Late
The past is the past. It does not wait to be redone; it does not wait for anybody because it's not waiting. Nobody says 'the past is waiting'. It's always the future, but what good would that do for Sherlock? It was already too late for him. And now there he was, sitting in his flat, staring out the window at cars passing by, at half-past five in the morning, wearing a dumb suit just for John. He could hear the clock ticking, and it was so loud, and it seemed to be going just a fraction faster than usual. And Sherlock wanted to yell at it, tell it to stop. But he knew that yelling at mechanical objects was useless. He couldn't really get down on his knees and just beg the clock for more time.
It had been a little over a year since John had told him he was getting married, and now it was actually happening, and Sherlock hadn't the slightest about what to do. He'd had all that time, and he never said anything. Not one word. Of course he'd considered it. But there was no point. But he couldn't stand the thought of having to let John go, live a life of his own with his newly wed bride, have children, grow old with someone who wasn't Sherlock. It made him want to give up life and just lay down and never get up.
For some reason unbeknown to Sherlock, every part of his being was shriveling to nervousness. He hated it, what was the point of feeling so nervous when he had no reason to be? He'd given up sentiment years ago, so it didn't make sense to him. He didn't need to worry about these things, it wasn't logical to feel this way. So why did he?
Sherlock always knew it would happen; always knew he'd lose John someday. It was just a fact of life; everyone loses the people they cherish. But he never thought it would happen like this, he never thought that he would be losing John to someone else. And it felt like defeat, like he was not enough. And he wasn't, he really wasn't. John, who stood by him for so long, refused to believe he was a fake, and waited three years for him. How could he ever be enough for a man like that? It just did not seem possible.
Suddenly Sherlock was dragged from his thoughts by a shuffling behind him. He turned to find John standing there, dressed handsomely in a formal black tux with a grey bowtie, his hair combed neatly to the side. John straightened his bowtie, looking proud.
"How do I look?" He asked.
"Your bowtie is still crooked." Sherlock replied.
Sherlock got up from where he was sitting, and walked closer to John. He pressed his fingers to the edges of the bowtie. But they didn't move. They stayed there, lingering, as if Sherlock could maybe freeze this moment, or hold on to his blogger like this. John didn't pull away, for some reason.
Sherlock did not say anything. His lips were only a few millimetres from John's. They were so close, so very close. And his chance was right there, the chance which he never got. Slowly, gently, he pressed his hand against John's cheek, and filled the tiny space between them, moving his lips to touch John's. John's lips were warm, and softer than Sherlock would've ever guessed. Sherlock wound an arm around John's waist and pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together, and leaving little space to breathe. Sherlock made an almost inaudible moan.
The kiss was wet, with tears. Sherlock's emotions were spilling out like an uncontrollable flood, and the wall he'd been building up for so long was too weak to stop them. He could feel John's hands sliding over his, gently pushing him away. They looked at each other for a moment
"Sherlock, are you…crying?" John looked up at Sherlock, with his brows furrowed. He had not the slightest idea of what was happening.
"John, I…" Sherlock breathed. He didn't finish his sentence, instead lacing his fingers with John's, guiding him out of the room and down the corridor.
"Where are we going?" John asked in confusion.
"Here." Sherlock said, pulling John into his bedroom.
"Wait a minute- Sherlock, what are you doing?" John let go of Sherlock's hand and let his arms hang at his sides, waiting for an explanation. "I'm getting married, you know. You can't just snog me right before my wedding."
Although John knew this was wrong and it went against everything he had just said, he couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted this. He wanted to touch Sherlock, and be with him, and kiss him. He wanted to slither his hands between the detective's pale thighs, and touch every inch of his skin.
"You really are late, you know." John said.
"I do," Sherlock sighed, sitting down on his bed. "I'm so… sorry."
"So am I." John replied.
"You know I've never been good with timing, John." Sherlock shook his head.
"That's true," John nodded.
He laughed, and Sherlock caught on. They both chuckled, because of this whole situation. The stupidity of it, how it could've been prevented if they'd just said something, or made just one small move. They laughed at the past, realizing only now how blind they'd been.
