With declarations of a fourth series projecting through tumblr, I thought I'd come back to the Sherlock fandom starting with this little one shot.
This story hasn't been brit-picked but has been beta'd by my friend, whom I love with all my heart: pastelgothcastiel on tumblr. :)
Anyway, this is post-rf, pre-reunion. Enjoy!
It's been two years, four months, one week, and five days since he jumped. Alongside that, it's been one year, seven months, three weeks, and two days since he's seen John in person.
Now, that count can be reset.
Sherlock sits at the front of a cafe, dressed inconspicuously in jeans, a sweatshirt, and sunglasses. His hair, as it has been for the last two months, is a strange shade of light brown and is straight.
He's learned the art of blending in - had always known it, really. It was a skill that he'd hardly ever put to use before, though; besides disguising himself for the occasional case, he had no desire to look as if he was a part of the general population.
It's abhorrent, having to sit here and drink this poor excuse for tea while holding up a newspaper (as if the whole scene wasn't cliché enough) pretending to be interested in the ever-monotonous business section that he currently has open.
If someone was to walk by him and spare a quick glance in his direction like, say, an army doctor with a wretched limp, he'd look like any other British citizen in his mid-thirties; one with an internet addiction and who's slightly overworked, if said army doctor was to truly look closer, not that he would, of course. Yet, that's exactly how he wants it.
John doesn't even spare him a second glance as he strides past him to enter the building. He suspects he has the sunglasses to thank for that: they're cumbersome and extremely annoying but work well enough to hide his distinctive cheekbones - a feature of his he'd never really given much thought to before John had mentioned them years ago at Baskerville. John is, of course, slightly more observant than the masses, but with him being so close, Sherlock isn't taking any chances; therefore, the sunglasses remain.
Sherlock knows how incredibly stupid this is for him - how incredibly out of character. He's come back to London prematurely, even after finishing all of his work here, thereby potentially (very, very small potential, in any case) putting much of his plan in jeopardy. And for no reason other than a wedding.
If asked, he'll be able to put forth various arguments, all of which boil down to a feeling of obligation, and nothing more.
Of course, he knows that there's a bit more.
He's always cursed sentiment, curses it now, even. Honestly, the only being in the entire world who can dredge out these feelings from within his supposedly sociopathic mind is none other than the man currently limping his way to the counter, preparing to order coffees for himself and the three other participants in the ceremony, all waiting back at the church to proceed with the final rehearsal before the wedding tomorrow.
No, he's here because, though Sherlock finds it strange, he wants to be. Because over two years of hiding while chasing, setting-up, and, occasionally, killing criminals has - though he's loathe to admit it - taken its toll on him. Because a wedding is happening that involves John Watson and Sherlock wouldn't miss such an (apparently momentous) occasion for even the most interesting of cases. Because, if John knew he were alive, he'd want Sherlock to be there.
So now Sherlock is here, sitting in a London cafe barely a block over from the church in which the ceremony is taking place, observing his best friend as he tries to carry four coffees. Really, John is much too kind for his own good. He'd likely volunteered for the job, shooting down any half-hearted offers of help as they were formed.
Sherlock's sigh ruffles the corner of the newpaper still standing in front of him. At times, he hates his ability to read people so thoroughly and this is one of them. John looks, at the least, cheery in regards to the occasion. His lips are tilted up in a way that they weren't a year ago; he's even got some laugh lines shallowly carving their way around his eyes. But it's not enough.
Sherlock can see the pain and sadness, not right below the surface of his slightly-jaunty façade, but deeper below: still there even after all this time. It's there in his limp - worse, now, than it was when they'd first met. It's there in his clothes - all slightly rumpled, the jumper carrying a stain from a jammy dodger eaten earlier. Before, John was meticulous about his look; he was a military man and generally dressed in clothes that were clean and crisp, expressing that professional nature. Now, he didn't seem to have quite as much energy to spend on such tiny details.
The number one indicating factor lies in his hands. They're shaking, just as they were before John had shot a man to save Sherlock's life. The shaking of his hands is a direct indication of John's feeling of self worth. They had shook when he was away from danger and adrenaline - when he was, if not happy, then at least useful. Now, he believes that usefulness to be gone - that confidence dried up.
Sherlock hadn't expected to see these things, certainly not after so long. Observations of the expectations inherent in friendship provided him with the expectation that John would be helped, perhaps even pressured, by others close to him to move on more than he has.
In a way he's very far along, should the wedding be any indication. But at this rate, Sherlock will (hopefully) be back at 221B before John will have fully recovered.
He's cut short from his reverie by John turning the corner. That's alright, though, he shouldn't stay in one public spot for too long as it is.
Sherlock folds up his unread newspaper and dumps it in the nearby bin alongside his terrible tea.
He walks languidly past the church that's currently containing John, Harry Watson, Mary Morstan, and some other woman whose name he didn't bother to learn. Quickly scouting the building takes no more than a few seconds; once done, he moves on, completely unnoticed.
Sherlock arrives to the church early. The sun is dawning and London as a whole is just beginning to rise for the day. The wedding is scheduled to start in six hours, the participants are scheduled to arrive in two. Yes, very early indeed.
He walks quickly over to the building's large wooden doors. They're locked, of course - he wasn't expecting much different. Sherlock glances down either side of the street, making sure he won't be seen, and quickly makes his way to the back where he finds that a faulty lock is in place on one of the doors. He gets inside, making sure to re-lock the door behind him and makes his way to the stair column leading up to the bell tower.
