White Noise

The Paradox Of Happiness

John was bedridden on doctor's orders for five days, so that meant no walking around, no leaving the house, no going to try to comfort Sherlock or at least try to explain to him what had happened and why it would never happen again. Mary seemed to take this as an opportunity to talk to him, to corner him when she knew there was no one else he could run, and poor John could do nothing except sit there and take it, her conversation, her pampering, her worrying and fussing, her questions, her answers, her presence, everything was just so irritating John was sure it was making him sicker! Except he didn't try to shake her off, he wanted to punish himself, and alone time with his wife seemed like the perfect punishment for doing something so horrible to someone so precious. So he answered Mary's questions, and even asked some of his own, keeping the conversation and keeping her around, ensuring that her words cut deeper into his heart than any knife, ensuring that by the time she left he felt like he was on the verge of unconsciousness now. Nothing could ever erase what he had done, but he thought that maybe he could pay for it. Mary was thrilled that he finally wanted her around, she thought it more of a compliment rather than a self-inflicted punishment, and she took advantage of his sudden hospitality by going on and on about literally nothing, for like two hours. She talked about her day, and her lunch, and her consideration of going vegetarian, and her parents, and Rosie's school, and John's work, and his injuries, it seemed like there wasn't a single topic on this earth that Mary didn't at least mention in what would come to be the longest two hours of John's life. He just sat there blankly, letting her words permeate into his skin, letting them invade his body and soul, until he felt as if her words were acid, melting into his bones and burning against his consciousness. John couldn't even override the doctor's orders, he insisted that since he was a doctor he could decide when it was best for him to get up and start moving, but obviously they didn't trust him after he walked right into traffic, so they wouldn't even think of his own opinion on the matter. When his five days was up, John was feeling as though he had left part of himself on that couch, he hobbled around the hard wood floors with weak legs, tripping over nothing while Rosie laughed from her spot on the armchair. He saw nothing funny about his own suffering, but evidently it brought joy to his daughter's heart to see her father fall around like a beached whale. John went into work the next day, practically dragging himself along with weak limbs; however he was beginning to feel better than he had in a long time. Simply getting up and getting moving was enough to tame the beast in his brain, the one that was threatening to devour all common sense in its love for Sherlock Holmes. He even smiled at Mrs. Turner, an expression that she was certainly not used to receiving on a Tuesday morning.
"Dr. Watson, letter for you." She said quickly, rummaging through the overflowing mailboxes to try to grab the letter she was referring to.
"For me? Not a bill, or a complaint I hope?" John wondered, twisting the handle on his laptop case nervously as he walked over to retrieve whatever it was she had for him.
"Oh no, in fact, it has nothing written on it at all, just your name." Mrs. Turner admitted. John walked suspiciously over to the desk, setting his laptop case on the tile floor and grabbing the envelope from Mrs. Turner's fingers. It was heavy, a lot heavier than he would've expected an envelope to be, but he dare not open it in front of her. For all her knew it was a bomb, left by Sherlock, or maybe some more pepper spray from Mrs. Hudson. Either was he didn't want to make a scene, because scenes lead to questions, and he certainly didn't want Mrs. Turner asking questions about what he did in his free time.
"Did you see who dropped it off?" John wondered. Mrs. Turner sighed, leaning back in her chair and tapping her wrinkly fingers against the piles of paperwork that sat in front of her on the desk.
"Let me think, it wasn't the postman, I know that. Ah! It was a man, a strange man; I've never seen him before." Mrs. Turner admitted, her eyes alight in satisfaction as she found the memory. John looked at her curiously, half expecting her to have described Sherlock from his past visits, but he wasn't happy with this vague answer, he wanted more.
"What did he look like?" John wondered, holding the envelope carefully in his hands. Maybe it wasn't from his second life after all; maybe it was simply a letter from a lazy mailman.
"Oh he was handsome, I think. Very muscular, with a bit of a tan, but not excessive, and brown hair that was..."
"Victor." John growled, cutting Mrs. Turner off before she could go on with her ghastly and strangely specific description. Mrs. Turner paused, looking up at John in surprise, as if not expecting him to relate the stranger to such negative emotions.
"Victor? Do you know this man then?" she wondered.
"He is the most terrible human being alive. If you see him here again, call the police, kick him out, break his legs, I don't care what you do, just don't let him stay." John demanded, his eyes alight with serious hatred. Mrs. Turner looked a bit surprised, holding her hand to her heart; some stupid old gesture old women did when they were surprised. They ought to stop that, honestly, because some day if she had a heart attack John would just think she was super extra surprised, and he wouldn't do anything to help.
"What did this Victor ever do to you?" Mrs. Turner wondered nervously.
"That...is none of your business. Thank you for the letter." John said with a bit of a mocking smile, grabbing his laptop case and walking swiftly to his room. John closed the door and locked it, throwing his laptop onto the exam table and sinking into his swivel chair gravely. He examined the envelope curiously, carefully, wondering if Victor had put any sort of poison in here, something that would kill John on contact. John decided that it might be better to have some sort of protection, so he rolled over and grabbed two latex gloves from the box, snapping them over his wrists and stretching out his now blue fingers. He took a deep breath, ripping open the envelope and staring inside curiously. His heart stopped when he saw nothing but that golden wedding band, sitting all alone in the envelope, abandoned and forgotten. John had the strangest urge to just throw it away, discard of the envelope and that horrible piece of binding jewelry for the rest of his life, but he knew he couldn't. He knew that if his affair with Sherlock really was over, then he best pretend that it didn't happen, especially in the eyes of his wife and child. He needed that ring because he needed normality, he needed to slip back into his miserable life and just accept that nothing he would ever do to correct his life would work. Sherlock was gone; he needed just get over it and live again. Obviously it wasn't meant to be. John pulled off the gloves carefully, throwing them in a ball in the general direction of the trash can and sliding the ring out of the envelope into his outstretched palm. How appropriate, that Victor would be the one to hand deliver the symbol of John's marriage, his everlasting agreement to stay with one woman for the rest of his life. How ironic, that the very man who took his lover away from him would be the one to remind him of the marriage he had so obliviously submitted to years before. So John just winced, throwing the envelope at his feet and holding that ring up to his trembling finger, sliding it on and feeling once more the constricting weight of everything he had ever promised to Mary Morstan. This ring was the end, the official end to everything he had worked so hard to build; it was the end of his escape, the end of his happiness, the end to his hope. As long as this ring was secured on his finger he knew that there was no going back, he was submitting to the expectations of society and accepting Sherlock's leaving him. What did he deserve, what did he honestly deserve? A jail cell, most likely, a strait jacket. John didn't deserve this freedom or this care, to be able to slip to the normal miseries of his life was almost a privilege compared to the horrors that could await him in the darkest corners of human civilization. John should be thankful that he attacked such a precious man and all he got was back to where he started. Of course he was still roasting in the fires of hell, but not the hottest flames. And to think, maybe he wasn't happy; maybe he had been thrown back to the misery from which he had finally escaped. But Sherlock was happy. Sherlock was with the man he loved, he was nestled in the strong, protecting arms of Victor Trevor, and maybe, just maybe, he felt safe. Maybe he felt satisfied. Because as much as John resented Victor, as much as he wanted that perfect man's guts impaled on a blunt object, he knew that Sherlock loved him, and in the end, it would be selfish to deny Sherlock of that love. Maybe this was all for the best.