A/N: I wanted to write a fluffy piece of Johnlock, I truly, honestly did. I'm also supposed to be studying for a competition which supposedly will decide for my future (actually it's something I ethically refuse to be part of, since it's inherently wrong, but that's way off topic.) Anyway, – since I kind of drown in angst and painfest with All of Me (of scars and silences) and the chapter I'm writing is kicking my ass both emotionally and creatively, my desire to write a fluffy piece of Johnlock fic clashed with my viewing, half drunk, for the millionth time, of a beautiful johnlock video set to Say Something. My mind got stuck on an image – and it started from there.
I swear that in real life I'm not such an angst whore. I truly am not.
"Enjoy not getting involved." Mycroft had said.
And then there were people who wondered why he thought his brother was his archenemy. He had denied, of course – what else was he supposed to say or do, for that matter? It had been a futile attempt, he was aware of that, but admitting that it was too late, give or take of hundreds of days, would have been useless.
He had been doing well, all things considered: planning John's wedding had been a daunting task, and one never knew where, when or how the knowledge he had gathered for the past few months could become useful for a case.
He had been polite, counting up to ten (or one hundred on a couple of occasions) instead of letting his thoughts be known.
John had said he was his best friend, when he had asked him to be his best man. John, whom he had hurt, more than he had imagined when he had faked his suicide, had still chosen him.
Not where it really, truly mattered, but it had been enough. Sherlock Holmes, unlike what some people might think, could adapt to circumstances.
He had done well: he had posed for photographers, he had not embarrassed John or Mary, he had not even talked to Major Sholto, despite very much wanting to.
John –
John deserved to be happy. John had lines around his eyes, grey in his hair and something hollow inside of him that he had put there. And the reasons why he had done what he had done didn't really matter; not any longer. What mattered, what truly mattered was that if John had a chance to be happy then Sherlock would do everything in his power to make sure he got it.
Even if –
Even if balance of probability said that his marriage to Mary wouldn't last, because she had secrets, and he had chosen not to deduce them, for John's sake and because he liked Mary.
Even if deep down John needed something that a house in the suburbs, a boring job and domestic life could not provide him with.
Even if –
Even if there was his own heart that was drumming stolidly in his chest and Sherlock was tired of pretending it didn't hurt.
He was good at that, though. He was very good at pretending he didn't have a heart.
He was drunk. Very, very drunk.
How someone who could shoot cocaine and morphine and whatever drug up in his veins could be such a lightweight while drinking was something Sherlock had always been curious about.
He could not hold his liqueur. He became someone else when he drank, people actually thought he was nice when he was drunk.
He was not nice! He was a high functioning sociopath! He was an arsehole! He made grown men cry!
God, he was so drunk!
"I'll look like an idiot…" John was mumbling.
John.
Right.
John.
It was his stag night, it was a disaster, but John was smiling (pretty smile, he looked younger and dangerous and not dangerous at the same time and only he could manage that and still look interesting, and he should stop looking at him like that. bad brain! Bad, bad brain!) and they were drinking something sour and strong that John had taken from the kitchen, some bottle one of their clients had given them.
"You won't." Sherlock said, refraining, just in time, from commenting further.
Being drunk made him say things. Things that he could never say, not even while intoxicated.
"Easy for you to say." John said and he was drunk as well, but he looked relaxed, he looked like before – before he went away and Sherlock let himself relax, just a little.
"It's a dance – and everyone will look at Mary." Sherlock said. Well. That was almost the truth. As a general rule people looked at the bride, during a wedding. The bride was the real star of a wedding day.
He would look at John, though. He already knew that he would catalogue each and every gesture, every itch of his voice, every curl of his lips and his hands.
"Ta, mate…" John said.
He giggled. John was calling him "mate" a lot, lately. As if they were acquaintances who saw each Friday for fish and chips, as if they hadn't lived together and –
He downed the amber liquid in his glass with one gulp, not caring about the fact that he would feel even drunker in a few minutes.
