White Noise

Sitting Across From An Angel

    When Sherlock finally stepped up to the counter John decided that he didn't have time to make up an elaborate plan, he made note of the time, around seven thirty, for future reference, and decided that the best approach was probably the normal approach. He only needed to know which room Sherlock was in, or more preferably so good of terms that he was invited back after work. He quickly wormed his wedding ring off his finger, running his thumb carefully over the indent it had left in his flesh. It had been so long since he had been free of its bonds; he had almost forgotten what it felt like to not have that horrible piece of jewelry weighing down on him every waking hour. Sherlock got his coffee and retreated to the other end of the shop, far from John's line of vision. But he didn't leave, John's heart was still pulling on him, so he knew that Sherlock was still in very close proximity. John strategically got up, pretending to need to go throw out his cup in the farthest trash can possible, dispute its being half full. He walked by, glancing over once at Sherlock and going numb all over. How could he do this, approach the man after all of this paranoia? How could he start a conversation and sound right for the part, how could he make himself attractive when the mere sight of this beautiful man caused him paralysis? Was he going to stand there like a stupid gaping fish, or was he somehow going to woo Sherlock into being his boyfriend once and for all? John approached the trash can, lingering there for a moment before finally throwing his coffee into the bin and marching determinedly over to where Sherlock sat. Before he had any hesitation, before he could even mentally yell at himself or even reconsider, John flung himself into the seat opposite of Sherlock, crossing his hands and staring determinedly into his eyes. They were beautiful, but judgmental, John had never seen such confusion in those beautiful eyes, and he was a little bit discouraged.
"I'm sorry, wrong booth." Sherlock muttered, sitting back against the seat as if he was afraid John would attack him or poison his coffee. That voice was like ocean waves rippling through the air, the baritone sank deep into John's soul and for a moment he wanted to nothing but appreciate Sherlock's presence. But that came later, with every second of silence Sherlock got more and more confused, and he was bound to leave if John didn't say anything. Anything! Just say anything!
"You don't remember me?" John wondered. Sherlock blinked, but his eyes remained confused, as if John's encounter hadn't made as lasting of an impression.
"No I'm sorry, the number of times I've heard that question..." Sherlock muttered, taking another sip of his coffee and raising his eyebrow in annoyance, as if wondering what John was still doing here.
"I'm the doctor, from the office the other day, the one who caught you smoking." John said quickly, his heart beating so fast he was sure it would explode sooner or later. That would only make a bad impression, and a mess, so he tried to will it to calm down, he needed to come across as normal, not the type who had exploding internal organs.
"Oh yes, the doctor..." Sherlock muttered, his eyes flashing with bored recognition, as though he really didn't care that they were meeting again. "And why do you think yourself worthy to sit across from me?"
"Well, I mean, I just kind of wanted to say hello." John said very quickly, his voice locking up in embarrassment as he realized that he didn't have any sort of excuse at all. Nothing he could use to make him seem any less like a stalker.
"How did you happen across me here?" Sherlock wondered.
"Stopped in for a coffee." John said simply. Sherlock sighed heavily, sipping at his coffee and leaning his head back against the seat. He was so beautiful, his lips were parted slightly, his neck exposed, his thin arms stretched out on the table in front of him, it was almost a wonder that he was actually moving, and this wasn't simply another picture John had found online. This was real; Sherlock was actually in front of him! And John couldn't think of anything to say, anything at all.
"A likely excuse." Sherlock said with a small smile, finally starting to catch on to John's true intentions. His sudden change from iciness to flirtation left John rather speechless, rigid with uncertainty as he tried to process how far he had actually come. This was his time, his moment!
"Well I um, you know, in the doctor's office...where you um...flirting? With me?" John asked quickly, his face growing so red that he was sure Sherlock noticed. He had to have noticed, because his smile widened, and suddenly Sherlock leaned forward, his face looming so close that John could make out every little line in his beautiful face as his lips curled into a smile. All John wanted in life was so lean forward as well, but that might be a bit too...direct.
"Have you thought about it since then? Have you turned it over in your head, replayed it, turned it into something it wasn't, have you thought about me since the moment my fingers brushed up against your cheek?" Sherlock whispered, his eyes flashing in romance and leaving John completely flustered, sitting against the booth and gaping at the man before him.
"So you were...?" John wondered with numb lips. Sherlock just laughed, leaning back in his seat again and winking at John with a beautiful eye.
"No." he muttered carelessly. John didn't know how to take that, as a joke or not, so he just forced a laugh, gazing on Sherlock with such intensity he had to force himself to blink.
