Chapter 23: Melancholy.
"Only it is so very lonely here!" Alice said in a melancholy voice; and, at the thought of it, two large tears came rolling down her cheeks."
-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
Morning came too soon, and John groaned when his alarm went off, obnoxious in the cold early-morning silence. He rolled over and hit the snooze, sinking back into the cushions. He had stayed up far too late last night, cleaning all the dishes, and then the counters, and then the floor, making any excuse to stay up later, hoping that Jim would walk back in, laughing about how changeable he was.
But he hadn't, and John had finally gone to bed, trying not to feel lonely, and failing.
He rolled off the mattress, trying to shake the sleep-deprivation headache away. He shuffled over to the pile of clothes he had laid out the night before, and went into the bathroom to get dressed. Then he went to get each of the other three occupants up and ready. Ed was still sick, but Ari was more or less ready to go, and Leo was unusually compliant. He must really want to stick around. Or maybe it was John's unquestionably impatient air this morning. He knew he was being a bit too harsh on the kids, but his mood was prickly at best, and today wasn't looking like a good day.
He tried not to think about what was missing.
Once everyone was organized, and Leo had vague instructions, John made his way out the door and took the tube to work. Even Sarah picked up on his unhappiness, asking him no less than four times whether he was okay, before he escaped into his room, and waited for his patients. Work seemed even more dull than usual, and he was just trying to keep awake and polite while people droned on and on about their problems, completely unrelated symptoms, and this one woman who wouldn't shut up about her promotion. Apparently, she needed to show off to everyone she met, her doctor included. John smiled and did his best to care.
Finally, he had his lunch break, and although Sarah caught him in the hall and asked again if he was alright, he headed into his office with relief, only to freeze in the doorway.
He made his way over to his chair and sank down into it, staring at the lunch waiting for him on his desk, neatly placed in a Ziploc, taunting him with its existence. A peanut butter and jam sandwich. The same sort that Sarah left him, every day. How long had it been, since he had seen one? Almost three months. Every day, he had eaten a different lunch, accompanied by a ridiculous note, reminders of Jim and the evening ahead of him.
It was such a little thing, this impersonal, cold, plastic-coated, mundane lunch. And yet it spoke volumes. John didn't want to think about what it might or might not mean, instead opening the bag and bringing out the sandwich.
He took off the crusts, and set them aside carefully. Then he took a bite, and the peanut butter stuck to his mouth in that singularly unpleasant way. He swallowed, hard, and wished for a glass of water. The jam was store-bought and too sweet. He much preferred homemade, his mother's, or even his aunt's.
Knowing that it would be rubbing salt in the wound, but just wanting to have some sort of color in a day that was becoming far too blank and empty, he reached down to the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, and drew out a stack of post-it notes. Each one held one or two sentences, a little snapshot of the day, an image, a memory.
'Putting in a request for a Loki story'-JM
'Let's be British!'-JM (which had accompanied a meal of fish and chips.)
'Did you see the explosion on the New York coastline? That was Sebby's work, I'm so proud. Don't worry, no casualties, just a few injuries and a warning.'-JM
'Hope your day isn't too boring. Mine is. Looking forward to dinner.'-JM
'Guess who I'm eating lunch with today? Tell you at dinner.'-JM (the answer had been a rather well-known celebrity, and the retelling of the lunch had been concluded with an autograph, addressed to John Watson. They had laughed.)
'Straight from downtown London!'-JM (a meal from a street vendor, still hot.)
'These were the only things I could make at age 9'-JM (a package of Mr. Noodles, which was an answer for John's comment that until he was 11, all he could make was microwave meals.)
'Hope you got more sleep last night. xo JM' (that particular signature had started around two weeks ago, making John laugh every time he saw it.)
'Sammy's doing good. You can relax now.'-JM
'Little Jim got in another fight! So proud. xo JM'
Eventually, the words went away, and John only saw the color of the ink, hidden messages that communicated moods and emotions.
Having fun. Having a bad day. On a job. Job completed. Happy. Smug. Teasing. Being mysterious. Sarcastic.
John smiled at all the messages, the memories washing over him, of evenings and meals and laughter. And then, suddenly, he was back in the present, and the room seemed all the more empty for the warmth of his memories. He regretted pulling out the notes now, because the next bite of his sandwich seemed even more dry and sticky. He swallowed, and put away the notes, focusing on forcing the meal down his throat and into his stomach, where it sat heavily.
He looked down at the crusts on his plate, and thought about the number of crusts he'd thrown out after he'd given the Misfits sandwiches for dinner. Most children didn't like crusts, as a rule, strange as it was. John was pretty sure it was just in their heads. But nevertheless, he leaned over and threw the crusts into the trash, hearing them hit the plastic bottom with an unsatisfying soft sound. He stared at the wall for the remainder of his lunch break.