"Why do you call me mate?" Sherlock asked.
Drinking was a stupid idea.
"You are my friend, aren't you?" John asked. And Sherlock smiled when he saw how the man was fighting with the laces of his shoes to untangle the knots.
He closed his hands in fists, because he wanted to help him, because he wanted to slide on his knees and that was a terrible, terrible idea.
"Friend. Yes. Best friend, according to you." Sherlock said. He sounded like a drunk obnoxious git.
"What else am I supposed to call you?" John asked, winning his fight with his shoelaces and kicking off his shoes.
"Sherlock?" He said, shrugging his shoulders.
John opened his mouth, he saw that there were things he wanted to say (weren't they always with them?) but he shook his head, instead, and rested his back against the backrest of the armchair.
"TA, Sherlock." He said.
"You know what I meant." Sherlock said, and his tongue was numb, for some reason. He wasn't sure he had actually said what he had meant to say. He didn't particularly care. He wasn't even sure about what he had meant.
"I'm a rubbish dancer." John continued.
The dance. Right, newlyweds were supposed to have the first dance, and one of his gifts for Mr. and Mrs. Watson was their wedding waltz.
He truly had a masochistic streak, his brother was right.
"Yes, but you still have time to improve and give an acceptable performance." Sherlock replied.
He was doing great: polysyllabic words and right mixture of aloofness and boredom.
"Says the man who looks like he's always on a catwalk." John snorted and, a moment later, Sherlock clearly saw the tips of John's ears redden with embarrassment.
"I'm sorry?" He asked.
John shook his head, "Nope!" He said, "Not talking about this right now."
Sherlock looked at him for a moment. If he were less drunk (a lot less drunk), he would, perhaps, say something, ask things – ask him whatever he had meant, but he could not say a word.
He got up from his armchair, instead, went to the windows and closed the binds.
"I'll teach you." He said.
They looked happy. And that was exactly how they were supposed to look: alight with joy, tired and in love. Sherlock suspected that the fact that he couldn't feel his own body (which was surprising while not on drugs) was a psychological reaction to the events of that day.
John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship.
He had said words, because it was traditional that best men wrote and said speeches for the groom. And Lestrade had told him to be honest, to say who John was, what he meant to him.
And John Watson was the most important person in his life, it was actually that simple. And it didn't matter if saying those words had made him feel naked, for a moment. It didn't even matter that people had cried (why? It wasn't their John who was starting a new chapter of their lives, a new era, it wasn't their flat that was empty and still carried John's presence in every molecule!).
John had hugged him and Sherlock had been far too sober and overwhelmed and himself to really feel.
He was feeling those arms around him, now. It was a ghost feeling and it was making him numb.
And he would have to play the waltz, in a few minutes, and he was frankly exhausted.
"I'm sorry, what?" John asked.
Sherlock turned, his head was spinning and he knew that he was very close to that spot where he would stop seeing everything, each detail as through a magnifying glass.
"Keep up, John. I'm teaching you how to waltz." Sherlock said.
It was a terrible idea, because John and he did not touch, unless it was compulsory – unless one of them was hurt. John and he didn't drink together, not that much alcohol, at least – and it had been ages since they had last been together without Mary.
Cases didn't count.
"You want to –" John trailed, blinking his eyes slowly. He looked so young. He didn't look like the man he had met at Bart's or the one he had surprised in that restaurant.
He swallowed past his suddenly dry throat.
More scotch. Dutch courage, or whatever inane thing it was called. He didn't care, he just knew that he needed more alcohol, before John or he changed their minds.
"Come here…"He said.
"There is no music." John replied, still blinking his eyes, as if he wasn't comprehending what he had said, as if he was the irrational one.
He swayed (later he would groan aloud at that part of his recollections) toward the bottle, because if John Watson thought that he always looked like he was on a catwalk then it was only fair to play the part, and filled a glass with liqueur.
