wondering which room I could find him in." John said with a friendly smile, putting on his most convincing mask for this old woman, to make him appear trustworthy.
"Who is it you're looking for?" she wondered, sounding a bit suspicious all the same. That was alright, however, John could work around that, she'll discover how nice and kind he was, she'll see.
"Oh um, Sherlock Holmes." John said with a smile. The name rolled off his tongue so easily that it sounded like he had said it a million times; it was as though his lips were made only for pronouncing that beautiful name clearly, as though all he was made to do was say his name until he died. It filled him with such satisfaction just speaking the name and hearing it as it left his mouth, it reassured him that Sherlock really was real, and not simply a figment of his imagination, too good to be true.
"Sherlock? What do you want with Sherlock?" the woman wondered. John noticed that she called him Sherlock and not Mr. Holmes, which suggested that they had some sort of personal connection, not just tenant and land lord. Then again, he had been the one to escort her to the doctor's office, maybe he was her makeshift son or something like that.
"Oh we um, we went to high school together." John said with a small smile. Mrs. Hudson's face softened, and she laughed as though she found that hysterical.
"Oh honey it's quite alright, you don't have to make up some silly lie." Mrs. Hudson assured, waving her withered hand through the hair as though she were swatting away a fly. She seemed to be so amused by John's comment but he had no idea why, how had she known he was lying, why did she think he needed to?
"I'm sorry I...I don't understand?" John muttered, looking around the empty receptionist area to see if anyone else was here witnessing this. The woman just breathed, regaining herself and holding herself steady on the dusty counter.
"Let me guess, you met in some club or something, and you thought that a night of his attention gave you the right to come knocking on his door?" Mrs. Hudson wondered with a raised eyebrow. John was so taken aback that he couldn't even speak; he just stood there gaping for a moment, wondering why on earth this woman would be making these presumptions. In the end she was correct, he really did think he had some sort of right to be here, but obviously they didn't meet in a club, and obviously he hadn't had the honor of spending a night in Sherlock's presence, but was this really some usual occurrence? How many poor heterosexual excuses did this woman get from men just like John, fallen madly in love with a man who left without a trace? However John had to play this smart, he knew that if Mrs. Hudson was expecting him to be some exiled lover then he had to be just the opposite, he really did have to be a friend from high school.
"No I um...I'm sorry I don't know what you're talking about." John muttered, wringing his hands together nervously.
"Now look here Mr., I don't want any excuses, so please just leave poor Sherlock alone." Mrs. Hudson pleaded.
"No, we know each other, please, I know him from way back when, I'm sorry I don't have any sort of written permission slip or anything, but I heard he lived around here and I just wanted to pop in and catch up." John said with a smile, giving Mrs. Hudson the most innocent of looks.
"What high school?" Mrs. Hudson wondered, leaning on the counter with some difficulty; however her pain didn't show in her smiling face. She seemed almost thrilled to have bested yet another pathetic suitor come knocking at her door.
"Um, the um..." John sighed heavily, dropping his shoulders in defeat. "Look I really think I love him, could you at least..."
"No, get out. I'm not allowed to send up any visitors, male ones at least, Sherlock's made that quite obvious." Mrs. Hudson insisted, shooing him away carelessly.
"I beg you ma'am, I mean him no harm or discontent, I just thought that maybe we could have something of a future together." John insisted, not moving despite her efforts to dismiss him.
"Well then you'll have to talk to him yourself, not to me. I'm not going to tell you what room he is, only that he does enjoy a cup of coffee now and again." she said with a little wink, and with that she walked back through the door from which she entered, and that was the last John saw of that woman. He stood there for a moment, in that dirty little lobby, trying to make sense of all this. A cup of coffee, obviously that was the coffee shop across the street! John checked his watch eagerly, it was only two o'clock, he had plenty of time to sit around and wait for Sherlock in the meantime. So John made his way back across the street, sitting in a booth alone and leaning his arms atop his laptop as he scanned the crowd for that beautiful face. But John knew he wouldn't find him, he knew that Sherlock's face wouldn't appear in the midst of all the common folk, purely because he didn't feel his presence. John was sure that if Sherlock was around he would sense it, that beautiful man's presence made an impression upon his heart, like a magnet to a magnificently sculpted metal statue. John would be drawn to him with a magnetic force, even if he didn't see Sherlock he knew he could feel him, so when he felt nothing but slight hunger, John knew that he was alone in this crowded shop. A muffin and a coffee later there was still no sign of Sherlock, in the midst of the crowd nor out on the sidewalk. John had made a note to watch who entered and exited the apartment complex, but so far none had any resemblance to the natural beauty that was Sherlock Holmes. Oh this was almost pathetic, sitting here, watching stranger's faces to try to find a man he had known for approximately thirty seconds! Only one exchange of dialog and a simple flirtatious passing of lung cancer and John was head over heels in love. Was he really this desperate for an escape from his life that he would cling to the first man that showed him any sort of romantic attention? Was he so manipulative that after a brief flirtation he would skip work and sit for hours on end in a coffee shop, waiting for a man who didn't even know his name? If John had been anywhere close to sane he would've got up and left right then, but remember, there was something wrong with him, something that had rooted in his head the moment that ring took permanent residence on his finger. He was a different man now, a man who wasn't exactly normal, not exactly sane. So yes, he would sit here, and he was prepared to sit here as long as it took to try to find the newfound love ofhis life. It took him a while, a very long while, and while John waited for any sign of Sherlock he watched his phone, face down on the table, buzz and beep and vibrate around. He got all sorts of texts and calls from Mary, and it amused him much more to watch the phone go crazy than to actually make an effort to answer. Mary didn't deserve peace of mind, maybe she would feel just a sliver of all the pain and agony that John felt while she waited in the house, calling and texting, expecting the police to show up and tell her that he had died in some freak accident. Maybe for once in her life she wouldn't be living with complete misplaced contentment. John waited until eight o'clock, when finally the coffee shop drained of customers and he was the last one, left sitting in the booth with his phone buzzing around on the table once more. His coffee cup had long since been drained, however he kept sipping at the empty container so they didn't kick him out for sitting around without buying anything. Finally the worker came over and politely asked him to leave, and John nodded, deciding it best not to argue, and slouched all the way back home. His car was still at work and he really didn't want to go get it, he didn't want to walk the extra distance and be forced to look on that office at night, it would just plunge his spirits even deeper. So he wandered home, his laptop dead under his arm, his coat unbuttoned and his forehead clammy with sweat. When he finally stumbled upon his doorstep he was actually happy to be there, not because of the occupants or the house itself, but the rest it was sure to provide him.