"I never saw it, John. It's like a rock that's been thrown ages ago but only just hit me now. It… hurts." Sherlock looked at his flatmate, confused by the foreign feeling. He saw everything, so how could this, this sentiment he had for John, go unnoticed? Sherlock couldn't help but feel like a fool for not moving out of the way and letting that stupid rock go past him.
They did not say anything more, and John didn't ask questions because it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered right then was them, and the moment. John gently pushed Sherlock onto the bed and straddled him. He leaned down, and kissed the detective. Sherlock kissed him back, as his hand travelled up to John's hair and tangled there. Sherlock softly parted from John's mouth, and John could feel Sherlock's breath on his lips. His tongue crept out from between his lips, licking Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock's free hand hooked onto John's bowtie, practically ripping it off. His hand wandered down to the hem of John's jacket and his fingers brushed over the buttons before slowly undoing them.
John was gentle; his movements soft and subtle. Every single breath that Sherlock took beneath him sent shivers down his spine and he wanted to feel it as much as he could, every single vibration. Sherlock hesitated at the last button of John's jacket, unsure of what to do. John's fingers slid over Sherlock's, and he undid the last button himself. He took off the expensive white dress shirt below it, too.
Sherlock pulled John down by the neck, kissing him. He did not know what to do or where to put his hands, so he just placed them on John's bare back, holding him close. John's skin was warm and soft, and Sherlock wanted to keep his hands on that body forever. He rubbed his fingertips against the skin of John's chest and parted his lips from the other man's, moving them to John's neck. John gasped at the sudden contact between his skin and Sherlock's lips. It made him feel dizzy in an instant, and then he was lost; floating.
"Sherlock," John breathed, closing his eyes.
The way John said his name made Sherlock's blood feel like solar flares in his veins. He could feel John's hands sliding over his shoulders, down to the buttons on his shirt. John unbuttoned them with urgency and discarded the shirt to the ground.
Their lips met and John couldn't help but slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, exploring every inch inside. Sherlock tilted his head, running his own tongue over John's. He could feel a powerful surge of adrenaline run through him, crashing violently into his system and he moaned, unable to hold himself back. He realized that he didn't even know what he was doing, he'd never done it. He pulled away, looking at John with confusion and a sort of sadness in his eyes.
"Tell me what to do, John." Sherlock whispered.
"Just…touch me." John replied, moving his hands under Sherlock, to his shoulder blades. He traced their sharp curve. They were like little wings, ready to burst at any second. Sherlock shuddered at the soft touch which tickled his skin. His fingers brushed over John's shoulder, running a finger over his bullet wound, tracing the faint outline. Sherlock placed a soft and careful kiss to the skin there.
John sat up to unbutton Sherlock's trousers, and Sherlock took a moment to look him over. His skin was tan, and he was well built. His collarbones and hipbones were more defined than Sherlock would have thought, and he wanted so badly to trace every single one of John's bones. He could see John's chest falling and rising patiently. John's expression was calm, probably much calmer than Sherlock's. He was like a soldier in bed, too. John lowered himself back on top of Sherlock and nipped softly at his collarbone. Sherlock loosely twined his fingers into John's disheveled hair, and he could not stop the moans that were continuously emitting from his throat. His hands travelled down to the small of John's back. John nudged his knee between Sherlock's legs.
"Spread your legs." He whispered into Sherlock's ear before nipping softly at his lobe, and it made Sherlock's whole being shudder, down to his bones. He did it, hesitantly. Sherlock felt vulnerable in this position, even more so when John's hand began to slide below his underpants.
The tips of John's fingers brushed over Sherlock's bare skin. He pulled down Sherlock's trousers along with his underpants, leaving him completely naked and exposed. Taking in the full sight, the full effect of Sherlock's beauty hit him hard. He was so pale, the skin of a virgin. John's hand wandered over Sherlock's torso, right down to his genitalia.
Sherlock's breathing hitched momentarily, and he hid his flushed face in the crook of John's neck. Out of embarrassment or just too much pleasure, he couldn't tell. But it made him feel secure, like he was hidden away from the rest of the world, on his own in a small sanctuary at the place where John's neck connected to his shoulder. And Sherlock could think of nowhere else he'd rather be right at that moment.
