It takes Sherlock five years to come back to him.
Sherlock comes to him barely twenty minutes before he is to be married. John is pacing somewhere in the back room, imagining what Mary looks like in her wedding gown and Sherlock just walks in, wearing a slim black tuxedo. His shirt and bowtie are crisp white. John stares at him for a full minute, frozen in shock and disbelief. He never imagined their reunion to look like this.
He looks at Sherlock again. His lips twitch as if he's fighting the urge to smile, his brows are tightly knit. He is simultaneously anxious and happy to see him. John watches as he searches for words, for something to say. Clearly he has expected John to show some form of reaction.
John refuses to move or make this easy in any way.
"I heard you were getting married," Sherlock finally says.
"Yes," John whispers, staring at him as if he might disappear. He looks exactly the same. Elegant curls. Mouth twisted into an expression of superiority. Eyes scanning through everything.
"I came to say—"Sherlock starts with a pleasant smile, but then the smile drops off his face. "No. I can't. I can't congratulate you. Don't do this John."
"It's been five years," John breathes. His face is wet. Why is his face wet? When did he start to cry?
"I know."
Suddenly Sherlock is in front of him, pulling him into a hug, "I know. I know. But don't do this. Be mine."
"Jesus," John breathes into his lapels, his voice shaking, "we lived together for a year. You disappeared for five years and now you want me to throw everything away for you?"
He can't see Sherlock's face but he feels the hesitation in Sherlock's body. Sherlock's arm tighten around him, unwilling to let him end the hug. "Yes," Sherlock says defiantly after a pause, "I do."
"Well, fuck you," John says, pushing him away with all his might.
Sherlock looks at his feet, hands tucked in his pocket. He looks devastatingly handsome in his disappointment. "I threw everything away for you. I disappeared so you could live."
"And then you stayed away for five years. Never thought about what it would do to me," John says this softly, leaning back against the wall, straightening his tie nervously.
Sherlock whispers something that he doesn't hear. He looks like he is an oil painting, standing there, shrouded in the evening light, his whole body slumped down. But where sadness and disappointment make others look ugly, Sherlock's tall frame looks tragically beautiful in its brokenness.
"What did you say?" John snaps.
"I said," Sherlock raises his voice from a mumble to a whisper, "I said I thought about you every day. It kept me alive."
John has no defense against the way those words make his heart ache. He is sliding down the wall.
"My god Sherlock. It's been five years. That's a lot of time. So much has changed," John repeats, no other defenses left, "I don't even know you anymore."
More than anything this seems to break Sherlock. He looks up at John wide eyed, hurt etched all over his face, hurt etched across every muscle that tenses. He cowers back from John as if John is going to burn him. He doesn't stumbled back with the force of someone who has been burnt or shot. He shrinks back like someone who has been threatened with torture, he shrinks back as if John plans on cutting off every limb from his body as he watches.
"You," he starts, his voice smaller than John has ever heard it, "you're the only person who knows me."
"I knew you five years ago. I have no idea who you are now," John says before he can help himself. He is hurting himself just as much as he is hurting Sherlock. Punishing them both. Why won't anyone stop him? Mary, Mary, Mary. He is doing this for Mary. The person who never abandoned him.
Sherlock is in front of him again, both hands on the wall, palms flat down. One of Sherlock's hands on each side of him, caging him in. The usually dominant position looks desperate in light of the expression on Sherlock's face—he is begging.
"It's me. You must see it John," he pleads, looking into John's face, trying to convince him that nothing has changed, "it's still me."
John's heart gives a little tug. Sherlock must see this because he draws in and takes John's lips between his own, presses his tongue against John's teeth, opens John's mouth with his own. It's sloppy and desperate and John melts under it. And then Sherlock seems to take control of himself and it's soft. He brushes his lips against John's gently, cups his face and deepens the kiss. He presses himself against John, pinning John against the wall. He grinds against John and John chuckles into the kiss because he knows Sherlock is trying to prove a point. He is saying: "Look how much we both want each other John. The evidence is right here between us. Surely even you can't be ignorant of hard evidence."
And Sherlock is brushing his lips against John's jaw, behind his ear, against his neck. His lips are there, barely touching, driving him mad. He grips Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself as Sherlock rips his tie apart, starts to undo his shirt. Those feather lips are against the hollow of his neck now. This must be a form of torture because it's driving him mad. He wants the pressure of Sherlock's lips but the evil evil man goes on brushing those perfect lips against his skin, just barely. Sherlock's fingers are steady of his hips.
Sherlock's lips brush over one nipple on their way to John's abs, as if by accident.
"Fuck," John cries, hands snapping up clasp over his own mouth, trying to stifle the noise.. His whole body contorts under the promise of full contact. Sherlock smiles against his skin.
Sherlock is on his knees before him and John knows nothing will ever equal this sight. Sherlock is on his knees, looking devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, hands on John's belt, eyes lidded with desire. He is panting. He is trembling with want. John is too. Sherlock's lips are swollen. And then Sherlock looks up at him with adoration, hands trembling on John's belt and, with his eyes, he asks for permission.
And John almost laughs with the absurdity of that. As if Sherlock has ever needed his permission to do anything. As if it's John who is doing Sherlock the favor of being pleasured by him before his own wedding—
Shit. The wedding.
There is a knock on the door.
"John. They're ready for you in a minute. You can come out now," says the voice behind the door.
Sherlock's eyes never leave his and he sees John's decision on his face a few seconds before John realizes it himself. In fact, John reads his own decision on Sherlock's face. John reads his decision in the way Sherlock's lips turn into a heartbreakingly sad smile.
He is marrying her today. Mary, Mary. Mary with the emerald eyes. Mary who is smart and funny and saved John when he was more hurt than he could have ever been. Mary. His savior.
Sherlock slumps, rests his cheek against John's knee. Then he takes John's hand and places a feather kiss on the knuckle. He looks up at John and his face is both sad and filled with love.
He rises from his knees gracefully. No sign of abandon or passion on his face. Nothing to indicate that he was kissing John except the slightly swollen lips. He is miraculously put together. John is boneless and panting against the wall but Sherlock is putting him together, buttoning his shirt, tying his tie, combing his hair with his fingers.
"There you go John," he says smoothly, "all evidence removed."
John nods weakly.
"For god's sake man," Sherlock says affectionately, taking John's face in his hands and giving him a little shake, "think of Anderson! Really think of him."
"What?" John stammers, and follows Sherlock's gaze to his own trousers—oh!
He laughs wholeheartedly. "How can I think of Anderson when I've got you right here?" he says softly, trying to show Sherlock with the look on his face that he is breaking his own heart in the process as well.
"Well, try," Sherlock says with a theatric roll of his eyes, putting on a great show of being unmoved by the whole thing, "it would be bad form to get married with…that."
John laughs again and takes a moment to compose himself. Then he heads for the door, refusing to look at Sherlock.
"John, I…" he hears Sherlock's muffled voice. Is he…crying? He looks over his shoulder. Sherlock has his back to him, he is looking out of the window.
"I wish you all the happiness in the world." His voice breaks quite obviously on the word happiness but other than that he sounds cheerful, calm, genuine. "My best to Mary."
He closes the door behind him and just as it clicks shut he swears he hears Sherlock sob: "I love you."
A/N: So here is the thing. This is one of John's many dreams in my WIP but I had it in mind as the prologue to another fic.
As it is, it's a standalone but I have an idea about how to build on it and continue the story. However, maybe it works better as a standalone? Thoughts are welcome.