"Wait I'm sorry, I'm kind of confused." He admitted, blinking profusely to try to insist on Sherlock's truthfulness. He had been flirting, John wasn't delusional, Sherlock had been flirting like mad in that doctor's office, and he was flirting now! So why was he insisting that he wasn't, was it another very odd way of flirting? Or did he have no interest?
"Mrs. Hudson said that someone had come by yesterday, asking for me. She said, well, you were an interesting character." Sherlock admitted with a teasing little smile. He merely raised up one corner of his lips, the other one remaining dormant and expressionless, but his eyes gleamed with power, with authority. John was left almost helpless, his throat closing up as he tried not to notice Sherlock's newfound aura of dominance.
"An interesting character?" John gulped.
"Well, not exactly the words she used, but I'm being polite." Sherlock said with a careless shrug, tapping his fingers against the paper coffee cup in front of him and looking up at John curiously.
"So it was you?" Sherlock clarified, finding that John wasn't in any state to talk.
"Yes it was me, I um, I had just wanted to stop in, see if maybe, well...I don't know what I wanted. To be honest I didn't even think I'd find you again, you seemed too good to be true." John admitted heavily. Who cared about his normal impression, who cared about his reputation? Sherlock knew what was going on, he knew that John didn't just want to say hi, he wanted so much more than a simple conversation and Sherlock would have to be blind not to see it! Not only blind, he'd have to be dead! John didn't want a conversation he wanted him, he wanted his body and his soul all in the palm of his hand, so why was he kidding himself? Why was he skirting around the truth when it was just staring them both in the face?
"I'm too good to be true? Yes, I've heard that before. Some men do better though." Sherlock admitted with a careless shrug, as if he was already categorizing John into the mix of his past lovers.
"Do you want me to do better?" John wondered in a small, nervous little voice.
"It wouldn't hurt your chances." Sherlock agreed, sounding bored as he looked past John and at the people walking around the shop. He seemed as though he couldn't care less about what John had to say, obviously he wasn't as enchanted with John as John was with him. Obviously John wasn't meeting his standards.
"I think you to be an angel." John started, his eyes unblinking and his face stern. "You're the most beautiful being on this earth, and at first I didn't think you were even human. I've been trying to find you but thought that maybe you had returned to Heaven, and now that I actually found you, and know that you're nothing but a mortal man, well...it discourages me even more. Angels look upon humans with pity, but humans look on each other with pride. Men above the rest usually don't sympathize with those below them, so I hope that you'll make an exception for me." John looked at Sherlock very pressingly, waiting for his response, waiting for him to open those beautiful lips and utter a single word, just one to ease his nervous, racing mind. Finally Sherlock sat up once more, leaving his coffee on the table next to him and staring John right in the eyes.
"That's where you're wrong, doctor." He muttered, grabbing a pen from his pocket and a napkin from the dispenser on the table. He busied himself writing something down, and left John wondering what on earth he couldn't said wrong. He thought that little speech was beautiful, very fitting for the man it was addressing. Sherlock slid the napkin over to John, who saw a couple of numbers scrawled in blue ink, but he kept his eyes fixed in the galaxies across from him.
"I'm wrong? How?" John whispered, his voice very low because he knew at this proximity Sherlock would hear every breath he had to utter.
"I really am an angel." Sherlock said with a wink, and with that he got to his feet, grabbed his coffee, and walked out the door. John heard the little ring of the bell and finally felt that heart strain disintegrate, and he knew that Sherlock had finally left. So he sat in the seat alone, completely stunned at his luck and rather motionless as he tried to process all that had happened. His second official conversation with Sherlock, his second official meeting with his new life and love. John sat there for a stunned moment, finally picking up the napkins and squinting to try to read it. There were three numbers, not enough for a phone number of course, but enough for a room number. Two hundred and twenty one, wrote in big loopy handwriting on the rough napkin, the most beautiful three numbers John had ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes on. It wasn't just information it was an invitation, John knew his room number and that meant he was allowed to enter at his own free will, he was allowed to go knocking and to be greeted. No more stalking at the coffee shop, he could get Sherlock whenever he wanted, all he had to do was go to room two twenty one and he would find the love of his life waiting. John sighed in satisfaction, stuffing the napkin in his pocket and glancing at his watch carelessly. He wasn't so careless after that, after seeing the numbers displayed on the screen he found that he was nearly twenty minutes late for work, not to mention he was on the other side of the city! John grabbed his laptop, making sure the napkin was safely tucked into his pocket before dashing out the door, running through the streets and avoiding pedestrians and sprinting across busy intersections. Horns beeped and people complained, but he had more pressing matters to attend to now that he had introduced himself to his future husband. John rushed into the hospital not ten minutes later, clutching his laptop case to his chest while at the same time clutching a stich in his side. He leaned up against a poster that highlighted the main problems smoking has on the human body, heaving in breath and smiling to himself. He had done it, oh he had done he got Sherlock Holmes! It wouldn't be long now, no now that he knew where to find him and now that they knew of each other's existence he was sure that things would start to escalate very quickly. Soon he would have Sherlock Holmes on his arm, and they could go to the beach together and take sunset pictures and kiss in the surf and appreciate each other's complexions while lying in the hot sand.
