Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

This story contains spoilers for The Sign of Three.

o

Not You

o

Sherlock hadn't seen John and Mary for a fortnight after the wedding, since they had immediately gone on their honeymoon. John had called him on the morning before they left, sounding a little tired: "When did you leave the party? I didn't get a chance to say goodbye."

"There's only so much disco music I can take."

"Ah." Affection was evident in John's voice at that. "Well, then. Thank you for everything, Sherlock. We'll be off soon, so... see you after."

"Yes. Have fun. And... you're welcome."

The detective kept himself occupied with a few cases, though he called them 'mediocre', if not tedious. Even though he pretended to be busy, Mrs Hudson suspected that he counted the days until John was going to be back; patience wasn't exactly his strong suit, after all.

Nevertheless, when the doctor called round after they had returned home, Sherlock acted surprised ("Back already? Isn't time flying!") and managed to actually fool John, who, unlike his wife, tended not to see through Sherlock's fibs so easily.

"Interesting case in the meantime then?" he asked, sitting down in the armchair which would forever be his and putting a bottle of wine on the small table next to it.

"Enough to keep me busy," Sherlock replied, "what's that?"

"A bottle of wine?"

"I can see that, John."

"Fine. An expression of gratitude. I brought it back from Italy, it's a very fine vintage, or so I was told."

"You already did thank me, repeatedly."

"This is the last one. Promise."

Sherlock smirked: "So? Are you intending to make a habit out of it?" he asked, picking up up the bow of his violin and fiddling with it as he sat down opposite John. Whom it took a moment to comprehend: "Huh? Oh, no. The stag night must not be repeated, if you ask me." He grinned despite his words. "No," he then said, "I just... really, I wanted to say thanks. You were a great Best Man, and... yeah. I just thought..." He trailed off, his grin fading into an almost timid smile.

"I see." Sherlock avoided his gaze, and for a little while, they were silent. Nothing had changed between them since the wedding, but this was not the same jaunty atmosphere satiated with alcohol and emotions; this was two weeks later, an ordinary day.

Neither of them usually found it easy to bare their feelings so openly as they had done at the wedding, and while they both vividly remembered what they had said and felt right then, it wasn't as easy to reproduce the same solemn sense of closeness out of the blue. Hence the wine, Sherlock assumed. John probably wanted to make sure that his friend hadn't changed his mind.

"Well, then," he eventually got to his feet and took the bottle. "Let's try it."

The wine actually was good. They drank, and John told Sherlock about the holiday; the detective even managed to look mildly interested.

After his second glass, John caught Sherlock's gaze, who had been staring into the fire since his friend had fallen silent: "You wrote the waltz yourself. For us. You composed it for us."

"It's my wedding gift. I thought it'd have to be something slightly more distinguished than a salad spinner."

John hummed, smiling. He waited a while, simply allowing the cosiness of 221B lull him in before he talked again: "Major Sholto is on the mend. He sent us a card, thanking us once more."

"Good."

"Yeah." John hesitated; there was another reason why he had come, and there was no point in postponing it any longer. "Sherlock- what happened during your speech?" he asked, feeling a little uneasy. "Right after you said 'Vatican Cameos', I mean."

"I..."

"You slapped your own face and shouted not you before you pointed at me and said it was me and that I always kept you right."

Sherlock fidgeted. "It was hard to concentrate in a room full of people."

"Who did you mean by not you?" John asked, ignoring that last remark.

Sherlock didn't answer, picking at a loose thread on the armrest instead.

"Sherlock?" John prompted.

"Mycroft," the detective finally muttered. "He broke into my Mind Palace. He does that sometimes."

The look on John's face turned from one of concern into something more grave. "So... you slapped yourself in order to get rid of him."

"Yes."

John pursed his lips, clearly not happy with what he had just heard.

"It's nothing out of the ordinary," Sherlock hurried to say. "Time was at the essence, after all, and while he at times does prove helpful, God help me, I couldn't let him distract me any further."

The doctor's voice was soft when he spoke next: "Maybe it was all a bit too much."

"That's what I was saying."

"I'm not talking about the reception. I'm talking about... everything."

When Sherlock looked at him with raised eyebrows, John continued: "You've been back for half a year now, Sherlock. You came back and picked up where you left. You never paused once. It's like you were never gone. Mary and you are getting on marvellously, something you've no idea just how grateful I'm for, but it also worries me."

"It worries you that your wife and I have taken a mutual liking to each other?" Sherlock frowned, unaware how it would have sounded if anyone else than him had said that.

"Not the actual fact that you like each other, on the contrary," John said, "but you've had a lot of things thrown at you at your return. You didn't get any time to adjust, the circumstances were sprung at you all at once and that was it. It must have been difficult."

Sherlock could feel his friend's eyes roaming over him, but he couldn't return John's gaze, not right then. "I'm fine," he murmured. "I certainly didn't expect everything to be as it was before." He could hear Mary's voice in his head at that: "Fibbing, Sherlock."

John however was also shaking his head, as the detective saw in his peripheral vision; not so easily fooled this time, then.

"Bollocks," he said. "You wouldn't have come to the restaurant in order to 'surprise' me if you hadn't thought nothing had changed."

To his horror, Sherlock felt his cheeks flush, if ever so slightly. "I hadn't given it much thought in advance," he said defiantly. "How to tell you that I was alive." Because it had hurt too much to think about John. He hadn't lied when he had said that he'd nearly contacted him so many times; each of them marking a weak moment when his loneliness nearly had overwhelmed him. He had missed John, and despite appearances, had been aware that his friend'd probably be hurt about having been left out of the picture.

John could see the echo of pain in Sherlock's features as he considered this. The detective wasn't aware that it was there, that he was letting down his guard.

Guiltily, John glanced at the wine; he had brought it on purpose, thinking he'd get Sherlock to talk a little easier. On second thought, he reminded himself that he really didn't need to feel any guilt about that, especially not if it was true what Sherlock had said at the wedding. John was still trying to recall any Wednesday which he might be missing. He should be angry about that, but as he looked at Sherlock now, his friend seemed anything but deceptive; he appeared weary.

"You can't fight all your battles alone," John heard himself say. "Whatever happened during those two years, it obviously is still with you."

It was, Sherlock thought. It occasionally haunted him in his dreams, usually resulting in days on which Mycroft did gain easy access to his Mind Palace, making Sherlock feel like an idiot again. He had no intention to share that with anyone though, not even with John.

Who obviously sensed that Sherlock wasn't going to elaborate on that or the Mycroft issue. He leaned forward in his chair, making Sherlock look at him: "And you have me, Sherlock," he said, quietly. "You're not the only one who can make a vow, you know."

Sherlock closed his eyes ever so briefly, as they were suddenly burning. "I know," he all but whispered. John's words had felt like a blessing, reminding Sherlock that his friend was still there, no matter the circumstances. During the Watsons' honeymoon, he had tried to reason with himself, telling himself that he would eventually have to refrain from taking up too much of John's time, especially after the baby had been born, and it had been difficult. Yet now he realized that he had been silly; it was John's choice as well, after all. If he wanted to be involved in Sherlock's life, the cases he took on, there'd be no way of stopping him.

Sherlock was not going to go to therapy or whichever ridiculous thing his friend might have in mind concerning the darkness and its aftermath; John's presence was enough, it had to be. After all, it had always been John who had kept Sherlock right.

"I know," Sherlock repeated when he opened his eyes again, meeting John's gaze with something akin of relief. "John."

o

The End

Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback

o