"Sherlock?" John said his name in such a quiet and gentle voice.
"John." Sherlock muffled back.
"You ok?" John asked.
"Why are you getting married?" Sherlock suddenly asked.
"Because…" John tried to come up with an answer, but found that he didn't have one. And he couldn't help wondering if perhaps he's made mistake.
"If it hadn't been her, then would you… be mine?" Sherlock pressed his fingertips against John's cheek.
"Sherlock…" John murmured. "You were never my second choice."
Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. His hand crept down on top of John's, and he guided John's fingers down lower, until they were touching the head of his erection. John took it from there, and Sherlock withdrew his hand. He could already feel himself getting hard as John began to slowly pump him.
"John –" Sherlock bit his lower lip. The way John was touching him, so gently and intimately, made him feel ever so disoriented. If he could freeze any single moment in his whole life, it would be this one. Sherlock could feel goose bumps forming all over his body. He was at a loss of words, and all he could do was moan and cry out with expletives that he would never use in any other situation.
John's fingers were wrapped so firmly around Sherlock's cock. He slid them caressingly up and down the hardening shaft, and he could feel Sherlock's knees shaking. Sherlock arched his back, overcome by an immense sense of pleasure. John's free hand cupped Sherlock's jaw, and he brought the other man's lips closer to his. He could feel Sherlock's intense breathing through his open mouth, and John's mouth was also frozen in the same position. For a moment they were still, with their lips about a centimetre apart and their breathing merged.
"Oh, God." Sherlock stuttered, turning away. He could feel his cheeks growing hot. John forced Sherlock back, though, pushing his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. The heat of the moment was so intense, and it sent Sherlock right off the edge.
A muffled moan escaped Sherlock's throat as he came. A shudder went through him as the hot fluid shot through his cock in thin streams. John let go of Sherlock's jaw and his mouth latched onto Sherlock's neck, sucking lightly on the ghostly-white skin.
Sherlock's head fell to the side, exhausted and out of breath. He murmured a few unintelligible words as John left prominent, purple bruises on his neck.
After several bruises had bloomed on the paleness of Sherlock's skin, John rolled off of him. He propped himself up on one elbow, admiring his work for a second before Sherlock turned to face him. They looked at each other, no emotion showing in their faces, as if the curtains had been drawn once more.
"Well. I've got a wedding to attend." John said, getting up as if nothing had happened. But he was stopped by Sherlock's hand on his wrist.
"Don't go." Sherlock said. He cursed himself, knowing that John could hear the break in his voice.
"What? You think that just because we did that, I'm going to leave her and be with you?" John asked harshly, all the tenderness in his voice gone to anger.
"It's not completely my fault, John. You can pretend it was just me, but you played a part in this too, never saying anything, and then going off and getting married for no reason-" Sherlock was cut off.
"Well sorry I thought it would be a waste of time to confess my feelings to a sociopath! You're the one who led me off, telling me how you were 'married to your work' and 'not interested'! And I'm not getting married for 'no reason', Sherlock, I love her! But that probably doesn't mean anything to someone like you!" John shouted.
"Piss off." Sherlock said through gritted teeth, turning his back to John and shaking with anger.
"Fine. Sod this. You are a machine, I knew it. All you care about is yourself." John spit out.
The familiarities of the situation made Sherlock regret everything he'd just said. It was bad enough letting his best friend down once before, all those years ago, but now he'd done it again. He'd been so stupid.
Sherlock listened to the rustle of John putting his clothes back on, buttoning up his white dress shirt and his jacket cuffs; the soft patter of his socks as he left the room.
He heard the front door open and close. John leaving. Somehow he knew that John wouldn't be coming back. The wedding would commence, and Sherlock wouldn't see John again. Their lives would continue just like that, and Sherlock knew that years from now, he would be sitting somewhere, feeling wrong without John next to him. All he had remaining of John now were the bruises his mouth had left, but even those would fade away with time. He felt a dull, consistent ache and emptiness between his knees, like something was missing there.
But he knew all too well the feeling of emptiness; it was nothing new to him. He would get used to it, just like before. Now he was just a hollow shell, with nothing but numerous regrets and sorrows, and the knowledge that he'd been too late.