White Noise

Professional And Prompt

The sun was shining down on the city and the windows gleamed with life, the morning dew sparkling along the long grass like glitter scattered about the yard. John drove into the city very early, but there was a method to his madness, as there usually was. He didn't drive towards the doctor's office; he drove to the coffee shop, to the world's most wonderful coffee shop, to try to get a look at the world's most wonderful man. John parked a little ways from the door, just in case Sherlock recognized his car and decided to make coffee in his apartment instead. John didn't know how Sherlock would react to his being here, he didn't know if that second night had any positive impact in their future together, or if it was just another one night fling that would fade away into the back, careless parts of Sherlock's brain. It amazed John that Sherlock could still feel nothing, no feelings at all to the man who had loved him so passionately, was Sherlock just so used to getting what he wants that he didn't stop to bother about what anyone else thought? Was he so selfish that when he was bored with a man he just tossed them to the streets, not bothering with what they thought, or what they felt? John loved him, sure Sherlock had to notice that much, so why was he still so determined on being so cold, so emotionless. John was starting to realize that he knew nothing of this man, nothing except his name, his address, and his smoking habits. Did he have any relatives, any siblings? Was he raised in the city or had he moved here, what does he do for a living, where did he go to college, what did he have a degree in? It seemed to John that Sherlock was a man of little conversation, and what words did come out of his mouth were twisted into riddles and extended metaphors that only he understood. Maybe he didn't flaunt around his past because he didn't want to think about it, maybe something happened to him way back when that he didn't want to think about, maybe he drowned himself in love to try to hide from it. John didn't care what his motives were, really, he didn't necessarily care about Sherlock's past, he cared more about his future. John had to make sure that he made a lasting impression on that beautiful man, he had to do something, anything really, that no man before him had ever attempted. That way Sherlock stayed, that way he kept John around longer than all the rest, longer than even Victor. John walked quietly into the coffee shop, the smell of freshly ground coffee beans pleasantly wafting into the street air around him. People mingled here and there, sipping at coffee or eating tiny little muffins that most likely cost them ten dollars. Some had laptops open; others were reading very bent paperbacks, while some sat alone in the arm chairs, staring carelessly around at the world that was turning so fast. John ordered his medium roast and went to sit at a table, one that sat in the middle of the shop and could see everything and everyone at the same time. If Sherlock came in here, he would know. John sat back in his chair and joined the group of people who just watched, who waited, their eyes fixed on the door, watching for a man who would never arrive. However it didn't take long for the man to arrive, at least John's man, walking into the small little shop with his jacket pulled once more around his chest, his curls in a mess on top of his head, yawning as if he had literally just woken up. John had to be patient, he had to be normal. As much as he wanted to rush towards Sherlock and force conversation like he would've wanted to, he knew that Sherlock had a much more conservative method of doing things, and he wouldn't want such a direct approach. And yet John's heart was beating out of his chest, his breath had left him and every excited sip of coffee he took scalded down his throat because he wanted to give himself something to do other than tap his foot impatiently. Sherlock was here, he was in line, ordering a coffee in that deep, beautiful voice, all John had to do was go up to him! Maybe Sherlock could bring him back to his apartment, it was only seven o'clock, John had roughly an hour before he was actually needed, there were so many things you could do in an hour, so many wonderful things... Sherlock got his coffee and was now making his way over to the booths, his head was down and his usually luminous eyes were dulled in exhaustion, and John was certain that he hadn't spotted him. Sherlock sat down in a booth that was facing John, so he could easily just look up and spot John among the crowd, but whether it was stroke of luck or not, he didn't seem to make the effort. Sherlock just hunched over the table, taking the lid off of his coffee and occasionally blowing on the steam that billowed from the dark liquid. John smiled softly, and yet he felt slightly discouraged, something told him that his presence at that table would be most inopportune, not to mention a little bit unwelcome. Sherlock was looking miserable, more miserable than John had ever seen him, and his aura of power and dominance was missing from the usual glow of his skin. Had something happened that John wasn't aware of, or was he contemplating over what he should