With each note that Sherlock produces on the strings of his violin, he feels his heart grow heavier in his chest. He is unable to pinpoint what the emotion is, but as his eyes watch John and Mary move in harmony, he feels it wash over him like a tsunami. It threatens to drown him, and he is barely able to maintain his focus, his vision blurring around the edges.
How can such an indecipherable emotion have such an affect on Sherlock? The man who usually chooses to follow the logic of his brain, rather than the illogical organ that beats inside his chest. Now is the worst timing possible to crumble beneath the weight of his own feelings, and so he pushes it all down, until it sits deep in his gut.
He doesn't know how he manages to push through the entire waltz he has composed. It is as though his hands move of their own accord from muscle memory alone, as his mind palace comes under attack from emotions that almost render him useless. He feels as though his great mind is coming under attack from a virus. This feeling - sensation - was there merely to distract him, and derail him. It was as though some great force was knocking the walls of his mind palace down, leaving him open and vulnerable.
Somehow he must manage to finish his music debut because suddenly John tilts Mary all the way back, signalling the end of their dance. The room is quickly filled with gasps of "will they?" but Sherlock already knows the answer like the back of his hand. Of course they will. It's obvious. John chose Mary, he married her, and now they are inevitably going to kiss and live out the rest of their dull lives.
Just because he knows the course of actions that are bound to take place, it doesn't stop his breath from stuttering in his throat, and his heart from skipping a minuscule beat. That feeling of drowning all but consumes him as John's lips connect with his wife's own. It fills his mouth with saliva, closes off his throat, and causes his lungs to burn.
It hurts. It hurts so much. Why does it hurt? He doesn't understand what is happening to him. He feels like an overgrown toddler, not able to comprehend the world around him. Everything is just shapes and colours and sounds that taunt him. The blurred silhouette belonging to John makes him feel like his heart is palpitating inside his chest, and he doesn't understand why, can't possibly get his brain to catch up with all the stimuli the wedding is providing.
His usually steady hand begins to shake, causing the music to cease its natural flow. Thankfully most people in the crowd are too focused on John and Mary to bother with Sherlock, and the few botched notes go unnoticed. Sherlock notices, though, and it's too much to bear. Because he'd rehearsed the song so well that he knew the ebb and flow of each note, and this shouldn't be happening. He should be able to play with steady hands, with no mistakes, because Sherlock Holmes does not make mistakes.
There is a lump in his throat as he makes his vow. He tells himself that he is making the vow for both Mary and John, but the truth rattles inside him so loudly, he is surprised that everyone can't hear it beneath his trembled words. Are his words trembling? To his ears they sound fragile, as though they are made out glass, and are on the verge of shattering.
His voice is rougher than usual, deep with raw pain, and he struggles to force the words out. He still doesn't understand what is wrong with him. He just knows that everything is suddenly painful.
"Mary and John, whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear no matter what happens, I will always be there for you. Always."
In truth, his words scream "John Watson, I would lay down my life for you, if that is what you need. I will be there for you always. No matter what. Even though I'm no longer the center of your world, you will always be the center of mine."
Then he deduces that Mary is pregnant and his mind goes blank. This was one thing that he should have anticipated, and he hadn't, therefore the shock behind this revelation has him reeling. Pregnant? So soon? The wedding had only just taken place!
Simply not possible, Sherlock thinks, but as his mind runs over things he realises that he's been stupid and blind, and it's been in front of his eyes for the whole day. He'd been so focussed on not messing up the best man speech, and making sure John was having a happy and good day, as well as solving a murder, that he hadn't picked up on the Watson baby.
John Watson is to become a father. He will no no longer have time to go on cases with Sherlock, he will no longer blog about their adventures together, and once the domesticity that comes with fatherhood takes over Sherlock will fade from his life completely.
John won't want to be cleaning up after insane consulting detectives once he's a dad. After all, John may be addicted to danger, but he is also a sensible man. He wouldn't want Sherlock anywhere near his child, would probably fear that Sherlock would traumatise the thing for life, or somehow endanger the baby with his experiments.
The infamous blogger is a storyteller, and that is exactly what Sherlock will become. Oh yes, John will probably mention him in a few years time, at a horrible party with people he barely gets on with, but apart from those rare occasions Sherlock will cease to exist. He will become a ghost of John Watson's past and that hurts too much to bear.
Moriarty had told him that he was going to burn out Sherlock's heart. Maybe the consulting criminal had anticipated this. He'd known that Sherlock would fake his death and spend the next two years destroying his web, and he'd suspected that John would move on in that time period, leaving Sherlock more lonely and isolated than he has ever been in his life.
