White Noise

You're Going To Have To Do Better Than That

John went to work not long after the breakfast dishes had been done, wishing Mary a good day and telling her about the 'doctor dinner' for after work. Since he had convinced her of his feelings she wasn't suspicious at all, in fact she was only too happy to let him go, insisting that he needed some time with the guys once and a while. John didn't know any of the doctors personally, he barely talked to anyone in work save for Mrs. Turner, but he nodded anyway, trying to convince Mary that he had something of a social life. To be fair, he was going to go hang out with a guy, however it was only one guy, a guy who liked guys, and that shouldn't really count, considering John was the guy that guy liked. Confusing, yes, I know. John just threw on his coat, waving goodbye to his accursed family and climbing into his little car, driving down main street and getting flooded with the rest of the early morning commuters, beeping his horn a fair share of times, shaking his fists, and changing radio stations over and over again as the mediocre music turned once more to commercials. Just another morning in the city it would seem. John pulled up to the office with a scowl permanently frosted onto his face, contorting his lips into such an expression of disgust that he was almost positive he couldn't force it off with happy thoughts. The world that had once been so bright and beautiful had turned grey and black again, overrun with the shadow of Mary, with her lips, with her love, it sucked all the life out of the world and left it pixelated and dark, until John could barely see one spec of happiness left. To think of the elated happiness that he had experienced after that night with Sherlock was almost like trying to remember back to an almost impossible dream, scratching around your brain for the memories but coming up empty handed every time. How could he smile when the sun seemed dim, and the usually cheerful crying of the birds turned to nothing but melancholy funeral hymns? John walked himself into the doctor's office, dragging his feet miserably across the tiles as his nose was attacked with the smell of disinfectant and hand sanitizer. Mrs. Turner muttered a little hello but John's greeting got caught in his throat, his misery tangling in his mouth like spider webs, catching even the simplest of phrases. So he just waved and disappeared into his office, lying down on the crinkling paper covering the exam table and closing his eyes for a brief moment. He had gotten almost no sleep last night; from that startling real dream to the...well...let's just put that out of his mind forever. He didn't want Mary's love, he didn't want any of it, and to think that she thought he was hers forever was simply disgusting, it was disgusting because it was supposed to be true! John had voluntarily signed up; he had somehow possessed himself to say vows to that monster, to make her his own burden for the rest of his life, why oh why had he made such a bad decision? Had he not considered the possibility of a beautiful Casanova strolling into his life, wooing with his beauty and his sparse words? With his mysterious silence and his sculpted face, his raven black curls and his long, elegant legs...John forced his eyes open, feeling them starting to shut, feeling sleep threatening to take over. He couldn't fall asleep, he was quite sure that would be viewed as unprofessional, so to wake himself up he ran his head under the sink, the cold water spilling all over his hair and over his face, partially drowning him before he eased his mouth out of the stream, gaping at the air and inhaling little water droplets in his panic. Of course, preying on awkward situations, Mrs. Turner chose now to open the door, and she once again jumped, clutching her heart as if she didn't know what to do about John and his continuously unusual habits.
"Dr. Watson, need I ask what you're doing?" Mrs. Turner wondered. John just smiled, turning off the sink and rubbing his face dry the best he could with a paper towel.
"Keeping myself awake." John admitted. Mrs. Turner went a slight shade of scarlet, and she muttered a little "Oh" before continuing on with whatever she was going to say.
"Your first patient is waiting, here's her file." She said with a little muttered, handing John a clipboard with all of this medical information, the stuff that comes along with a new patient. When Mrs. Turner left she ushered in a young woman accompanied by a very small child. John was assured that he wasn't doing any pediatric work, because that wasn't his area of expertise, and with a quick check up of an ear trouble with the mother he sent them on their way. John saw a few more patients before lunch, some taking longer than others, with all sorts of problems ranging from stomach pains to foot cramps to constant headaches. John was able to diagnose most with a simple solution, however some he sent on to get more intensive care. He never knew what became of his patients that he sent onward, he never knew what they suffered or why, he just shooed them away with a referral and lived his life carelessly. Some people argue that doctors acted inhumane, and John could most certainly agree with that. It was because they had to act without emotions, it was nearly impossible to prescribe someone with an accurate medication or treatment option if you were crying and carrying on about their newly shortened life expectancy. You couldn't save lives if you were too busy crying over how they had the possibility of ending. John sometimes suspected that his sociopathy leaked into his normal day life, sometimes he wondered that if he was actually caring about other humans, if he were more apathetic, then maybe he could try to at least love Mary a little bit, try to assume her perspective of ignorance, of hatefulness. Maybe if he could understand other people's pain he wouldn't be so quick to underestimate it. But he knew of his own pain, he wasn't blind to the own aches that ate him up inside, he could feel the constant pressure in his head, the pain driving on his skull as he was forced into loving a woman he felt nothing for. He felt the aches in his heart, his quivering mass of love that was being chained and bound by a wedding ring he had misplaced. He could feel the pain that still lingered on his skull, left over from that horrible dream; he could feel the voice inside his head and the misery that still lingered behind his brain, remaining him of what Sherlock felt for him, and what he would never feel. John was constantly pained with the obvious truth, that he would never be perfect, and yet no one saw that pain because he hid it with a smile, no one could be apathetic because he simply wouldn't let him. He fought his own battles purely because he thought it necessary, and maybe he felt so alone because he had built up his walls a long time ago.