"We have music." Sherlock said, using the voice which usually conveyed how utterly ignorant and stupid the rest of the human beings were.
"Do we?" John asked. He had got up from his armchair (it would always be his armchair, even after he married Mary. But he could not say such things.)
"Yep." Sherlock said.
"Right –" John said, clearly embarrassed and not at ease.
That was not good. It was John's stag night. He was supposed to have fun!
"John." Sherlock said, turning, surprised when he realised just how close John had got to him without him noticing.
"Sherlock." John said.
John had blue eyes. He was smiling, like he often did when he thought he was just a child having tantrums, but – there was something else there, as well. John –
John was getting married.
He was his best man.
Occam's razor said that he was drunk and that John was straight and in love with another woman.
Occam's razor could go and bugger itself, he decided, even as he took a step back and said, "Behold the power of modern technology, Dr. Watson: we have an ipod!"
John's eyes were too blue and he was too drunk and too close to stop pretending he wasn't in love with his best friend.
He was in love with his best friend. He had spent decades repeating ad nauseam that sentiment was a dangerous disadvantage, that it was a chemical defect found on the losing side, that no one should ever let one's heart overrule their brain, that he was above sentiment (somewhere Irene Adler was surely having a good laugh at him, he imagined) and here he was, six foot tall, dark curly hair, blue eyes, a formidable IQ, a genius, stuck at his best friend's wedding trying to ignore how their common friends looked at him with pity.
He could do that. He could take those few steps, he could take his violin and bow and start playing.
It couldn't be worse than hearing John saying, "I do." as he put a ring on Mary's finger anyway.
"Is it the thing you're writing for my wedding?" John asked hearing the first notes of the waltz.
"First." Sherlock said, adjusting John's position, "it is not a thing. It is a waltz. Move your hands, John, it is a dance not a choke hold." He waited for John to move, as he had instructed him to do, when he did he said, "Second of all: one doesn't write music. I composed it."
"Er – yes." John said, looking down.
"Look at me, not at your feet!" Sherlock instructed, but his voice didn't come out as a command. That was the thing that he hated about alcohol: all his layers disappeared and what was left of him without them? A man teaching how to waltz, letting his best friend lead him as notes of a waltz echoed in the room.
"I'll trample on your feet…" John said, "and we are both drunk."
"I don't care and it doesn't matter." Sherlock replied. And God – dear God – why had he even come out with that ludicrous idea to begin with?
It was good. It was too good: John was a quick learner and he was relaxing (he loved dancing, he always had.), and their sitting room was too cozy and he hated that music, that waltz with every fiber of his being.
"People who say you're a psychopath have never heard your music." John mumbled. He was drunk, very drunk (he was a soldier, how come he was such a light weight?) and his words were coming out half mumbled half slurred, but Sherlock could hear John just fine. He could still read his body and it was wrong and right and stupid and unfair.
"Perhaps they just –" Sherlock trailed.
John looked at him, they stilled for a moment, in the middle of the room, the music playing, "No," He said, "They haven't."
When Sherlock was a child there were those terrible, hideous moments where he had to perform for his relatives, during Christmas holidays or at school. Music helped him to think, to quiet the constant flow of data running through his head. He had always craved attention, he had always been a show off, but his relationship with music had never been part of that craving. Composing and playing was something he did for himself: not for the work, not to show how clever and great he was.
He hadn't played in public since he was a kid and in other moments he would perhaps feel a bit of anticipation for what he was about to do.
He was looking at Mary and John, the Watsons, their wedding rings quietly sparkling thanks to the candlelight (he had planned that too. He had planned every single detail: colors, textures, menus, music and lighting.) in the room.
They were happy. John was happy. John was a married man: he hated the suit he was wearing, but he loved Mary's, he was confident, optimist, full of hope for the future.
Sherlock couldn't feel his own fingers.
