White Noise

Left With The Darkness

It was midnight when John crept out of the house, finding that his garage was fully intact, and pulling the car as slowly and quietly as he could possibly manage. He drove without the radio through the darkened, empty streets, the headlights penetrating the evil darkness that tried to engulf his vision. It wasn't far to Sherlock's apartment when there was no traffic, and it was only too easy to find a convenient parking spot right underneath the empty terraces. John decided that the fire escape was still the best option, even though the front desk was empty the light was on, and he was sure that land lady was ready to creep out and catch him as soon as the door rattled open. Just like before, the fire escape was low and accessible, so he grabbed hold and heaved himself up the metal stairs, trying to be as discrete as possible. The metal was damp from the slight rain, and his feet kept slipping out from underneath him, however the probability that he would soon be in Sherlock's arms motivated him to keep going, it gave him a sense of immortality, and for a moment he couldn't care less if he plummeted to his death. When John finally got to the topmost catwalk he crept across very quietly, making sure his steps didn't creak on the old metal, making sure that no one would look out his window and call the police. He saw that Sherlock's familiar window was dark, and that was a bit odd, because he seemed like the type to stay up late with a cigarette. John kept walking, and finally he appeared up against the dark glass, wondering why on earth Sherlock would be in bed this late. But he strained his eyes to see, pressing his face up against the glass eagerly, and saw to his astonishment that the bed was empty. In fact, the room was empty! Unless Sherlock was hidden in the numerous piles of dirty laundry, he was nowhere to be seen, and John was struck with a feeling of immense astonishment and betrayal. Well there was only one place Sherlock could be at this time of night if he wasn't in his room, he was out, out at a club or at another man's house, cradled in a stranger's arms while John waited like an abandoned puppy on the fire escape. John could barely describe the feeling of anger that welled up in his chest as he descended the fire escape, the feeling of crushed hopes, of disappointment and rage, all filling up one bubble into his chest until it competed with the bubble of despair. How dare he abandon John like that, how dare he stray towards another partner. They had only been apart for a night! Was Sherlock really that desperate for a new man to charm, to manipulate? Was he really willing to give up everything he had built with John, just for the satisfaction of controlling another man for a single night? Was John really that forgettable, that the moment he disappears for a day Sherlock just wanders off, getting drunk, and getting love? How dare he, they had something, they had everything! John unlocked his car and sat in the front seat, livid with rage, his hands clutching the steering wheel so agressivley he noticed his entire fingers going white with the grip. Did Sherlock see him as someone he could just leave behind? John let his head fall back, but he wouldn't have any tears, no, not today. He would stay strong, Sherlock didn't deserve his tears, he didn't deserve any part of John, that lying, cheating swine! But what to do? The obvious thing to do was to just go home, maybe he could stalk him down in the coffee shop and demand to know the explanation behind his absence. The coffee shop, that was it! Sherlock had been looking upset and very stressed when John had last seen him, bent over his coffee with the absence of his radiant aura. So what was it, who was it? Whoever had been on his mind then was certainly in his arms now, and John was quite sure that there was only one man who would play upon Sherlock's mind with such misery and still end up with the prize of his heart. There had only been one man Sherlock had loved and lost, and it was only too obvious to pick his name out of the air. Victor. John drove home in a sort of drunken rage, the road spinning in front of him and the car swerving carelessly across the double yellow lines. He wasn't crying, he knew that, but his face felt wet, wet with sweat, with matted hair and gnashed teeth. Victor, that snake, that horrible man, how dare he steal Sherlock from John so easily, how dare he just stroll back into Sherlock's life and take him back! John didn't know how that relationship ended, but he knew enough to know that it was overdue. Sherlock could never love such a miserable man such as Victor, someone so self-absorbed, someone so perfect! Victor would never conform, he would never obey, why did Sherlock love someone who wouldn't follow his every demand? John would break his own back if it meant saving Sherlock from the slightest inconvenience, and here comes Victor, probably making Sherlock carry him over puddles and wax his feminine eyebrows. Oh that monster, and the fact that Sherlock would go crawling back! John pulled into his garage but sat there for a long while, feeling his body quiver with rage, staring into the darkness and almost swearing that he saw Victor, that shirtless, muscular rat, staring back at him with a teasing, satisfactory smile. He was mocking him from the shadows, he was winning, oh god help him, Victor