Because no matter what, John Watson will always be Sherlock's entire universe. When Sherlock closes his eyes in years to come, his hair turning grey, he'll still see John behind his lids, as though he were actually standing in front of Sherlock.
With each minute, hour, day, and year Sherlock is apart from John, the desire to be by the man's side will grow. Then one day every single one of his thoughts will become tainted by the image of his soft smile, and his kind eyes, and the gentle sound of his laugh. And it will kill Sherlock. It will destroy him. It will burn him from the inside out.
Sherlock knows this in the pit of his belly. It's a fact that he carries forward with each sped up beat of his heart. It's an unspoken truth that he tries to hide behind, as he reassures Mary and John that they will be wonderful parents, and proclaims that they won't need him around now they have a real baby on the way. Is sounds as though he is trying to be humorous, but it's the truth, and once those words leave him he wants to break down.
The broad grin that he forces onto his face is so fake that it hurts his cheeks, facial muscles straining into place, as he tries his best to keep up his facade. But then John turns away for the briefest of moments and the smile slides away, leaving only a mask of raw pain and honesty behind. That's his big mistake it seems, as John glances back up at him, his own expression faltering as if to say "could he? Does he? No- Not Sherlock. I must be seeing things."
Sherlock allows John to come to his own conclusions. Whatever John thinks of him in that moment, it would be nowhere near the truth, because John still sees him as a disinterested party when it comes to love. He could never think that Sherlock was capable of such a thing, and he would never suspect that Sherlock was in fact deeply, inconceivably besotted with him. Was that what this was then? Love?
He'd heard that you don't know what you had, until you lose it. Sherlock had never understood that statement, not until now. It's like an electric voltage passes through his body then, as it dawns on him, that he is in love with John Watson. Love explains why it is so painful to breathe, why his heart aches when he sees John with Mary, and why he'd been so anxious in the run up towards the wedding.
He wants to push all thoughts of sentiment, and god forbid, love away. But it's too late because John Watson had Sherlock's heart from the moment he first saved his life, and selfishly the ex-soldier was never going to give Sherlock that back. There would always be a part of the detective chained to John Watson, and that meant sooner of later Sherlock's world was going to crash around him. It was inevitable. Unavoidable. It hurt.
Sherlock realises that all three of them haven't moved since his revelation about John becoming a father. This simply wouldn't do. The crowd would become suspicious, and if he wasn't careful John would be able to pick apart what he was feeling like a scab. All it would take was one glance too many, and Sherlock was certain that the truth would spill from him. If that happens, then it will cause pain for all three of them, so he makes a big deal about dancing.
"Both of you, now, go dance. We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we're talking about."
"Right." John agrees with him. Sherlock can hear the concern in John's voice and the unspoken "are you OK?" but he decides to ignore it. This day is not about the affairs of Sherlock's own heart. It is about making sure John is happy. John Watson's happiness trumps the internal battle Sherlock is having with himself.
Mary reaches out to him and squeezes his arm gently. The human contact turns his blood into ice, and he resists the urge to flinch. But then she asks him a question, ans despite how sincere and sweet her voice sounds, it feels as though she is purposely being cruel.
"And what about you?"
She knows, Sherlock thinks. She can probably see right through me. Why is she torturing me like this? Why is it necessary to enforce the idea that I am alone. This is an undeniable fact I am aware of.
Every fiber of his being screams. It's agony. He wants to snap, to come up with some quick witty remark as he usually does, but he can't do that. That would upset John, and that was everything Sherlock didn't want. If he behaved himself, and tred carefully, maybe it would bide him some time and John wouldn't be quite as quick to push him out of his life. He doesn't answer her question. His lips remain thin and tightly pursed, a small frown indenting his brow.
"Well, we can't all three dance. There are limits!" John exclaims, a teasing grin pulling at his lips.
Sherlock is unable to fight back the thoughts of 'why are there limits?' and 'since when do /we/ have limits John?' but he pushes those dreadful thoughts to the back of his mind, and forces himself to say "Yes there are."
John clears his throat awkwardly and turns away from Sherlock, tearful eyes settling on Mary. He looks a mixture of happy and - regretful? Why would John feel regret? It makes no sense so Sherlock convinces himself that his deductions are obviously clouded by his emotions.
"Come on husband. Let's go."
John points over his shoulder, looks a tad nervous. " This isn't a waltz, is it?"
Mary laughs at how utterly clueless John appears to be. Sherlock can't help but think he would never laugh or tease John over such a thing. He would just take John's smaller hands into his own, and he would lead him onto the dance floor, showing him what to do whilst whispering comforting reassurances into his ear. In fact he'd already done just that, had indulged in his own selfish desires, all under the pretense of teaching John how to dance. He'd just wanted one day to dance with John, to forget that the man he loves has moved on, to lose himself entirely in John. That had been ridiculously selfish of him, hadn't it?
