White Noise

No Is Not Accepted As An Answer

John dragged himself to the apartment complex, leaning momentarily with his face pressed against the glass window before pulling it open and stumbling into the poorly carpeted reception area. He was very thankful that Mrs. Hudson wasn't manning the counter, although he was sure she was on the prowl somewhere, so he had to be careful. John moved quickly up the stairs, and by quickly I'm sure it was only one or two miles per hour, because he found the effort of lifting his bare feet, now heavy and swollen, up each carpeted stair to be a nearly impossible task. But he had to do it, even though reality was starting to blink like a light switch in his eyes, he had to make it to Sherlock before he went down for good. John climbed the last of the stairwells with an annoying buzzing in his ears, buzzing coming from the back of his head where he had hit it yesterday. The drumming of pain against his skull was still there, mind you, it was only accompanied by this buzzing, as if they were taking part in a two part harmony of agony. John stumbled all the way to Sherlock's door, falling into the wood and pressing his cheek against the bronze plaque that read 221 in big, rusting letters. He knocked, or more accurately he just hit his fist against the door with a very weak arm, and when it finally opened (it felt like seconds, but for all he knew, it might have been hours) John nearly fell into the surprised arms of the beautiful Sherlock Holmes. Instead of falling, thankfully, he caught himself on the door frame, his arms wrapping around the wood so weakly that they were bending in all the wrong places, giving him the impression of a hit and run victim that had simply gotten up from the bloodied asphalt and paid a visit to their boyfriend.
"Dr. Watson?" Sherlock's voice muttered in that calm, careless tone he wore when he wasn't interested in someone's visit. John couldn't respond, he could barely look up. The only reason he knew that Sherlock was there was because of that pull, deep in the pit of his stomach, the only reason he knew that this was the real Sherlock and not the one conceived of the shadows.
"You don't look too good." Sherlock decided at once, after realizing that John was in no shape to answer.
"Sherlock..." John muttered. Sherlock sighed heavily, and John felt a hand on his arm, as if Sherlock actually cared, as if he was helping him!
"My god John, your feet are bleeding all over my carpet!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding disgusted not for John's health, but for the impacts it had in his poor choice of decoration.
"I can't really...I can't..." John whispered, clinging to Sherlock like a lost child, his world spinning and yet now Sherlock was with him, he was the only thing that was motionless in the world of blurs and colors.
"You're a mess, doctor." Sherlock commented distastefully, pushing carelessly on top of the blankets on his bed and going over to the other side of the room for a moment. John could only stare at the ceiling, the pixels in his eyes shortening out for some time before finally coming back; displaying Sherlock's worn out face hovering over him with something in his hands, something shiny.
"You're not drunk, are you?" Sherlock wondered nervously. John shook his head, sinking farther and farther into the blankets of Sherlock's disgusting bed, staring at the man himself with a dazed look in his eyes. It was almost like he had passed over the veil already, because he was quite sure this would be what heaven was like. In Sherlock's dingy, dirty little apartment with the beautiful man himself hovering over him with that disapproving look he always wore. So radiant, so beautiful in a counterproductive way. John would be happy if this were Heaven, because at least he knew Sherlock would be with him forever.
"Not drunk." He whispered in a broken voice, choking out the words in his best attempt to communicate.
"Good, because if you were, this wouldn't help." Sherlock said with a sigh. John felt Sherlock's fingers, a sensation that felt so real and so necessary, prying open his lips and holding his chin, and then a glass on his lips, pouring a strong, revolting alcohol down his throat. John coughed a choked, but as soon as that liquid burned down his throat he jerked up like a man just awaking from a horrible nightmare, his brain turning back on with vivid colors and images, and suddenly his arms were wrapped around Sherlock, and a scream was just finishing on his lips.
"John, John calm down, for God's sake you're a wreck!" Sherlock exclaimed, untangling himself from John's clinging arms and pushing him carelessly back onto the bed. John fell into the mess of blankets with a thud, the world finally slowing and his eyes starting to focus not on the dots but on the picture as a whole. He saw a ceiling, as he very often did.