"Dr. Watson, there you are!" Mrs. Turner cried, waddling over from her desk to see what the matter was.
"Yes, I'm sorry, I had to run to work, I left my car here yesterday." John admitted in a huff, smiling at her with all the happiness that was bursting inside of him and walking over to his office.
"You were sick yesterday, how on earth did you walk home?" Mrs. Turner wondered.
"There are such things as busses." John pointed out sarcastically, as if the old woman didn't know of this new and exciting invention.
"Then why didn't you take one instead of running back?" Mrs. Turner wondered, acting like this was some sort of interrogation. John sighed heavily, shaking his head and leaning on the door frame of his office, not in the mood for Mrs. Hudson's constant questions to taint his excitement.
"I didn't have time for that Mrs. Turner, now if you'll excuse me, I'm sure I have a patient." John insisted.
"You don't, we don't open for another half hour!" Mrs. Turner exclaimed.
"Well then don't bother me until then, I've got paper work to do!" John yelled back, and then, without letting her respond to his absurd lie, he closed the door, scampering over to his swivel chair and spinning himself around in a dull daze for a while. Of course he had paperwork to do, mountains upon mountains to complete, but instead he pushed himself around the tile floor on his spinny chair, kicking himself off the walls and laughing to himself as the room rushed around him in a whirl of white and colors. That was a good way to waste thirty minutes, so by the time his first patient arrived John was feeling very dizzy and somewhat nauseous. However nothing cleared his head like the boring story of some common ailment, so after a couple of patients John was as level headed and miserable as he had been when he first woke up. His head may have been in the right place, but his imagination had wandered off long ago, trying to picture what Sherlock's apartment might look like, trying to imagine himself there, in the midst of it, with the long, slender arms of Sherlock Holmes wrapped tightly around him. Oh it was going to be wonderful, what a beautiful day it had become! But when, when should John accept his invitation? Certainly not tonight, he would seem too pushy, but if he waited until tomorrow Sherlock might suspect that he forgot about him, and he might move onto another lover without pausing to reconsider. Sherlock didn't even know his name much less how to get in touch with him, if John didn't make a move fast Sherlock would drift off and leave him behind, and surely he couldn't let that happen! So he should go tonight, when the moon hung low in the sky and his wife was fast asleep.
"So what do you think doctor, is it encephalitis?" the patient asked in a terrified voice, clutching tissues to her eyes in horror. John blinked, finally coming to his senses and forcing a calming smile onto his face.
"I'm sorry Mrs....Could you please repeat your most identifiable symptoms?" John repeated, clearing his throat apologetically and smiling reassuringly. In the end John diagnosed her with headache medication and sent her on her way, seeing another five patients before finally he took his lunch break. John hadn't bothered to pack a lunch, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to go out, so he bought a couple of granola bars and an apple from the vending machine, sitting alone in the staff room and reading a medical magazine without paying much attention. But he wasn't sad, he wasn't bored, he wasn't depressed, those stupid pictures of intestines and this miserable grainy granola bar were probably the best things that could ever have happened to him, he was on cloud nine right now, everything felt right, everything felt wonderful. John had his plan all worked out, by the time he left his office he had his laptop under his arm, that napkin in his pocket, and his car keys dangling by his fingers. He said a cheery goodbye to Mrs. Turner, who looked very confused to see him show any ounce of friendliness, and made his way out to his car. John sang along to the radio, every single song that came on he either sang right through or made an effort to do so, so most of it was improvising and playing air guitar instead of yelling at other drivers in the congested line of traffic. He got home a little bit later, smiling even when he saw that his family had eaten without him, leaving him some left over chicken, broccoli, and what looked like Rice-A-Roni sitting on the counter in sad looking plastic containers. But John smiled; he smiled in his own house, in his own palace of misery! Because he didn't belong here anymore, he wasn't confined to these walls any longer, he now lived at two hundred and twenty one, and no one except he and Sherlock knew the truth. And no one was ever going to know.