do about John? Was he afraid of his feelings or was he wondering how he was going to dismiss him after yet another night together? Something told John that he had to stay away, that maybe this morning wasn't the best morning to approach him and strike up a casual conversation about his childhood. So he just watched him, reclining back on this uncomfortable metal chair, and staring at Sherlock through the crowd moving this way and that. Sherlock didn't move much, occasionally he sipped at the coffee in front of him, and after a while he put the lid back on, finding that it was cool enough to drink without having to blow agressivley on it. He looked very agitated, his fingers were tapping on the wooden table and his mind seemed to be in a different place entirely, it was very odd, but John had never gained access to that man's mind and he certainly wasn't going to now. He couldn't make his position clear; he didn't want to upset Sherlock even more than he probably already has, so he stayed silent, he stayed observant. But Sherlock didn't do anything out of the ordinary, other than simply exist without the usual smile of superiority he wore when he felt dominant to every other person in the room. Eventually he got up and left, draining his coffee of the last bitter drop and throwing it into the trash, leaving with a jingle of the bell and crossing the street, running straight back to his apartment as if there was someone waiting for him when he arrived. John left not long after Sherlock, his heart sunken low at the missed opportunity, and his brain whirring inside of his head to try to figure out just what that might have meant. What was wrong with him, what was going on in that beautiful mind? Had his parents come for a visit, did Victor return, or was he simply just depressed because of something John had done? Was he scared of John's fierce, passionate love, or was he finally debating on whether or not a long term relationship would be a good idea? John drove to work with these questions rattling around in his brain, distracting him to the point where he almost killed himself by missing a stop sign and driving straight through a very crowded intersection. However he made it to work relatively unscathed, pulling up into his usual parking spot and sitting there in the driver's seat for a little while, contemplating just what it is he should do. Would his presence be nothing more than a burden for Sherlock, or did the poor man need someone to talk to, someone to express his problems to and get his inner most emotions into the light? Then again he had the ever faithful Mrs. Hudson on hand if he really needed a mediator, and John suspected that even after the effort he had put into trying to make Sherlock trust him, he would never get the honor of witnessing Sherlock's inner most thoughts and fears.
"Dr. Watson where on earth have you been?" Mrs. Turner exclaimed as John finally walked past her desk. He was aware that he was a couple of hours late, and yet he didn't really care, there were more important things to life than responsibly and promptness.
"Getting coffee." John said with a simple shrug, smiling at her almost challengingly before disappearing into his room. Not long after his door was shut it was open again, but not by a patient, like he had expected, but Mrs. Turner, who wore a frown that made her look more vulture like than ever.
"Dr. Watson I don't know if you know this, but you've been late nearly every day this week." She said in a very stern voice, her ever present clipboard clutched in her wrinkled old hand.
"Except for that one day, when I was extra early!" John said proudly. She didn't look amused, in fact her frown only deepened, as if John's little excuse was making matters worse.
"You've never had this sort of problem; it's not like you to be so unpredictable. I don't want to alert management, but I'm afraid you've gotten into a certain mindset that you're allowed to just show up at any time of the morning! You have to be professional and prompt Dr. Watson, and you've really slacked off this past week." Mrs. Turner insisted. John frowned, sinking into his swivel chair and scooting back a little ways before smiling up at her carelessly.
"I've just had a rough week Mrs. Turner, that's all." He assured her.
"Is everything okay at home?" Mrs. Turner wondered, sounding as if she actually cared. But John wasn't going to be fooled, he knew that Mrs. Turner's curiousness came only from her constant need to know all the gossip on the town, and he knew that if he confided in her anything of his newly developed private life he would suddenly see it plastered along the headlines of the weekly newspapers.
"My life is my life I'm afraid." John said with a shrug. "But it's had its ups and downs; this week alone has been a roller coaster. I'm sorry if I've been late, I'll make sure to keep an eye on time more responsibly from now on." he promised finally. Mrs. Turner frowned at him, still not looking entirely convinced but obviously realizing that she had no choice but to be. What else could she do but put more faith in him, after all they were both grown adults, and while she had a bit more years and experience, she couldn't boss him around like she was his mother.
