White Noise

Only Playing Hard To Get

    John woke in a daze, a darkened, freezing daze. He didn't know where he was, he was staring into the shadows of an unfamiliar ceiling, with the beautiful arms of an unfamiliar man wrapped around his chest. He wasn't covered in a blanket, nor did his head lay on a pillow, he was stretched out on a cold, rough carpet, and every time he moved he could feel the dirt and stones scratch against his bare skin. John winced, blinking a couple of times and then remembering just where he was and what he had done. This wasn't just a strange room, it was Sherlock's room, it was Sherlock's ceiling, his carpet, his arms. John breathed deeply, sinking farther into the arms of the man who was asleep beside him, feeling the warm breaths dance across his back as Sherlock exhaled softly. It couldn't be very early because he didn't see light peaking from behind the curtains, but he knew that it was past midnight. He hadn't glanced at the clock when they fell asleep, in fact he didn't even know they did fall asleep, but it had to be much later than midnight, when he had first crawled through the window. He felt a new level of freedom; he felt a new level of sanity. Suddenly he wasn't alone in the world anymore; suddenly he wasn't fighting his battles with an army of one. Sherlock was beside him and he was part of him now, part of his soul. John couldn't even believe his own luck, without ever making proper conversation he had Sherlock Holmes laying behind him, he had loved that beautiful man, he had run away from his own misery and sprang into the beautiful arms of his savior, and now he never intended to look back. That wedding ring was gone from his finger, and he had no intention of ever slipping it back on again. John decided that he couldn't lie here forever, and if he wanted to play some sort of game of hard to get he shouldn't be here when Sherlock woke up. Sherlock had been difficult before, not giving John his number, not giving him any clear answers or directions, maybe it was John's turn to fight back. Maybe it was his responsibility to play his own little games with the angel. So he quietly slipped from Sherlock's grip, easing himself to his feet and stretching out in the darkness. Sherlock lay on the ground still, his body engulfed in the moonlight that was trapped in the room, illuminating his skin in a pale glow. He lay there wrapped like a fetus in the womb, his dark curls falling all over his forehead, his mouth hanging open and his lips glistening, it was like some sort of sick Renaissance painting. John could've stared at him all day, that beautiful man, but upon glancing at the clock he saw that it was five o'clock in the morning, he really must be going if Sherlock's natural alarm clock woke him at six. So John walked over to the dresser, pulling open the second drawer and finding it filled with many button down shirts, all folded nicely and ready to wear. John smiled rather cunningly, grabbing a very feminine purple shirt from the top of one of the piles and pulling it over his bare shoulders, buttoning it up until the last button, which he left open for breathability. He left the drawer open, just so Sherlock knew to blame the missing shirt on John and not a mix up in the laundry room. John then pulled on the rest of his scattered clothing, lacing up his shoes and brushing his hair with one of the many brushes he found scattered about Sherlock's messy bathroom counter. Feeling fresh and ready to go, John opened the door from the outside and stole into the hallway, taking one last look at Sherlock's sleeping form on the carpet with a soft, satisfied smile. He had succeeded; he had actually broken away from Mary with barely any resistance. He was a new man now, he was a free man, free to love who he wanted and free to do what he wanted. Who cared about wedding vows and fatherly responsibilities? John would leave those all behind; he was only too ready to leave those all behind, as long as Sherlock remained in his life forever. Sherlock was the only man who mattered. John went to a bakery for breakfast, far out of the path of Sherlock Holmes, feeling very confident as he made his way through the morning crowd in this lovely new shirt. It was a little bit long, with the sleeves hanging far past his hands and the end having to be tucked in to make sure it didn't look like a dress. Other than that, however, he find it kind of constructing, obviously despite Sherlock's long limbs and torso he was very thin, and along with that he liked to wear tight clothing, just to make the other men swoon when he stretched out his arms. So John was finding it rather hard to breath, let alone lift his arms up to hail a cab. He ordered a nice cream filled Danish along with a coffee, sitting at a table outside in the early morning sun, watching as the first of the pedestrians started to stumble along the cement sidewalks in a sort of sleepy daze. Shop keepers came to sweep the sidewalk; large machines came to sweet the streets of yesterday's dust and garbage, and the large marquee lights were starting to get outshined by the sunlight peeking above the buildings. The city was beautiful in its own disgusting way; it was beautiful when it was empty, when it was silent, or when it was just on the brink of stirring. John very much enjoyed the silence that came with the morning, but he hated everything else in all other hours of the day. People flooding the sidewalks, cars honking and screaming, hot dog carts filling the air with tainted meat stench and homeless people shuffling along, chasing the more fortunate while wrapped in large blankets and whatever coats they could recover from the trash. When John was with Mary the world always looked so dark, even in the precious cradle of the morning he still felt...cold. Empty, like the streets in front of him. But now, with even the ghost of Sherlock's lips on his own, he felt like he could see beauty in everything around him, he felt energetic, rejuvenated, alive. One man's kiss was another man's life source, and now more than ever John felt like he was living purely off the energy radiated from the night previous. He felt as if he could do anything now that he had succeeded into pulling Sherlock into his arms, he was the champion of the human race for winning over that fallen angel, Heaven's most beautiful creation...When John was finished with his makeshift breakfast he got back into his car and drove to work, the doctor's office looking very dark and empty as he approached. Then again, he forgot it wasn't even six o'clock, he was due to work at seven, at right now it seemed like even Mrs. Turner, who he was convinced lived behind that desk, was still at home. So John parked the car in his usual parking spot, turned on the radio, and reclined his seat all the way back, listening to some sort of classical music station and watching the sun rise through the sun roof. It was a beautiful experience, with every beat of the music a new ray appeared, dazzling over the windows of the office, illuminating the barren plaster walls, birds flying overhead in the cloudless blue sky. He heard their song even through his own music, he heard them tweet with joy at seeing the sun, at seeing a brand new day, and yet he had no idea what they sang for. Why were birds always so cheerful, so loud? Always chirping, always talking to each other, singing for their newly woken chicks and their newly washed feathers. John one day hoped to be as happy as a bird, to greet every day not with misery drowned in coffee, but in song, in celebration. The sun was coming up once more; shouldn't he be happy about that? Yes, the answer was yes. He was very happy about that, at least after letting Mary wake up alone. John's little utopia was interrupted by the screeching of tires, and he sat back up in his seat to see Mrs. Turner pull up her in her little old red car, the perfect car for a woman of her age. She got up and looked casually over to the unknown car next to her, and the little scream she made was definitely worth sitting here for an hour waiting for her arrival. John turned off his car for good, laughing to himself and clambering out onto the asphalt; all while being observed by a very shocked Mrs. Turner.
