Title: What Wedding?!
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John
Rating: K
Word Count: 1114
Summary: John tells Sherlock of his impending marriage, and Sherlock responds with his usual toddler-like self.
Author's Note: Rat, Wedding, Bow. Three infamous words to torment the fandom. I have no idea what "wedding" refers to, but it prompted this little plot bunny.
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or anything related.…because I'm not a brilliant troll, and that (apparently) is a requisite!
John walked slowly up the steps, hesitating on the landing, unsure if he wanted to enter the lounge or bypass straight to his room. Earlier in the evening, he had thought it best to give his flatmate time to himself, to process the news, and sulk if need be. But now he had begun to doubt whether it had been a good idea to abandon his friend at that particular moment, a foreshadowing of a greater, future desertion.
Reluctantly, he opened the lounge door, and glanced nervously around the room, his eyes alighting on Sherlock, who was absently watching a nature program on the telly. "You okay?" John began gently, hoping the anger he had sensed earlier was only a product of his own guilty imaginings.
Sherlock ignored the question, gliding regally across the room to flop down on the sofa, his face turned towards the wall in a silent tantrum. John sighed patiently, hanging his jacket up and setting his keys down on the kitchen table, then he waited a moment, hoping for some sort of response from the moody figure sprawled on the sofa.
"Not watching, then?" he asked the room in general, only to be met with a stony silence. Brow furrowed in annoyance, John removed a disc from it's case and inserted it into the player. "Won't mind if I change it over?" he asked out of habitual politeness, not expecting a reply. Flipping the channel, he grasped the remote and walked over to the sofa. "Budge up, Sherlock," he said, giving the limbs a gentle nudge. No answer, but the long legs extended slowly, reminding John of a cat stretching in the sun. "Sherlock."
"You have a chair," the lofty answer was given with a dismissive wave of a languid hand.
But what John needed at the moment was proximity, if the conversation was ever going to be had. "Yes," he answered half irritated and half suppressing a desire to laugh at his pouting flatmate, "but I don't want my chair right now, so scoot!"
Much grumbling and unintelligible muttering ensued, but the long legs curled up, the detective's face remaining buried in the sofa pillow. John sat on the far end of the sofa, leaning against the armrest, and looked across at his friend. "You know it's gonna be okay, don't you?" he asked quietly. No answer from the other end. "I'm not walking out of your life, or anything, just…. relocating."
"Won't be the same," came the smothered response, muttered in a tone John recognized as toddler-Sherlock, followed by a stroppy huff.
"Well, no," he agreed, "but – " John glanced in exasperation over at the shiny, dark curls. "Look, Sherlock, are you going to talk to me, or do I have to keep talking to the back of your head?"
With a loud, melodramatic sigh, the detective swung his legs around, and sat up, scooting to sit in the center of the sofa, nearer to John, his head hanging low and palms dangling loosely in his lap. "I need an assistant," his friend reminded him in a peevish tone.
No, John's mind supplied ruefully, you need a housekeeper, PR rep, accountant, mediocre chef, personal assistant, live-in physician, biographer and bodyguard, then added to himself, you need a friend.
"You didn't think this set-up would last forever, did you?" John asked sadly. "It's not what mates do, Sherlock. It's been ….. amazing ….. seriously, the most amazing thing in my life, but," his eyes grew pensive, "It's time to grow up now."
Silence. Long, passive silence from the motionless figure beside him, only broken by the quiet, too-quick breathing. John waited, unsure of how to continue, when the dark head suddenly slumped and dropped heavily on the jumper-clad shoulder.
"But what am I to do, John?" the mournful, childish plea was whispered, and John's heart gave a constricting tug at the sound. Hesitating for a moment, John reached over to gently cover one limp hand with his own. This was also something regular blokes Did Not Do, but at the moment, John didn't care. He glanced down at the hand in his, startled at the icy fingers, the hand trembling slightly in his grasp. This was not sorrow, nor petulant irritation. This was fear. Looking over at the rapidly blinking grey eyes, half-hidden by dark strands from the bowed head, John was abruptly reminded of the Cross Keys Inn, and Dewer's Hollow. This was naked fear, and being Sherlock, his friend had no experience to draw from in coping with it.
John watched the trembling hand in his for a moment, realizing suddenly what exactly the detective was so fearful of. He knew Sherlock was thinking of the old way of life, of going back to the time before he discovered he had a heart, back to the coldness of an empty house, without his friend to correct his social blunders and smooth the way through the maelstrom of social niceties, going back to a life again with no one to watch his back and be there at the end of the day to celebrate his successes or commiserate with him over his failures.
Surely Sherlock realized, didn't he, that his life and heart were large enough to care for two individuals as easily as one? But then, John reflected sadly that it was very possible that Sherlock did not understand that. His brilliant friend apparently had only ever cared for and opened up to one person, and John wondered for the thousandth time, what kind of childhood Sherlock could possibly have had to colour his thought processes so.
He sighed and gave the hand a gentle squeeze. "I'm not leaving you, you know." The head shifted on his shoulder, and the thin body beside him burrowed a little closer. "This isn't going to change how I…" How I feel, Sherlock. "You're my best mate, I'll still need you in my life, and I'm not letting you go, just because I've added someone else into it." No sound, but the breathing had slowed to a less panicked rhythm, and the cold hand had ceased to tremble.
John turned his attention back to the Bond movie, but left his hand cupped over his friend's. A short time later, he heard a gentle snore from below, and turned his head sideways, dark curls tickling his chin, to grin fondly at the great idiot sleeping on his shoulder. It would not be easy – change never was. But their friendship would survive this, and they would come out alright together. John leaned down to rest his cheek against the dark head on his shoulder, and smiled across the room at the telly.