White Noise

Someone Other Than The Love Of His Life

The night that followed was a sleepless night, spent curled in bed with Mary wrapping her tendril like arms around his chest. It was the first night in a while that he was actually able to lay and stare into the darkness, stare and think about what he was doing right and what he was doing wrong. Morally he knew that everything he was doing was wrong, but selfishly he was doing everything perfectly. It was a terrible trade off, but for now it was working. John was sure that over time Sherlock would lose interest, as he seemed to do with all his men, and so like it or not, John's passionate affair would come to an end, and he would be left crawling back to Mary without her ever knowing where he had been. That was until another man came along, man or woman really, who treated him with the same rude dominance that Sherlock had shown, and maybe John would be swept away once more. However it seemed virtually impossible for any other human being to be as romantic and seductive as Sherlock managed to be, just his very presence was enough for John to be willing to leave everything he knew and supposedly loved behind him. When the sun rose John discovered that he had gotten no sleep, other than constantly weaving in and out of alertness, he had not really closed his eyes at all. He knew that he was being a little bit unreasonable, but the lack of Sherlock in his life was really starting to weigh on him, the shadows of his house were creeping farther and farther, they were getting darker, denser, and soon they would swallow him whole. John ate his oatmeal with a small silver spoon, glaring into it for a long while before taking his first bite. Everyone else was asleep, and they had every right to be of course, since it was only five o'clock. The world was still sleeping, the sun was just starting to wake, and John was sitting here, staring miserably into his oatmeal. So he sat back and played his favorite game, what would Sherlock do if he were here? Well, to be honest, he seemed like the type to stay in bed until ten or eleven in the morning, so if he were up this early he would probably be miserable and crabby. But, for the sake of the game, he'll just be Sherlock, regular old beautiful Sherlock. He would saunter in to the kitchen with his hair in a mess, tangled and knotted from being smashed into the pillow all night, and he would walk in yawning, stretching his arms up to his head to rub his eyes with a bare, beautiful chest. And he would walk slowly over the linoleum; look through the cabinets for a while before settling with a simple cup of coffee. And he would stand there in silence, leaning against the counter, sipping at his bitter beverage and watching as John ate his oatmeal. And they wouldn't talk, they would just watch each other with tired eyes, and then Sherlock would set down his coffee and walk over behind John, wrap his bare arms around John's neck and chest, and press sleepy kisses into his hair while he talked about today's schedule. And he would be silent, and elegant, and beautiful in his own distant way, drifting this way and that on every little whim, and the house would be illuminated with pure, beautiful light and the shadows wouldn't dare touch him, even in the darkness hour of the night.
"Daddy?" asked a voice from the doorway. John blinked, looking over to see not Sherlock, but Rosie, standing next to the door and looking up at him expectantly, as if he owed her something.
"Rosie honey what are you doing up?" John wondered with a forced laugh, as if his child's appearance was adorable, not inopportune. How was he supposed to fantasize about his boyfriend when his five year old daughter was bugging him at this hour of the morning?
"I don't know." She admitted with a small shrug, her pigtails dangling off her head and her pony pajamas looking very matted and old.
"Do you want to go back to bed?" John wondered hopefully, wanting to shake her off as politely as possible.
"No." she said simply, shaking her head in a silent protest sort of way. John sighed heavily, suspecting that in her own annoying way, Rosie was trying to spend time with him. So what could he do? Just get rid of her, ignore her and lead her down a life of seclusion?
"Alright, come here." John decided finally, shrugging and holding open his arms once more. He was really going to have to have a lot of Sherlock time to make up for this constant family embracing rubbish. Rosie happily jumped into his arms, jumping onto his lap and crushing him very uncomfortably.
"What are you eating?" she wondered with a squeak, twisting without warning and stepping all over John's stomach. He winced, but forced a smile.
"It's oatmeal, want some?" he wondered. Rosie looked at it very suspiciously, as if she expected it to crawl out of John's bowl and devour her instead.
"No, that looks yucky." She decided finally. John just laughed; at least she had some common sense at this age.
"It is yucky, but when you get to be my age, it's one of the only breakfast options." He said with a regretful sigh.
"Why can't you eat Fruit Loops?" Rosie wondered, looking upon her father as if he had just confessed to her a great tragedy.
"Well, adults just don't eat that stuff. I don't know why, but they don't." he admitted with a sigh. He had never really asked himself why adults aren't allowed to enjoy nice things from their childhood, like sugary cereals or pointless video games. It was like an unspoken rule really, all fun was exhausted as soon as you get to college, then it was academics, drinking, and love with rebellious partners. It was a bit of a shameful life, wasn't it?
"That's stupid." she decided flatly, as if her own opinion would change anything.
"Yes it is Rosie, yes it is." John agreed with a sigh, staring at his oatmeal. Yes it was. John made sure to be prompt at work again, and even though he didn't quite beat Mrs. Turner to the door, he was very close. Other than her, he was the first one there, and he made sure to swing by her desk and flaunt his presence around very proudly, asking her for more Q-tips or thermometer caps, just to make sure she noticed him. Mrs. Turner never smiled, but she wasn't exactly scowling to her fullest extent, so John took that as a win. So he swiveled around in his chair a bit more, not feeling overly excited about the day to come, because he couldn't see how on earth he could manage a visit to Sherlock tonight. Just when he had made peace with his family, he should wait another day, shouldn't he? Certainly Sherlock wouldn't mind, he would find some man to take John's place for now, and he could go see him again tomorrow. That would make two days without seeing him, however, and that sounded like quite a chore to be honest. John's misery might catch him by then. If only he had a cell phone, something to contact Sherlock on to let him know when he was planning on arriving, just so he didn't catch Sherlock in an awkward time. John clenched his fists, rolling a bit agressivley away from the door as he thought about how unfaithful Sherlock most definitely was. He didn't seem like the type of guy to sleep lonely for a night, and certainly he wouldn't wait two whole days for his latest romance to show up at his door. He probably wasn't even thinking about John, probably passed out in his apartment with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a man lying on his chest. Because that was just the type of man he was. John was sure that if he was ever lucky enough to make Sherlock his husband that he would be shown the same sort of disrespect he was showing Mary right now. Sherlock would go out at night, get with some stranger, and then crawl back home, half drunk, half insane, rambling on and trying to keep it a secret. Of course that would make John feel awful, probably the same way Mary felt right now, that sort of hopelessness you get when you realize that everything you do and more will never be enough. But what could he do? He wanted to keep Sherlock in his possession for the rest of his life, he wanted to be with him, to love him, for as long as he could possibly live, a maybe longer than that still. But how? How will Sherlock ever love him so long if he wasn't even able to love him for more than a night? John sighed heavily, letting his head swing back in defeat while he pedaled himself around the office, the wheels on his swivel chair squeaking violently underneath him as he went to and fro on the tiles. His day crept ever so slowly by, and with every door that open and shut he wished beyond wishes that Sherlock would saunter in, tease him a little bit, kiss him a little bit, and then disappear in the same confident manner that he had arrived in. But that wouldn't happen, and the more hopeful John got the more upset he got when someone other than the love of his life walked through that miserable white door.