was stealing Sherlock's heart right from John's incapable hands! He almost couldn't believe this, he almost thought Sherlock above the same dishonesty that he was imposing on his own wife at this very moment. He had almost expected more from Sherlock, expected him to be everything John could never be all while being everything he wanted to be, careless, drifting, but stable when he needed to be. John wanted to cement him to his floor all while assuring him that he could do whatever he wanted; John wanted total control of his heart. And to think, after all this, that Sherlock would so carelessly wander off again, he would leave John behind for the arms of a much more beautiful l man, it was horribly insulting, not to mention rude! How dare someone treat John like he treated everyone else? John fell out of his car, stumbling into the darkness and clutching onto the white washed wall, breathing heavily, the door wide open behind him. He stumbled inside carelessly, not bothering to be quiet, not bothering to close the doors and ensure his family's safety throughout the night. That treacherous man, that horrible man, John could hardly believe that he would leave him like that! John was so willing, so compliant, why on earth would Sherlock pass up such a timid, submissive man for the hunkiest, most attractive man on earth? No, he wasn't the most attractive man, that was Sherlock, Victor was everything disgusting in this world, shined up and buffed up to make it seem new, but beneath that artificial shine there was still garbage, and Sherlock simply couldn't shield his eyes long enough to notice. Victor Trevor...the name even sounded evil, it sounded villainous, the villain of a fairy tale whose name has long since been forgotten. John let out a moan of agony, falling to his knees on the cold blue tile in the mud room, falling to the floor next to the muddied boots that had sit there since last spring. He stared up at the ceiling, sobs trapped in his ribs as he forced them down purely with gravity, tears leaking out of his eyes in slow, defeated lines. So he had lost all that meant the world to him, and there had been no fight, not even resistance. Sherlock had left him, deserted him, thrown him back into the hole which he had dragged him out of, just because he caught sight of the very man that had broken his very curious heart. John dragged his fingers across the mortar which held the tiles in place, the rough, course particles worming their way under his fingernails and slicing the raw flesh beneath. He could smell that metallic steel, the smell of blood, but he couldn't feel it, and he didn't care. Pain seemed real right now, and for a moment he was debating if he could trust any of his other emotions. Was his heart intact, or was it faulty? Did it fall for just the opposite of what he was looking for, did it travel to those who were guaranteed to break his heart that than mend it? was his common sense off as well, leading him down the path of a man he knew was going to leave him, and yet he was still hit with the emotional force of a tractor trailer, hitting him when he discovered Sherlock's empty apartment, and just now backing over him as he realized what it meant. And his sadness, why was he sad? He had known this was going to happen, almost from day one. Obviously he couldn't have expected anything from an affair where the two don't even know each other's names, obviously he had known that the moment Sherlock was presented with another man he would woo them into his arms for a night. Had John really been so caught up in this man, had he been so obsessed, that every part of his brain was simply clouded with misjudgment and despair? John hit his head agressivley against the tiles underneath him, creating a constant, throbbing pain which issued up from his skull and circled around his head like a halo of torture, like a crown of thorns. The world of shadows spun, the world that slowly engulfed him, devoured him, and digested him through its inky unknowingness. John blinked a couple of times, but the more he blinked the more the world darkened, until finally the light disappeared completely, and he was left starting up into the shadow that had turned into the night, into the whole of existence, and he couldn't see anything, save for the pale glow of the ever familiar skin, standing above him with a sense of importance and regret. John closed his eyes for a moment, and the image of Sherlock flickered in and out of existence, but for a while the shadows morphed once more, and the figure of his love stood securely in the door. The universe used moonlight to construct him, and darkness to sculpt him, his hair made up of the darkened matters of long forgotten stars, the gleam in his eyes made up of brilliant, colorful supernovas. And yet he was exactly the same man, so alike to his flesh counterpart that John couldn't help but wonder if the man he had come to love was really human at all. Did God pity him? Or had the shadows finally taken pity upon his poor, whimpering soul and sent down the only thing that could calm his nerves. John propped up his head with his hand, staring into the corner where the galaxy man stood, quivering and flickering like a formation of matter that couldn't decide if it wanted to exist or not. And yet there was no doubt in John's mind, it was Sherlock, even if the real Sherlock had no use of him.
