Hey! Here I go again writing something completely out of the blue. I really mean it. This was an accident. I have lines going and running in my head almost 24/7 and today I decided to follow some of them which resulted in this (?). I have not been writing for the last weeks, sooo this is the first time in like a month that I write something seriously (?) and it has been like a year since the last time I wrote a fanfiction (and that one was a quicky).
So.
Yeah.
The wedding.
I know there have been lots of takes on that but there were lines going wildly in my head and fitted completely with the situation (the summary has two of them) andIlovemakingandreadingSherlockcry so please bear with me and my attempt.
Uhm. Regarding my english: My native language is not english. Not even american english. So I really apologize for every inaccuracy with either grammar, spelling or british usage of the words.
Oh, yeah: WARNING! SPOILERS OF ENDING OF SEASON 2 (?) AHEAD. ALSO KNOWN AS REICHENBACH FALL. Also a Happy Ending. Coming from me that is a warning all on its own.
And Disclaimer: Sherlock, as either the books or BBC series (which is the Sherlock!verse I am writing about) are not mine and blah blah otherwise Johnlock would be canon. And I make no profit of writing this. The opposite. I am wasting time (?) and increasing bills and all that jazz...yeah.
-He is going to leave me. He, who is the only one... And I will not be able, I can't...I don't know why I came back from the dead when there has been no life before John.
Lestrade shuffled awkwardly, not able to tear his eyes away from the agonizing sight of the Consulting Detective crying. He thought the surprises and bitter experiences regarding the man were going to stop years ago when he first saw the limping figure of the doctor trailing behind him, but here they were again, glancing at him as he crouched in the rainy alley, one with a blank face, the other biting his lower lip.
Lestrade and Mycroft, not for the first time, shared a somber glance concerning no other than the turbulent life of Sherlock Holmes.
-You have to be there, Sherlock. You are his best friend. He needs you.
She was everything needed and wanted from a wife, they got along perfectly in the two years of solitude of John Watson, they matched and thus it became nonesense to keep waiting to get married and attached to a life of endless boredom John knew was awaiting him no matter where he turned.
But then he came back.
He came back with his wildness and his freedom, his fascinating accuracy, charming danger and his addictive spirit of living. His soon to be wife was the donna angelicata which men portrayed in poetry for centuries, but he, Sherlock Holmes, was the forbidden lover, the riot, the destroyer, the thrill of the affair men often wanted and also portrayed in poetry but never allowed themselves to marry;...but no, he was more than that, he was also tenderness and home, new found sense of belonging, he was his other half, he was the forbidden and the proper in one, the exhilarating shiver and the homey feel of curling in a blanket with tangled freezing feet and shoulders bumping while watching telly, he was the peacemaker and the frenzy.
They say you have got to have a hobby to unleash your inner self, your true soul, so it will keep you from dying, but for John Sherlock was both the main activity of his life and also the gush of fresh air keeping him from perishing.
And standing there, with Mary and Sherlock both before him in the altar, John could not do other than to explore the vast shades of icy blue on Sherlock's eyes, and he could not help but to see and observe.
He saw pain and it reverberated vividly in his own chest, he became excruciatingly aware of the echoes that went between them like lightening, tearing, burning, caressing, linking, marking, impossible to ignore.
He could not turn his back to this much life.
To this much...
(Especially not after the taste of death he had grown used to but that was quickly vanishing after every second passed by Sherlock's presence. And God, how could he devote himself to another when his every cell were screaming for Sherlock? They started to whisper the very first time they met and started screeching after the world ending fall...
Stubborn.
Stubborness.
You want to prove something worthless, you want to prove a lie.
You, John Watson, did not move on and you never will even after your death.)
He gasped and the room started to spin from the sudden shock of illumination, damned and glorified illumination, and the gush of oxygen piercing his lungs as if he had taken his head out of the water for the first time in years and was taking his first desperate breath full of purpose and answers and knowing.
He was a blind man searching for the sun, all along never realizing he was standing wide eyed to it and its shape was Sherlock Holmes.
As if waking, the world returned to a normal rythm and John became aware of his turn to answer, feeling Mary's gaze piercing his skull.
He turned briefly to her and her flawless white figure tugged at his heart.
-Oh, Mary, I'm sorry.
He hugged her and kissed her forehead and saw a flash of a resigned expression and pained features before feeling her nodding in his shoulder.
-Oh, John, I knew- was her bitter sigh.
Then she went running down the aisle with her mother and a couple of friends chasing after her with cries of "Oh, Mary dear!" and before John could do much more than see from the corner of his eye how Mrs. Hudson was beaming at him through a tear stricken face he caught a shout of:
-You bastard!
And was promptly punched in the face by his enraged almost-father-in-law.
-John!- Sherlock threw himself to kneel by his side, then looked upwards to the old man with matching rage and, even without opening his eyes fully and still seeing stars, John had the good sense to put his hand in his arm to stop him.
-No, is okay, is my fault for not realizing this before getting to this point- he winced-. To be fair, I never thought I was going to marry, I always knew something Sherlockian was going to happen and stop me.
He could imagine with perfect accuracy the smile that got him and felt Sherlock's cold, smooth fingers caressing his lips quickly before ghosting away to press a handkerchief to his broken nose.