They swayed to the music. John didn't need to know that he had composed two waltz and he would never hear the second one. He didn't need to. If he believed, as he had inferred from his words, that his feelings and soul shone through his music, he would know, without a doubt, about what he felt for him. And that could never happen.
"Now what…?" John asked, as they repeated another movement.
"You are the expert on relationships and the like, John. Think…" Sherlock said, not feeling ashamed in the least of the bitterness he could hear in his own voice.
"And you are the expert of dance. It was your idea, wasn't it?" John retorted.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
It was wrong. He already knew he would regret it later, it felt like that moment at the restaurant, months before, when his breath caught in his throat and he was floored with how much he had missed John and how much he had changed and it was all his fault.
It felt like the second after he said good bye to John on that rooftop.
"Do you trust me?" He asked eventually.
A few years before he would have known the answer, it would have been a redundant question, but he had learned, the hard way, not to take things for granted.
"I do." John said, and maybe it was his imagination, the liqueur altering his perceptions, but he was sure, for a moment, that those two words carried a deeper meaning.
"Let's drink first…" He said, "I was told that one needs to drink considerable amounts of alcohol on one's stag night."
He moved away from John – feeling an irrational moment of loss, of cold seeping through his veins – and took the bottle and two glasses, filling them with liquid.
He handed a glass to John and they silently toasted.
"Now what?" John asked.
Sherlock finished his drink, took both glasses and placed them on the coffee table and said, "Follow my lead, now."
John chuckled, "Don't I always?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he pressed play on his ipod, but said, "Shall we?"
John Watson was addicted to danger. The first time Sherlock had seen him, at Bart's, he had seen just how close he had been to the edge, how badly he had needed a fix. As a fellow addict (it was the thrill, that moment of absolute peace and clarity that came with a high that they both craved), he had immediately recognized the signs.
John Watson was a doctor: he saved lives. He had saved his life when they had barely known each other, after he had seen London finest call him a freak, after his brother had kidnapped him and offered him money.
He had stayed.
John Watson was a soldier: underneath his calm exterior, his jumpers, his mild mannered behavior and excellent bedside manners with his patients there was a man who had seen people die on the field, who had scars and nightmares and medals in drawer of his desk (he didn't know where he kept them in the flat he shared with Mary).
John Watson was a brother, a friend, a lover.
He was a husband, now.
Mary Morstan was a lucky woman and if Sherlock was a better man, he would not be jealous. He would not be envious. He would be able to feel his own body as he played for John and Mary.
He loved the addicted, the doctor, the soldier, the savior, the friend, the brother, the lover (not his ) and he was falling in love with the husband as well.
He wasn't a good man.
The music felt different; it felt alive, it was vibrating in the room, their sitting room where everything still spoke of them: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the consulting detective with the funny hat and the blogger.
John-
John was everywhere: in his arms, around him, inside of him and Sherlock was an idiot, because the waltz would end, that night would end, and John was still going to get married to Mary.
He imagined, for a moment, how things would have been different if he hadn't jumped that day, if he hadn't spent two years away, trying to survive and do something good.
Would they still be in that room, practicing John's wedding waltz? Would they be chasing criminals all around London, giggling on crime scenes and riding the high of the adrenaline pumping through their veins?
Would they be that close for other reasons?
It was sentiment. Useless sentiment that would lead him nowhere.
He didn't even notice it, at first, when he shifted one hand to John's back, but when he did he didn't hesitate: he held him by the waist with the other and started to dip John backwards.
"What…?" John breathed.
John was a strong man, Sherlock was aware of the fact that he could and would free himself easily if he so chose, therefore he gave him time to do exactly that.
John's face was flushed, and his pupils dilated and he was not moving.
He could do that. He could kiss John, he wasn't so drunk that he could not recognize lust when he saw it in someone's eyes.
He could kiss John, taste his lips, finally know what the texture of the man's lips against his own felt like, how the liqueur and John's tang mixed.