From his cursory glance the day before, he'd managed to spot a walkway a few stories above the ground floor and a few stories below the bell itself. He climbs to the spot.
The walkway is narrow, probably supposed to have been used only while one was secured from above. Nonetheless, Sherlock has excellent balance and manages to seat himself without much hassle. When people begin to arrive, he'll flip over and lay face down so as to watch the proceedings, but for now, he's content with dangling his long legs over the side and sitting with his back against the stone wall.
The spot he's chosen will be obscured by the shadows given by the morning light of the ceremony and the clothes he's chosen have no chance of dangling over the edge or making too much noise should he need to move. The position is perfect.
With a few hours to kill, Sherlock contents himself with simply sitting and thinking, as he is wont to do.
He considers, firstly, the archaism of weddings. He's never fully understood the concept, especially in such a modern context. Why people throw so much effort and general importance onto a single day is beyond him. Besides that, so many people end up divorcing anyway, he hardly sees the point of matrimony in the first place.
If two humans love each other so much, as many apparently do, why bind one another with something as fickle and meaningless as law? Why not simply live together in one another's presence? Funds are easy enough to combine, as are various other aspects of one's personal life.
He supposes he'll have to ask John when he returns.
He looks down at the pews, predicting where various friends and family will be seated, where John will be standing, how long it will take Mary to walk down the main aisle.
All in all, it's very dull.
He ponders that fact for a moment. Ponders, not for the first time, the fact that he's here at all. He's not used to sentiment and social customs yet he had known, as soon as he heard about the occasion through Molly, that he should be here. He supposes that's another aspect of the ever-ambiguous institution of friendship.
It's all quite tedious, but he finds that, for John, he doesn't mind. And, at the very least, he'll be able to use this to hopefully appease John in some way when he returns. He knows John will be angry at the deception, Molly's told him as much, but Sherlock hopes that happiness will override that anger.
He thinks, then, on what it will take to return to 221B. Already, his original predictions have been shot down. He wasn't expecting to be gone for as long as he has been already.
He's in the middle of various calculations when the double doors open wide, admitting Harry and John, both looking stressed and slightly nervous. Sherlock flips himself up onto the ledge and watches as the ground floor enters into a whirlwind of activity.
The hours pass quickly as decorations are added, music is practised, and people get themselves ready in the back rooms.
Eventually, guests start arriving with gifts that find their way to the large table along the side wall. John emerges from the back a few minutes later wearing a black tuxedo that fits him perfectly (he knows how much John hates getting himself measured - Mycroft had insisted on it once, for a temptingly-interesting case) complete with a white undershirt, a deep grey bordering on blue tie that he imagines was picked to bring out the man's eyes, and a white breast pocket handkerchief.
Whoever helped John pick out his outfit did remarkably well, he had to admit.
Sherlock watches as scores of people arrive and seat themselves (most in the spots he'd predicted, of course). He is slightly surprised when Lestrade shows up with Molly in tow - her presence with him was not at all unexpected considering his reaction to her dress at the Christmas party at 221B. Eventually Mrs. Hudson arrives as well. He hadn't thought the three of them would show up for this. It pleases him to see that they still got along well with John.
After another half hour of meaningless platitudes and routine chit-chat, the pianist plays a quick tune and a hush falls over the crowd. John and Harry take their places up at the front, each smiling, looking much more eager than when they'd arrived.
Finally, after a few moments of silence, the pianist begins with a tune that Sherlock recognizes as Treulich Geführt, though he suspects that isn't the title used by most. He watches John's face as Mary enters wearing a typical bland white dress carrying a, frankly oversized, bouquet of flowers.
He grins as she walks down the aisle (slightly slower than he'd predicted) and is practically beaming as she reaches out and take the hands of Harry Watson.
The ceremony itself is short and goes along in the fashion Sherlock imagines most weddings do. Through it all, his eyes don't leave John.
John stands there smiling at his sister, looking extremely proud. He hands them the rings when he's asked to and gives a shout as the two women kiss each other at the end.
Sherlock finds that he, himself, is happy as well. He watches as the congregation stands and tosses rice (rice?) into the aisle as the two newlyweds run through to their car. John stands back and waits as everyone leaves for the reception.
As two people gather the gifts and carry them out he looks around a bit. Eventually, he grabs his cane from where he'd set it next to him at the front and begins walking to the large doors. He smiles at the people cleaning up after their party and thanks them all for their hard work.
Finally, he stops at the threshold and looks back. He looks up at the bell currently ringing to signal the end of the wedding and, inexplicably, he looks in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock ducks his head back; he knows that John can't see him but precautions never hurt. Slowly, he looks back over the edge and watches John take in the rest of the church. He nods, smiles brightly, says goodbye once again to the remaining people, and heads for the reception himself.
Things have gone off without a hitch, his sister is seemingly finally sober and in a steady relationship, and he has good friends in Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Sherlock can see that John is finally becoming truly happy.
If nothing else, Sherlock will be content for these next few months with that thought alone.
I'm an avid Johnlock shipper but also quite enjoy the canon; I figured I'd just mesh them in the best possible scenario I could think of :D.
Comments are always welcome either here or on my tumblr.
Thanks for reading!