Oooo000oooO
Dinner with the Misfits was a subdued affair. Jim didn't show up at 5 o'clock, as was his usual habit. Neither did he show up when the Misfits did, an hour later. John served out the ravioli and sauce, and got very tired of being asked where Jim was.
Once the kids were gathered, he told the story of Anansi and the dispersal of wisdom, the myth that explains why everyone has some sort of unique knowledge. The kids liked it, but the energy wasn't as high without Jim's unpredictable laughter. Lily, in particular, was very upset about his absence, and curled into a ball to watch silently.
So he sent them off, hugging them goodbye, and sent the other kids to bed, trying not to feel like a parent whose partner has left, and is having a hard time keeping the kids unawares and happy, while adjusting to the stress of being a single parent. He gathered the dishes, and prepared himself for a long night. But first, he pulled out his cell phone and sent a text.
You're being ridiculous. I don't have any illusions of controlling you. You do what you want, and I'm not looking to change that. Okay? Now come home. –JW
He originally signed off with 'I miss you,' but it felt too clingy, too awkward, even though it was, strangely, the truth. So he just pressed send. Almost immediately, a message was sent back.
This number is no longer active.
Shit. John stared down at his phone for a second, fighting the urge to throw it into the wall. That would be not-good, and could wake up the kids. They needed the rest.
He tucked his phone away and applied himself to the dishes, the lonely refrain of sloshing water and melancholy thoughts drifting through his mind.
Since Ari had left, he would be sleeping in his own bed for the first time in two weeks. He made his way into the bedroom several hours later and lay there, staring at the ceiling. His body was so tired, limbs and eyelids heavy. But his mind refused to turn off, racing, racing. Thinking about all the ways he missed Jim, even after one day. Thinking about how he was going to deal with tomorrow. Wondering if he would even be able to deal with all the Misfits on his own without suffering from a mental breakdown.
Wondering if Jim was going to order them away from him. And what would happen then? John barely dared to speculate. Stretched between two adoptive fathers, forced to choose, and John very much doubted that anyone would side with him. Even Sammy, when it came down to it, owed her loyalty to M first, and John second.
Then came the click of a key in the lock, and the creak of a door opening. John tensed, the sleepiness disappearing in adrenaline. It wasn't a Misfit, they didn't have keys, and although he had gotten midnight calls before, they just knocked. They didn't sneak in.
Moriarty certainly had enemies. If they heard that his workers gathered here, there would be trouble, and lots of it. The sort of trouble that might lead to a midnight intruder, making their way straight for the bedroom.
John jumped up, moving quietly behind the bedroom door, open just in case someone needed his help during the night. He looked around for a weapon desperately, and ended up grabbing the closest thing, which happened to be a lamp. He flipped it around so that the heavy stone bottom was at the top, ready to be swung into the head or torso of the intruder.
John crouched, tense and ready, and then the man came through the door. John prepared to throw himself forwards, but then he recognized the man in the moonlight.
He set the lamp down with a quiet thud, and the dark-haired man turned.
"John," he said.
"Jim?" John replied, feeling somewhat in shock. Jim came closer, face unusually serious.
"I came to ask you something." There was a silence, and John nodded, a gesture for him to go on. "I want you to move into Brewer's. Our doctor died in that shooting, three months ago. The replacements are almost useless. My men are dying, and I know that you think you don't care, but the Misfits work for me, Sebastian works for me, and men like him are dying. So move in, and I can take care of everything. Cover story, paperwork, money, your job."
"Woah, wait. Hang on. Yesterday you were yelling at me, and now you want me to move in with you?"
"You know me, Johnny boy, I'm changeable. And impatient. Come on, move in. You know the work will be more exiting. The Misfits won't have to travel as much, and neither will I. You'll have more space, you won't have to sleep on the floor, it's perfect."
It DID sound perfect, oddly enough. In some strange, screwed up way. It seemed like the sort of thing that you should sleep on, though. John thought about all the reasons he shouldn't do it, why this was wrong, and heard his own voice say "yes, I'll do it." Jim grinned and grabbed John's shoulders, spinning him into a little exited dance step.
"Yes! I've got myself a live-in-doctor-storyteller-muse-chef!" His voice dropped, and it was suddenly dangerous, in a subtle way that made the hairs on the back of John's neck rise. "My John."
"Yes, my mad criminal mastermind?" John asked sarcastically.
"Nothing whatsoever," Jim said cheerily. "I was just trying it out."
"Well, then, I suppose that's fine," John said, and they stood there together in the moonlight.
A/N: Happy Sunday! One more week of school left; I'll be posting like a madwoman over the break, don't worry. And guess what? There's another chapter! So read on. I'll make my plea for reviews next chapter.