"Dr. Watson what on earth are you doing here so early?" she stuttered, looking almost threatened by his presence at this time of morning.
"My schedule fluctuates, this morning I found myself up and ready to go at around five, had nothing else to do, so I decided to watch the morning arrive." John said with a charming smile.
"Is that a new shirt?" Mrs. Turner wondered after a moment's silence, looking down at Sherlock's shirt curiously.
"Well um, no actually, kind of old." John admitted with a smile, looking down at the silky purple fabric with a proud smile. He felt rather romantic, stealing shirts; it was the equivalent of holding hands in a public place, a sign of a relationship, except no one noticed except your partner. It was very romantic if you were doing it right.
"It's too tight on you, it shows too much." She insisted, gesturing around his chest area with a disgusted look in her eyes. John frowned, crossing his arms modestly.
"Well I thought I'd just try it out for today, Mary's making me clean out my closet and if I want to keep it I have to prove to her that I'll wear it more often." John defended.
"Good wife that is, good wife. Just trash it." Mrs. Turner recommended, leading John away from the parking lot and unlocking the main doors. They walked inside the dark building, the automatic lights turning on as they walked deeper and deeper down the hallway. John said goodbye to Mrs. Turner and disappeared into his room, unlocking the door and turning on the lights to find it exactly as quiet as he had left it. John spent the rest of his time spinning around on his spinny chair, this time resorting to the empty hallway to really get some good speed. But as the offices started to wake up he decided that it was best not to be caught pushing himself along the walls on his chair, so he scooted back into his room before any of the more sophisticated doctors could find him. So he treated himself to a very sugary green lollipop, one out of the jar that they were given for children who got shots and didn't cry. He thought it was kind of counterproductive, they were a doctor's office enforcing healthy choice and eating habits and yet they were stuffing candy down children's throats every chance they got. Shouldn't they be giving out apples, or broccoli? Nevertheless it was a good little treat, and as a doctor John was very much indifferent to the kinds of foods he put into his body. Occasionally the offices will drag the doctors out to some sort of healthy lifestyle seminar where they talked about how eating vegetables can solve all your problems, and for the week after John would blow his bank account by buying all natural organic kale and carrots and strawberries and make these amazing meals to try to eat better. And then the next week he would discover that not only was he broke, but he was also very disgusted by eating more green stuff, and he'd slink back into the shadows with microwavable macaroni and cheese and just nod along when his fellow doctors had discussions about avocados and some weird thing called couscous. John's first patient was a high school boy getting dragged along by his mother. It was a very uncomfortable visit of course, most high school boys weren't all too eager to discuss their sexual habits while their mother sat in the chair next to them. So of course that was horrible, but a couple of patients later John was met with a very lovely surprise, and by lovely, of course, I mean the most beautiful surprise earth could've thrown at him. There was a knock on his door, a very timid knock, and John opened it up curiously. Usually patients walk right in like they owned the place, so it was very odd for one of them to knock. John pulled open the door and saw Mrs. Turner standing rather awkwardly outside, looking over at the waiting room area as if she knew she was being watched.
"You have a visitor I believe, he's been sitting over in the waiting room for a while now...smoking."  She added in a hush voice. John couldn't help but smile, ducking his head a little bit so that she couldn't see, but nodding anyway.
"Yes, a new patient of mine, send him in." John agreed in a small, excited voice.
"I think he's been here before, was he the one you were asking about the other day?" Mrs. Turner wondered, cocking her head at an inquisitive angle.
"No I don't think so." John assured with a smile. Mrs. Turner smiled, but she nodded all the same and went off to let Sherlock in. John sat on his swivel chair in wait, his small feet propelling him to and fro over the tiles while he waited for Sherlock's grand entrance. It wasn't as grand as he had expected, really, just Sherlock walk in and easing the door shut behind him, blowing out a puff of smoke from his lips and holding his smoldering cigarette between his teeth. He was wearing a very disheveled sort of look, with his curls in a mess on top of his head, his long black trench coat pulled tightly over his chest and hanging down over his dusty trousers. They sat in silence for a while, Sherlock smoking carelessly and John easing himself around on the tips of his toes, the only sound was the wheels as they squeaked and rolled.