"Sherlock...?" John breathed, trying to pull himself up, but the shadows moved, holding up their silvery hand, and shushing him with a voice like a soft roll of thunder.
"Lay still my love, lay still." It commanded. John couldn't do anything to disobey, so he let his head back down onto the tile and stared up at the blank ceiling, knowing that Sherlock would be closer to him shortly. And yes, as he had predicted, the image of the man appeared in front of his eyes, floating on the ceiling, lying across the horrible white paint upside down, as if it were just as comfortable as that beautiful red couch on the terrace. He was stretching out his arms and legs, pulling his body to its absolute thinnest and tugging at the material of his fabric, woven with clouds.
"Where is he?" John demanded. The figure just sighed, its breath like wind, playing across John's ear with a brief hum to it, a peaceful hum.
"He has faded into the darkness where even I am not allowed, faded away with another." The galaxy whispered, slowly descending off of the ceiling as if on a slow elevator of air pressure.
"He's betrayed me, forgotten me, abandoned me." John insisted.
"Do you think one as loving as he could be as disgraceful as you accuse him of being?" the shadow whispered. John winced, shutting his eyes once more, yet he could still see him, hovering closer and closer, his face levitating not inches from John's as his breeze of a body descended.
"If he's loving, it has never been to me." John insisted in a broken voice.
"And yet we have never left you, we have never decided that you were inferior to any other creation of flesh and bone. Loyalty, my John Watson, is by far the most telling quality a being can possess. Loyalty in the form of love proves beyond a doubt that you are truly meant to be." The shadow whispered.
"And yet he betrays me, in the form of love to another, undeserving man. And he leaves me here to suffer, to agonize over the crushing loneliness, left with only a shadow of the man I used to love." John whispered. He couldn't tell if the figure had landed or not, he felt no pressure, no presence, and yet the voice was closer than ever, and when he opened his eyes he saw nothing but that silvery neck of moonlight hovering next to his lips. When John felt out in front of him he could feel a man, but no other physical presence was detectable. Only when John sought for the feeling of flesh was he rewarded, and everywhere he touched felt as if it was truly there, and not just a figment of the shadows weaving into his distorted, throbbing skull.
"A shadow is better than nothing." Whispered the darkness to him, and John willed himself to feel his lips, he allowed himself to feel those poor excuses for the real thing. For the darkness could never really mimic the softness of Sherlock's lips, they could never imitate the love and the emotion flowing from the swift curve of Cupid's bow. And yet John could feel them upon his neck, right next to his ear and on the edge of his hairline, kissing him just as Sherlock used to in a poor attempt to rekindle the flame without a spark.
"Who are you..." John whispered, pulling on the soft, woven curls and pressing the silvery skin onto his skin, pressing the darkness's face into his neck so that he could never fade away.
"Sherlock Holmes." The shadowy figure whispered into his skin.
"No you're not." John insisted painfully.
"I am tonight." The darkness whispered. John tried to prevent himself from remembering that the real Sherlock Holmes was away with another man, a man he obviously thought more important, more romantic than little old John Watson. But it was impossible to deny, and it was impossible forget how He had grown bored so quickly, and yet here John was as well, cheating on Sherlock with the very darkness that reminded him of his failures. Unfaithfulness rested inside each other of them, praying on their weakness and their desire to fling themselves back to when a simple kiss could ignite so much passion. They were clinging desperately to that method of love young, forbidden, cast aside, and now they were looking far past each other, and far past any loyalties they might have pledged. So Sherlock had forgotten him, that was expected, what could John do about it? If Sherlock was so determined to leave him in the darkness, John might as well fall in love with the only thing that would never abandon him.