Daylight

Part 3

     September in New Mexico arrived with the rich smell of roasting green chilies in the air.  The intense heat of summer softened into crisp mornings and warm afternoons.  What leafy trees dotted the spare streets of Alamogordo turned red and gold just like the trees did in London, only here and there mesquite bushes, cacti and tumbleweeds crowded between them.  John woke up one morning to find two dozen, colorful,  hot air balloons gliding silently over his apartment.  Hot air balloon rallies were a common occurrence in the fall.  He could actually hear the voices of the people only a few stories above him in the balloon's baskets as they chatted calmly about the beautiful day.  One of them waved to him.  He waved back and felt a sense of unreality sweep over him.  London had never offered sights, sounds or smells like these and John couldn’t seem to get enough.  It made him glad to be alive.

   One of his favorite places to go now that he lived on the other side of the planet, was the White Sands National park.  As it was only a twenty minute drive from town, Tara and Tommy often took him on picnics when John had time off from the clinic.  He loved to watch Tommy roll down the shady sides of the dunes and entertain himself digging extensive and elaborate holes, a landlocked beach with no water. They’d always come home with sand in their shoes and sunburns across their noses no matter how much sunscreen they applied.  John really couldn’t have been happier except for when he wasn’t.

     The first time John visited the dunes, he’d been astounded by the miles and miles of pure, white sand that stretched as far as the eye could see.  Camera crews regularly filmed in the back part of the park.  Apparently, Tara told John, it could substitute for deserts all over the world and cost production companies far less.  Now that he knew the secret, John had seen at least three movies, two TV shows and a few commercials that had sported scenes from the iconic white dunes in them. Special effect crews usually tinted the sand yellow on film.   The last time he’d watched a Transformers movie with Tommy (Tara wasn’t entirely sure he’d been old enough) the boy had pointed to the screen and said, “That’s White Sands!”

     “Good eye,” John had said praising him.  Sherlock would have been proud at his observational skills, he thought and then froze.  Where had that thought come from, John wondered.  He thought he’d locked the detective out.

    Memories of Sherlock usually stayed far away from his daily thoughts but at the oddest times, he would hear the man’s voice in his head.  During his first week at the clinic, a mother brought in her surly, teenaged son.  Based on his aggressive attitude, urgent care was the last place he wanted to be.  At first, John thought the boy might have a virus.  He had a runny nose,  red eyes, and nausea.  His mother said he couldn’t sleep. “Look closer, John.  Don’t be an idiot,” he heard a deep voice rumble in his mind. “The boy doesn’t have a virus, he’s been using….Look at his hands.” John had looked closer and spotted the tell-tale twitch the kid had been trying to conceal.  He was in the beginnings of withdrawal.

     “Mrs. Garza,” John began after he’d asked the boy to step outside in order to speak to his mother alone.  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you…”  He didn't need Sherlock's help anymore but it seemed like he got it whether he wanted it or not.

     After he’d been with Tara for almost two months, he had settled into his new life effortlessly.  They still lived separately, but John spent a great deal of time at her comfortable, adobe house.   She’d received enough money from her husband’s insurance policy to buy it, and her job as a teacher allowed her to live there modestly.  John admired her independence and self-suffiency very much.  He could picture himself spending the rest of his days with a women like Tara.  

     They had an arrangement where John bought the groceries, and she cooked dinner for him at least three nights a week.  Tommy was right, she could make excellent mashed potatoes among other things, John had thought with a wicked smile.  They fell into a romance easily and sex with Tara soothed John.  The first few times they slept together in her double bed, he simply worked hard to drive all thoughts of sex with Sherlock from his mind.  He’d covered her in kisses until she giggled and returned the favor.  She knew how to touch him so his brain stopped thinking.  She could kiss and soothe all his conflicting thoughts away.  When he touched Tara's breasts and thighs, he almost never thought of pale, white skin, a long slender neck or a full, cupid’s bow mouth.  Almost never.