"Sherlock...what on earth was that?" John wondered, blinking for a moment and rolling onto his side to see Sherlock screwing the cap back onto a large jug of brown alcohol.
"Brandy. It seems to wake people right up from any sort of hysteria; it's my only medical expertise." Sherlock admitted, downing the last of whatever was in that glass and setting it back down on the counter proudly. John stared at him, partially in wonder and partially in disbelief; as if he couldn't really believe that this man was standing before him once more. He paused for a moment, not quite sure what to say. Obviously thank you would be the first thing that came to mind, but it wasn't really a thanking moment. So he stayed silent, curling up on the bed and just starting to feel the burning on the bottom of his bleeding feet.
"Get your feet off my bed, that's disgusting." Sherlock snapped. John just rolled his eyes, but eventually he hung his feet off of the edge of the bed, dripping scarlet blood onto the carpet below.
"It's not like you sleep in it anyway." John muttered, mostly to himself, but Sherlock had sharp ears, he heard. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, his head hanging open in amazement, as if wondering what possessed John to talk back to him like that.
"I'm sorry?" he asked with an exasperated little laugh, blinking at John, who just stared at him gravely.
"Where were you last night?" John wondered. Sherlock laughed a little bit, as if he was completely shocked at John's daring, acting like John didn't have the right to question his actions.
"I believe that's none of your business." Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms and regaining that haughty, dominant aura he radiated when he felt threatened. John sighed, shaking his head with a pained smile drawn across his lips. He rolled his head over the pillow, staring at the ceiling before stretching his neck to see Sherlock more clearly.
"That is my business Sherlock, I need to know." John insisted.
"I don't have to report to you, you're not my...my handler." Sherlock snapped.
"You go on and on about your own individual freedom, how you're a strong, independent homosexual, and yet Victor's leash is so tight around your neck that you're choking on it." John demanded. Sherlock nearly tripped over his own feet, which was impressive seeing that he was standing still, and he steadied himself on the table, his face going ghostly pale.
"How do you know Victor?" he demanded, looking about ready to pounce on John if he didn't answer quickly. Maybe it was jealousy, maybe it was worry for his own personal secrets, but either way John took his time, lolling his neck back and forth and waving his fingers carelessly through the air.
"Facebook is a wonder Sherlock." He breathed softly. Sherlock tensed, showing the most emotion John had ever seen on his face at one time, looking as though his life as a free man was over just because John had spoken that name.
"Victor's been gone for years." Sherlock said carefully, as though he were screening his words two times over before he allowed them to leave his lips.
"Has he now? And he just...swept you back off of your feet then, didn't he? What happened Sherlock, did he break your heart?" John teased.
"Don't talk about things you don't know." Sherlock growled.
"I know enough. I know that you were...agitated yesterday morning, and absent last night. Now I pieced it together, I've never seen you so upset over just another meager lover, so he must have returned, asking for your hand once more." John said in a sort of sing song voice, acting like this wasn't tearing at his heart as he spoke. He hated to think of Sherlock with another man, especially one so underserving like Victor, but it would seem that Sherlock didn't want to admit to it as well, because he was reacting much more fearfully than John would've imagined.
"It wasn't...he didn't..." Sherlock muttered, ending his sentence there. "What was I supposed to do?"
"I don't know, how about...not cheat on your boyfriend?" John suggested dully.
"You're not my boyfriend!" Sherlock exclaimed. John blinked, Sherlock's words vibrating through his skull for a moment and striking at his heart. Not his boyfriend? Then what did he think this was, what did he think they've been doing? Are they friends then, acquaintances? John sat up very slowly on the bed, planting his bloodied feet on the carpet and staring at Sherlock very intensely. He could sense Sherlock's uncomfortableness, standing in front of the wall with a very pale complexion upon his usually radiant face.
"So what do you suggest we are then, if not boyfriends?" John snapped. Sherlock shook his head, looking very weak, like a strong, confident buck getting trapped in the headlights of a much more powerful car.
"You'll be nothing to me soon." Sherlock decided. John got to his feet agressivley, surprised at his own strength, and Sherlock backed himself into the wall, looking so scared and broken that John was close to taking pity on him.