"It's not that smoking man that's got you all frazzled, is it?" Mrs. Turner wondered curiously, her voice sounding as if she was trying to keep it light, but there mere mention of Sherlock got John nervous, suddenly his hands started fidgeting and his eyes darted to the ground in an attempt to avoid her gaze.
"No, certainly not." John assured very quickly, his voice sounding weak and very unconvincing. And yet she couldn't do anything to stop him, she couldn't pester more than she already had and certainly she wasn't going to try. So she just sighed, shaking her head and telling him that he had roughly ten patients to see today before finally tuning and making her quiet exit. When the door shut behind her John finally sat back in relief, knowing that he had been anything but convincing, but what could she do? She couldn't go blabbing to anyone because she had this theory that Sherlock was somehow affecting John's promptness, she didn't have any proof. So what danger was he in of being exposed? And even so, who cared if it got out, what could Mary do, what could anyone do, that he didn't want? A divorce? Certainly, what a wonderful suggestion! Social disapproval? He had it coming anyway, as long as Sherlock was on his side he was happy. Honestly nothing could be used against him, nothing except Sherlock's absence from his life. The moment Sherlock turned against him was the moment John died, it was the moment when he realized that his life was beyond saving, and this tunnel of misery wasn't just sealed, it was never ending. If Sherlock decided that John's love wasn't enough to sustain his interest then there was no point in staying here, whether here be the city, or his family, or earth in general. His morning crept by in an endless trail of patient after boring patient, all claiming to have some ailment that simply didn't exist. He screened them and checked them and did the usual procedure, somewhere simply suffering from a simple cold while others had an array of diseases, like phenomena and chicken pox. Needless to say, before he started to eat his lunch, he made sure to wash his hands as thoroughly as possible. John stayed in his room during lunch, eating nothing but a granola bar and a bag of veggie chips from the vending machine outside. He opened up his laptop and scrolled once more through Sherlock's Facebook, finding that he hadn't posted anything in a while, or at least since he had been on last. Honestly Sherlock didn't seem like the type who would post religiously on Facebook, or even have a Facebook really. Maybe he only got it to keep in touch with family, or to have somewhere to post his glamor shots, or to show off his beautiful boyfriend Victor. John scrolled miserably through his following list, finding that no one else with the last name Holmes showed up until the very end of the list. It seemed to be a mother, upon clicking on the icon he saw that she was rather old, with white hair and a very knowing face, with a sly smile that leaked through the screen and made him feel rather uncomfortable. She didn't repost many pictures, although he did find a very nice picture of what looked like a family picnic, with a nice table set with lemonade and sandwiches. Sherlock was sitting at the side of the table, looking miserable yet beautiful, leaning on the cloth chair with his arms crossed moodily. A man sat next to him that had to be his brother, with a bit of a more mature look to him and a head of thinning brown hair, wearing a snappy tan suit with a red tie, his scowl second to that of his brothers. A woman sat across from them, looking younger than the lot with long dark hair and a complexion paler than even Sherlock's, not even looking miserable, but looking absent all together. There was a spaced out look to her face, staring at the table yet not really seeing it. Who John could only assume was Sherlock's father was sitting at the head of the table, the only one who was smiling, with a long face very much like that of Sherlock's, with kind eyes and a smile that made his lips seem to disappear, looking almost like a happy turtle. His smile wasn't reflected in any of his children's, and yet Mrs. Holmes had picked this picture to post to all of her friends, as if it had been the most memorable of the whole day. John smiled, finding it funny that Sherlock, as isolated and rebellious as he was, had a family that did normal things like backyard barbeques together. It was odd to think that he normal, a man who had stolen the hearts of half the men in this city, that he had a family who loved him and sent him Christmas cards and followed him on Facebook. Did they know of his past times, of his sexuality? Had they met Victor, or did Sherlock do his best to hide his life as a forever bachelor from them? Maybe one day John could have the pleasure of meeting them, maybe one day when they found themselves in year two of their beautiful, healthy relationship could Sherlock finally take him down to meet his parents and his rather miserable looking siblings.