Notes:
Set during and after His Last Vow.
If you like to see Mary as one of the good guys, you might probably not like this fic.
Thanks to Davina for pointing out my mistakes (prepositions are evil little creatures when you are not a native speaker) and to GoSherlocked for support, encouragement and thudding. You two are the best!
I do not own Sherlock ... etc.
I am not known for bringing joy and happiness to other people's lives. Grim satisfaction, maybe, when they finally know who murdered their loved one. Relief, when something precious could be returned. Gratefulness, when holding an abducted family member safe in their arms. But happiness? No.
On one very special occasion I even brought adventurous danger and satisfaction to a life, but that does not count for I went and shattered all the good things there might have been by jumping off a roof.
I am not known for bringing joy and happiness to other people's lives. Least of all to mine.
We are standing in the living room. He is there for a short visit, a few stolen minutes, before he and Mary will leave for their honeymoon. (She thinks he just wants to say goodbye for two weeks.) Still feels wrong to have him here as a guest. He belongs here. (Used to belong here. Not any longer. Accept it.) His face determined. He came here with a (seemingly) simple question, not willing to leave without an answer.
"Why did you leave early?"
I remember yesterday night more clearly than I want to. How the fresh air has been a relief after the overheated atmosphere at the dance floor. How I went away fast, so that no one would have a chance to follow me and hold me back. (Still feel the deep disappointment when I realized that no one was trying to.) (Wonder how long it took him to discover that I was gone?) (Wonder if I would like the answer? Probably not.)
How my thoughts were swirling around the same topic again and again. The whole day, the whole last months I had told myself (successfully) that a wedding wouldn't change a thing.
Not the way things were now. Jumping off a roof and returning from the dead in the most clumsy way possible when hearts were already given to other people, that changes things. Going away from London for two years to finally, finally realize (have been really slow on this one) that you were in love with your only true friend, that changes things. Weddings, no. Not with Mary so eager to accept me (why?), not with John generous enough to finally forgive.
Never expected him to love me (me!) in return anyway. Would have been satisfied with living next to him, having unlimited access to looking at him (secretly), smelling him, making him laugh, making him look at me the way only he does. Now, I need to be satisfied with limited access to all of that. Still better than nothing (I presume).
Weddings don't change too much.
Babies do.
How do I tell him that I left because I could not stand the simple fact that everything will change soon (without mentioning that I love him)? Thought about it all night, knowing he would demand an answer to that question. Been so lost at finding a suitable line that I even did the unspeakable. Didn't help. Made him swear to never mention the fact that I showed up at his house in the wee hours of the morning, looking for brotherly consolation (and actually finding it. Embarrassing!).
Now, at noon, I still don't have a good excuse. John is wearing his soldier face. I won't be able to use one of my usual strategies to avoid answering. Only way out now is to play down the importance of it. Put on my best acting face. Make my voice sound slightly flippant.
"Thought it best to retreat before someone could force me to dance." Put as much disdain into the last word as possible.
Does he believe me? Of course not. Looks at me like only he can, seeing through my demeanour, right into my soul (given that I owe one). He smiles (honestly) and shakes his head. "I don't buy that, Sherlock." he simply says, as if deciphering me would be an easy thing to do. When I fail to respond immediately, he continues with a smile: "We did dance together, remember? Call me naïve, but I am very sure that you love dancing a lot."
That is when I make the inexcusable mistake.
For a second, I allow myself to remember teaching John how to waltz. There is a special room in my mind palace for it. A big one, with a proper parquet dance floor. For a second, I go there. I remember holding him, closer than the World Dance Council asks for, excusing it with the fact that we are training for a wedding, not for a competition. For a second, I feel his hand on mine again, smell his sweat, hear the song we used. For a second, I allow myself to love him deeply. For a second, only a second, that love reflects on my face.
Our eyes lock, and something in his expression falls. (No!) He takes one step backwards (stupid Sherlock, stupid stupid stupid) and looks at me (surprised? shocked? angrily!). My breath catches, I try to wipe the horror from my face and fail.
"John," I start, but he won't hear it. Clenches his hand, shakes his head. Smiles that dangerous smile you only get to see when he is really, really angry. (Why angry?)
"You must be kidding me." he says, voice strained.
I am at a loss of words, unable to avert my eyes. Not comprehending the amount of anger behind his words. I am not expecting anything from him, am not forcing him to return my feelings. So why is he angry?
"Today?" he goes on, louder and louder with every word. "Today of all days you do that? One day after my wedding? Sherlock! Now you come out with that, when it is one day too late to change things?" He is fidgeting (he does not normally do that), his hand opening and closing at record speed.
I still don't comprehend what is going on. Why is he talking about changing things? I never expected him to. Why is he …
"Did it never occur to you that one day before the wedding would have been a slightly better moment? Or a week before? A month? Any time before?"
And then I finally understand. (How could I have understood earlier? How could I have even guessed that his stupidly big heart is weird enough to love me back?) I must still be staring at him. Want to say something but can't find my voice. Feel my mouth open and close. (Goldfish.) Body is betraying me. (Tears in my eyes? Really? Please!)
I watch him standing there, watching me in return. See his body sagging, his face shifting from anger to sadness. "You had no idea." he (correctly) deduces then. Wish I could look away. He shakes his head, (obviously) torn between hitting me and hugging me. "With your enormous brain and brilliant skills and all, you had no idea that love you."
(He loves me. Loves. Me.) (Not loved. Loves.) (Should feel good, but only hurts.) I shake my head, still left without voice. He (finally) steps closer again. Left hand reaching out for my face. Stopping in mid-air, dropping down.
The fact that his eyes are a bit wet makes the single tear that is running down my face (slightly) less embarrassing.
He nods, more to himself than to me. His voice is soft when he says, "It is too late, Sherlock. I am married. There is a baby on its way. It … it would be WRONG."
I can hear him using capital letters. Of course it would be WRONG, and if there one thing John Watson is incapable of doing, then it is something WRONG. (Would I love him if he would be willing to do something WRONG?) (Is there be anything to stop me from loving him?) (I hope so.) (No, I don't.)
His hand finally makes it to my face. The only contact we make. "I'm sorry." he says. Then he is gone. Gone to spend his honeymoon with his pregnant wife.
I spend an incalculable amount of days on the sofa, trying to resist the urge to pick up the leather box hidden underneath my bed and use what is inside.
Only that I can no longer remember why I resist.