"You've been everything to me Sherlock, more than everything, and you're just going to send me away?" John demanded.
"It's not a break up if we've never been together." Sherlock insisted.
"Do you not remember the nights we had together? Do you not remember any of that?" John asked, completely scandalized at Sherlock's daring. He could tell that Sherlock was regaining his confidence, he fed off of John's weakness, and as long as the other man was angry then he was becoming more powerful by the minute. Soon John felt very small, like he usually did in Sherlock's company.
"I wish I didn't." Sherlock said with a little laugh. John felt an angry blush start to creep into his cheeks, and he stared at Sherlock with a look of absolute betrayal, he couldn't believe what he was hearing, of course they've had this conversation before, but he was sure that this time it might end up a little bit differently.
"And you'd leave me then, for him? For Victor, who might just leave you again?" John wondered.
"You don't know what happened; you don't know any of this! It's my business John, mine!" Sherlock screamed, jabbing his finger right over his heart, as if he was reminding john who it really belonged to.
"You're his puppet." John snapped, feeling his eyes start to burn as tears worked their way into his eyelids. Sherlock just laughed, throwing his hands into the air with that smile he wore when he knew he had won.
"Don't you talk to me about morality, about commitment. You act like I haven't noticed that wedding ring on your finger." Sherlock snapped. John's heart fell from his chest the moment he realized that there was indeed that sparkle of gold from his finger, gleaming in the dying sunlight and cementing itself to his skin. John stared at it, and then back at Sherlock, who just leaned casually against the wall, his smile growing larger and larger. John grabbed at the ring, he didn't care if he pulled off his finger along with it, it just needed to get off. It was only too easy to pry it off, and now it sat in his palm, gleaming so innocently in his hand, waiting to be replaced, as if it still thought it meant anything.
"I hate her." John whispered, staring at the ring and talking in such a low voice, as if he were speaking to the jewelry in his palm rather than the man in front of him.
"Oh do you now? Is that your excuse then?" Sherlock wondered with a taunting laugh.
"I HATE HER, I HATE HER SO MUCH!" John screamed, shrieking on the top of his lungs and moving to throw the ring as hard as he could, but for some reason, his fist stayed closed, as if his mind had figured out something much better to do with it. John pulled his hand back, the ring still gleaming in his palm, and he looked back up at Sherlock, whose smile still stayed very confidently upon his lips.
"And I love you." John whispered once more. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John knew what he was going to say, something along the lines of 'I've heard that one before'. Because he had, he's heard it so many times before...John dashed to Sherlock as if he had finally figured out, he ran to that man and fell to his knee in front of him, finally letting the tears stream down his face, running over his lips, his smiling lips, with his heart aflame in his chest, burning with passion, and desire, he loved this man more than anything in the world, why didn't he just...take him? Steal him all for himself; lock up Sherlock's heart, the one he insisted wasn't for sale. John clutched the ring in his trembling fingers, his fingers smeared with blood that he didn't remember shedding, his eyes coming to face Sherlock's with such intensity...
"Sherlock Holmes, marry me." John whispered in a trembling voice. Sherlock blinked, his beautiful eyes wide in confusion, in horror. At first he didn't know what to say, John could see the suddenness of it all, but it was the perfect time, it was the only time. If Sherlock was going to send him away he had to do everything he could to make sure he was forced to stay.
"Marry me Sherlock." John insisted again. Sherlock finally blinked, silent for a moment, and then...
"Are you crazy? No, John no!" Sherlock exclaimed, pushing John's hands out of his face in disgust. John fell to the carpet, stumbling and sitting down hard in the mess of cigarette butts smashed into the fibers beneath him. The ring fell out of his weak hand, the tears flowing more rapidly out of his eyes, staring up at the man he so desperately needed, and the man he knew he would never have again.
"Don't you know what this is John? It's the end! I don't know what you ever thought we were, but it's over now, I don't want to see you, you're insane, you're rabid!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"All I've ever done was love you, I'VE DONE EVERYTHING YOU EVER ASKED!" John exclaimed.