He could have that. He could have, in the past – that and more.
He breathed for a moment against John's lips, his heart drumming against his ribcage when he felt John's breath against his own lips.
He could not do that to John, even if he wanted that (kiss John, be kissed by him, feel his naked skin under his palms, taste him, mark him, own him, love him, keep him with him that night and every night after that) more than he had ever wished for anything in his life.
He had wondered, for a long time, if John remembered, they had been drunk and had drunk a lot after, while playing that other ridiculous (and more platonic) game. He had never asked, never mentioned it and, of course, neither had John.
It didn't matter. John had made a vow that morning in front of God and men: he had taken Mary Elizabeth Morstan as his wife, he had made an oath to always be faithful, to stand by her for better and for worse until death parted them.
And before that, when the pastor had asked whether there was someone who had any objections to that wedding or to forever hold their peace, Sherlock had not said a word. He had stood by John's side, his body mechanically doing what it was supposed to do.
And yet –
He still wondered.
Their foreheads were pressed together. Another piece of music had started, it was possibly Chopin (he wondered how on Earth it was even on his ipod), but neither of them was moving. Sherlock could clearly see how it would end, should he do what he wanted to do: John would hurt, he would get angry, he would feel guilty – and no. He could not do that to John just because he was a selfish prick who had forgot, for a moment, how to pretend.
Mary was wearing an engagement ring, it was the same ring John had in the breast pocket of his jacket the night he came back into his life, he still kept it in his pocket while he had been in that bonfire.
He had made a promise to himself that night: John would not be hurt because of him again.
He pulled back, slowly, ignoring the disappointment he could see in John's eyes, ignoring how keenly he felt the loss of contact with John when the man took a couple of steps back.
"Warn a guy…" John said, clenching and unclenching his left hand.
"Sorry." Sherlock said.
He was – he was sorry that he had let John go two years before, he was sorry that he had come back too late, he was sorry that he hadn't kissed him, he was sorry that John looked disappointed and relieved at the same time.
"Do we still have that old scotch bottle? The one Mycroft gave us for Christmas?"
They had gotten shared gifts, before he fell. They had been a unit, a team: flat mates, friends, colleagues, partners in crime.
"I – I'll go and have a look in the kitchen's cabinets." John said, taking his words as his cue to leave the room.
Good. Excellent.
He had made a vow, he would honor it.
John deserved to be happy and he would do everything in his power to grant him that happiness.
He had always hated figures of speech and poetry. He could appreciate the musicality, the symmetry in some works of arts, but he had always despised hyperbole.
It took him a moment to fully understand what people, normal people, with normal lives and normal brains meant when they talked about having their hearts broken.
The thing was – he could only smile when it happened.
John remembered, after all. He saw dipping Mary back and finishing what he had started that night in their sitting room: he kissed his wife, while people around them, their friends, cheered.
He smiled, even if it hurt. He smiled because John was happy, he had honored his vow, he had contributed to John's happiness. He smiled because John had learned well and there were laugh lines around his eyes.
He smiled, even while he finally understood what it truly meant to be heartbroken.
He had told Mycroft that morning that he was not a child any more and it was true, he wasn't.
He didn't make a scene, he didn't turn into an asshole because he was hurting. He still had a duty as John's best man (best friend, colleague, former flat mate).
It didn't matter that he still could not feel his own fingers and body; he smiled and played his part.
And when John grabbed his neck, he imagined how things might have gone that night, in their sitting room, if they had made other choices, if he had never jumped.
And he was happy that John never saw him leaving, it was fair, it was like he had planned for things to go.
He would indulge, perhaps, later in what ifs, in fantasies and sentiment, when another kind of numbness would take hold of him.
That night, though, he kept feeling the ghost of John's touch: his embrace at the reception, his hands on the back of his neck and the warmth of their breaths, mingling for just one second, when he almost kissed the man he loved.