Truth and Lies
Author's note: The wedding scene mentioned in Sweet Silver Lining. Hope you enjoy it!
It was a horrible fight. Not just a petty argument, but a full-fledged war. The blows hadn't hurt much. Those were just general outlets to confused frustration. It was the words that cut, and they cut deep. The bruises and busted lips would heal in a matter of weeks. Feelings-hurt, broken feelings, were a different matter entirely.
John Watson truly felt alone. He had been forbidden to see the bride, it was tradition after all, but these friends who took him under their wings were merely strangers. Mary's relatives. They didn't really know him, and feigned politeness. He didn't blame them. It's not like it was any skin off their teeth if he was content or not. After the wedding, they'd probably never see him again.
Standing in his nicest suit, he fidgeted. It didn't help that he'd hardly got a wink of sleep. Of course, for the first half of the night, he'd fought with Holmes. For hours, from the sun's setting till long after the moon's rise, they said horrible things to each other. Watson had called Holmes selfish, told him that he didn't and had never cared about anybody but himself.
"The one time I truly need you, you bail!" He'd spat. "After all I've done for you!"
"Attending your wedding to her is like asking a criminal to chop off his own head," Holmes retorted, his voice slightly less enraged. "I'm not going."
"You're jealous." The doctor wasn't sure where the words came from, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. "You've never been able to fit in among any crowd, no woman has ever been able to stand you, and now that the only other human that can actually tolerate you is leaving..." he trailed off, watching the hurt cross his friend's face.
Who was he kidding? It's not like he was surrounded by hundreds of companions. The detective was his only friend as well. He huffed, inhaling deeply, and raised his eyes towards the ceiling.
"Anything else you want to add?" Holmes asked quietly, raising his eyebrows a little.
"I didn't..." the apology was there, but Watson let his pride keep him from picking it up. "No."
Holmes nodded. "Then leave." He gestured towards the door with his head.
"So you're really not coming to my wedding?" Watson sighed. "You won't even do this one favor for me? All I'm asking is that you show up."
Holmes looked away, shaking his head. Watson moved towards the door, but stopped himself when he crossed paths with the detective. Without thinking about it, he swung at him, hitting him in the jaw. Holmes returned fire, punching him back, and the two began to fight. It didn't last ten seconds, but when they finally ended up nearly on opposite sides of the room, the tears were flowing. Holmes' anyway. Watson had better control over his.
Mary looked beautiful. The silver and white shades of her gown gave the allusion that she was walking down the aisle more slowly than she really was. The vieweres looked on, their faces glowing, murmuring in agreement about how lucky John Watson was. As she walked up to the alter, Watson tried his best to smile. So many times he'd smiled at her, smiled because of her, but now, he felt hollowed out.
When she was finally facing him, her cheeks glowed pink. As the preacher spoke, Watson felt himself drifting away, his thoughts warm and heavy-like deep sleep. His gaze wandered, and in the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure in the open doorway to the worship hall. He turned his head slightly, careful not to seem too inattentive, and his heart stopped. It was Holmes. He was dressed in one of Watson's best suits, though wrinkled and a few jacket buttons mismatched. His hair was dishevled, his face sloppily shaven. His eyes lacked sleep. He leaned his head against the doorframe.
Watson could feel the preacher looking at him, and even as he turned his head back to the matter at hand, he felt his eyes stuck on the man just out of view of everybody else.
"John Watson," the preacher said, a bit sternly. Apparently this was not the first time he'd called him. "Will you have this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together in the sacred estate of matrimony?"
Watson forced himself to turn to Mary. She looked at him, and then narrowed her gaze towards Holmes. She fingered her bouquet, staring down at the rose petals.
"Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?" The preacher read, pausing in each promise.
They were under the eyes of destiny then, and truth stared down at them. The problem , the doctor suddenly realized, was that it was not always easy to know what truth really meant. It wasn't always the opposite of false.
He looked at Mary, and she looked back at him, her eyes trying to read his. Watson opened his mouth, and then closed it. He tried again, but he could not bring himself to speak. As he looked down at the floor, struggling with a newfound fear, footsteps sounded, and heads turned. Holmes moved to the alter, just short of being between the future bride and groom.
"You can't do this," he said.
"Holmes..." Watson tried to make it sound like a warning, but it came out far too soft, far too understanding.
Love, comfort, honour, keep, sickness and in health, and forsake all others, keep thee unto...as long as you both shall live...
Watson had told Mary he loved her, but what was love? Tender touches and hand-holding? If that was love, then what was finding out the person you spent all of your time with was perfectly fine after a terrible brawl? If love was dizzy smiles and sweet laughter, then what was trust beyond logic and long periods of silence without ever feeling the least bit uncomfortable?
Watson had never comforted Mary, only assured her that they would be together. Was that really comfort? If so, what was he supposed to call tending to Holmes in a drug-induced paranoia? Checking his pulse and bringing cool cloths to head while the dillusional man sobbed incoherently about things that didn't even seem to exsist?
Watson admired Mary. She was a strong, independent woman, but was that honour? If he honoured her, then why did he feel so proud of Holmes when he pretended to be embarrassed by his odd antics?
Watson intended to keep Mary, but as he looked at Holmes, hearing him beg quietly, you can't do this... he wasn't sure if he was going to be keeping her or not...
Watson had never tended to Mary from a bedside manner. He knew every inch of Holmes' body, having doctored him numerous times. Even when he had more important things to do, he always made sure his best friend was his top priority on his recovery list. Accidental injuries or idiotic drug-use.
He hadn't foresaken all others in his engagement to Mary. Just the night before, he'd done the opposite, desperately trying to fit Holmes into their new life.
That was when the confusing reality of truth and false came together. Watson stared at Holmes. "Holmes..." he swallowed hard.
Mary closed her eyes, as if watching her future husband take his last breath. She turned to the detective. "I don't love you, Sherlock."
Watson looked at her, but Holmes kept his gaze on Watson. Mary continued, "Not anymore." She turned to Watson. "John, I'm sorry. My feelings are out of sorts...I can't marry you..."
"You don't love me?" Watson asked softly.
"No, John."
To everybody in the church, to the naked eye, Mary was rejecting him, but in their twisted tangle of fear and lies-one the three of them had been caught in for quite a while, but too meek to confess, they knew who was rejecting whom.
A hushed silence fell over the crowd before murmurs stirred. The preacher closed his bible, tapping his fingers against it.
"I love you," Holmes said shakily, smiling just a little. "More than anybody in this world." He swallowed hard, lowering his head. When he looked back up, tears were in his eyes. "I know...it's...selfish..."
"It's not..." Watson replied. "It's not, Holmes." He held out his hand, and Holmes clasped it. The false shake begged to be more, but all of the blind eyes couldn't turn away.
The End...