"So does everyone else John!" Sherlock screamed back, his entire body shaking with anger, with desperateness. "You're not special, they all loved me, he loves me, it doesn't set you apart!"
"But you don't understand, I can't...I can't live like this Sherlock, she's a nightmare, I need to get away from her, I need you to do that, please, save me from her, I can't take it anymore!" John pleaded, falling at Sherlock's feet once more and wrapping his arms around his ankles. Sherlock screeched, trying to kick John away, trying to run, but John's arms were around his feet like the shackles he had on his own ankles, and Sherlock wasn't going anywhere.
"That's not my problem, John just let go of me!" Sherlock exclaimed, trying to pry John away from the back of his jacket. But John just kissed his feet, his lips brushing against the leather of his worn shoes, kissing them like a servant worshipping a God.
"I need you Sherlock; I love you, one more night, please, that's all I ask." John begged.
"You're disgusting John, just leave me alone, or I'm calling the police!" Sherlock demanded, his voice trembling in fear as he clutched to his dresser for balance. There was weakness, John could hear it, he could sense it, quivering in the air, the stench of fear, finally Sherlock has been toppled from the throne on which he sat, he was just as submissive as John had been all those nights...
"I'm yours Sherlock, I'll do anything, please, my love, please!" John pleaded with a cracking voice, his tears splashing over the dirt smeared across the edges of Sherlock's shoes, clinging to his ankles and trying so desperately to stay with him forever. John's heart was aching, it was screaming inside of his chest, that pulse in his head was beating faster and faster, and once more the world was spinning, but Sherlock was stable, John was stable, it was only the two of them now, the two of them and a whirl of unnecessary colors and shapes.
"NO!" Sherlock screamed, finally planting a good kick into John's chest, sending him sprawling back once more onto the mess of a carpet. John fell onto his back with a groan, and he could just see the ceiling, he could hear Sherlock muttering to himself, he could hear his fear... And he could see the shadows collecting on the ceiling above, urging him on, almost like a call for action. He knew now if he didn't have Sherlock that he wouldn't want to live any longer. If he didn't get one more kiss in he might just throw himself off of a bridge, he had no reason on this earth if not to be the lover of the most beautiful man in the world. If Sherlock wouldn't give him what he wanted, well, maybe he should just take it. John pulled himself to his feet, pulling the blankets and the sheets off of the bed as he grabbed at them for some sort of stabilization. He rose as if from the depths, from the fires, and he turned on Sherlock with so much force, so much power, that as soon as his eyes turned on the man, he cowered where he stood. Sherlock was not more controlling than him, Sherlock would never reject him like this, and he most certainly wasn't going to leave this room without getting what he came for. Sherlock stared at him with big, fearful eyes, and suddenly something came over John, a force of desire that he had never felt before, and suddenly he realized that there was nothing stopping him anymore, there was nothing that could possibly get in his way or prevent this from happening. Sherlock was his; all he had to do was take him. John jumped to his feet, almost catlike, lunging at Sherlock and grabbing his wrists, pinning them to the wall behind him, kicking his heels towards the wall and stepping powerfully upon his feet. Sherlock gave a cry of anguish, a cry for help that echoed through John's ears like a siren, however it didn't matter, it didn't matter anymore. Sherlock was fighting, but it made no difference, John's lips were on his, they were on his skin, his neck, Sherlock was screaming and screaming, and John was just feeling more and more alive. He didn't care that this was wrong; he didn't care about anything anymore. And suddenly the door flew open, flew open with the power of a million men, and John just caught a glimpse of that little old Mrs. Hudson, flying into the room with a war cry, and suddenly his eyes caught fire, suddenly he was blinded, falling away from Sherlock and writing on the floor, screaming and crying tears of flame. He stumbled away, collapsing onto the carpet once more, scratching at his eyes, clawing at his skin, it felt as though she had lit his eyes on fire, and yet he knew that it had to be something more logical, something like pepper spray. He couldn't see, but he heard their crying, he heard Mrs. Hudson's soothing words and the tears, the wracking sobs of Sherlock, finally broken beyond repair.