White Noise

His Heart Doesn't Beat For You

Sherlock's account very much matched his personality, there were all these links to articles about gay rights, a lot of pictures of cute little animals, and a couple about current news and how his prayers are with the fallen. John enjoyed the pictures more, however, he loved to sit on the couch and stare at the pictures of Sherlock until he could remember ever curve and line in his gorgeous body, even curl on his beautiful head, and every gleam in his illuminous skin. John wondered what Sherlock was up to now, if not already moving on to the next man on his love hit list. Probably lounging on his terrace, some sort of fancy alcohol concoction in his hand, his limbs spread wide and his jacket hanging open against the warm wind. Oh he was beautiful, John could just imagine him in his mind right now, possibly with a cigarette in his teeth, his hair rustling and the smoke getting carried away into the city skyline. He seemed so calm, so carefree, moving where he pleased, loving who he wanted, stunning wherever he went and being so reserved, so peaceful. He reminded John of a poisonous berry, one that gleamed so beautifully in the sunlight, one that looks so tempting, so beautiful among the rest of lesser plants. And it was so tempting to just go over and pluck him from the stem but you knew that he had secrets, things that would taint your life forever, that would soak into your blood stream and eventually stop your heart. But it was beautiful, so it was almost worth it, wasn't it? John sighed heavily, closing out of Facebook and browsing one some news sight for a while, his eyes scanning over the bold headlines, reading about the chaos the world was crumbling into. When that got John good and depressed he closed his laptop, nestling down on the couch and staring up at the ceiling once more, that horrible ceiling, with the miserable paint and the shadows sucking the light from the air around it. What might Sherlock do if he were here, right in this moment? Would he comment on the paint, would he even notice it from the different whites that existed in this world? Would he cradle John in his arms, would he pepper him with kisses? Or would he sit here stiffly, making up some excuses and untangling himself from John's limbs, leaving and acting like it was a mystery why John wanted him to stay. Was he really so oblivious? Or was he just so self-aware? Did he know how much John craved for him, or was he literally confused as to why John would want him around? Did he know he was beautiful? He must, of course he did, self-confidence only comes from those who know they stand above themselves, who put the crown on their own heads and flaunt it in the face of the lesser.
"John honey, Rosie's in bed." Mary's voice muttered, drifting over to where John lay and leaning over the back of the couch, right in John's way of the horrible paint. Of course he would take that paint, he would take all the ugly paint colors in the world over having to stare at his wife, and yet she just smiled, and he forced his lips to curl into something he tried to seem like a smile.
"Good for Rosie." John muttered.
"Seems like you're pretty tired as well." Mary commented.
"Well I was up early, a little bit too early I suspect." John admitted. Mary sighed heavily, staring at the wall in front of her and giving John a rather gruesome view of her chin.
"You need to slow down John, I feel like your work has consumed you. I feel like you haven't been leaving enough time for what's important." Mary insisted. Oh don't worry; he was most certainly focusing on what was important. It was Sherlock, and only Sherlock.
"I'm sorry honey, but we need the money, ya? And if I don't do the work then they fire me, and if they fire me where are we then? We haven't paid off the house, Rosie's college fund is still yet to grow, and not to mention food and electricity and water bills. I need to work; you know I need to work." John insisted. Mary sighed heavily, but she knew that there was nothing she could do to protest.
"I wasn't saying quit, I was just recommending you ease up a little bit. I miss you, Rosie misses you." Mary pointed out. John sighed heavily, but he just nodded, not knowing what he could say to that instead of a lie. He couldn't tell Mary that he missed her too, nor could he say that he'll ease up on work because it isn't work, is it? It's Sherlock, and certainly he couldn't ease up on someone as important as Sherlock.
"I know." John muttered, his voice very quiet in his attempt to act somber. In fact, Mary's words didn't faze him at all, nothing that woman could ever say would ever get a genuine emotion out of John. She was the very definition of everything he hated, condensed into one miserable being, the anti-Sherlock, the devil. Mary sighed, patting John's head from over the couch as if that were here only option and drifting back away, stepping over the hardwood floors just as quietly as she had come.