"Don't worry, Mary." Sherlock says weakly, as the image of him and John dancing together penetrates his every thought. "I have been tutoring him."
"He did, you know. Baker Street, behind closed curtains." John slides an arm around Mary's waist, grinning at the memory. " Mrs Hudson came in. Don't know how those rumors started!"
John giggles as he and Mary begin to sway in the direction of the other wedding party goers. The sound, usually bringing such comfort to Sherlock, sends a sharp stab to his heart. Because to John that's all they would ever be; rumors. The man would never know that behind it all lay Sherlock's true affection and love, and that the rumors behind Sherlock not being entirely platonic towards John were all true. No, John would move on with his life, have multiple children, and live in some dull family home away from Baker Street, and away from his life with Sherlock.
Sherlock watches mournfully as John moves with Mary, eyes dancing bright with elation, probably drunk off getting married and becoming a father on the same day. Every inch of him is consumed by the need to reach out and dance with John himself, but it's too late, and Sherlock's feelings have presented themselves with appallingly bad timing.
The music that the DJ is playing flows through him painfully. Each lyric feeling as though it is meant personally for him.
Oh, what a night
Why'd it take so long to see the light?
Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right
Why had it taken John's own wedding for Sherlock to realise how deep his feelings for John were rooted? It seemed the universes deeply unfair way of torturing him. Have him fall in love slowly, without his awareness or consent, and then thrust all of those emotions on him at once, when it was already too late to act upon them.
He looks around for someone to dance with, but everyone already has a dancing partner it seems. Even Janine, who Sherlock actually quite liked, had found someone to dance with.
It's an incredibly troubling feeling that hits Sherlock then. He is surrounded by a large crowd of wedding goers, and everyone there has someone to spend the night with, but despite this Sherlock is utterly alone. He stands stock still for a while, sad expression gazing around, and he feels so lost and so incredibly overwhelmed.
If no one is willing to dance with him, what is the point of staying? His presence there is unwanted. He should just do everyone a favor and leave before he proves to be a bother. He probably looks like a complete downer, not dancing, just staring miserably.
So he decides that he will leave the party, slip out unnoticed. He delicately folds the piece of music he wrote into its envelope and leaves it propped up on the music stand. In his haste to leave, he forgets his violin. He is far too focused on exiting without drawing attention to himself that he does not go back for it.
He hears Mrs Hudson's haunting words inside his mind 'Who leaves a wedding early?'
He fears John will be terribly angry at him, maybe even a bit hurt, when he finds out he has left early. But it's just too much and Sherlock is certain that he is unable to handle another moment of being reminded of his loneliness.
The bitter cold hits him as he exits the building. He pulls his coat tighter around him, but this does nothing to stop the chill that is already settling in his bones. Beneath the thick, woolen Belstaff, he shivers.
As he gets further away from the wedding reception, an urge hits him. It starts as a small, indecipherable itch in the crook of his elbows. Then the itch travels up his body, and settles in his brain as a silent demand. He realises that this is the first time he has craved for cocaine since he first met John.
He wants to replace the pain he feels now with euphoria. He needs that hit of happiness to forget that he is in love with John Watson. And once the high leaves him? The world will be boring, dull, black and white. And Sherlock? He'll be emotionally numb, he'll 'delete" his feelings for John, and will go back to the Sherlock Holmes that existed before John Watson came into his life.
Every day from now on, he will live for his next hit. The drug of his choice will consume him. Eventually, it will probably kill him. But dying as an unfeeling and numb machine, is better than allowing his own sentiment to lead him to his death.
This is logic Sherlock uses as he heads into the depths of London's streets looking to score.
Sherlock is at least sensible enough to head back to Baker Street. It isn't until he is inside and has barricaded the door (god forbid someone finds him like this) that he administers the drug.
His body welcomes it and he falls into a pit of pure ecstasy. His entire body goes lax in his chair, and a wild grin appears on his face. He is so blissfully happy that he can't remember if he's exceeded his usual 7% solution, and he rather can't bring himself to care.
It seems as though his plan to erase his feelings for John are working. That is, however, until the hallucinations begin. His drug addled brain seems angry at him for even trying to forget, and every image that flits in front of him is consumed by John.
Stupid. Stupid, Sherlock! Thinking it would be that easy to rid himself of his feelings, the sentiment that has such a strong grip of him. It's pathetic of him, really.
The one hallucination simply refuses to leave him. It plays out over and over again, like a video stuck on repeat in his mind, or a nightmare that he can not wake up from.
"John, you really are a ridiculous man." Sherlock sits in his chair as he watches John stumble and amble around the floor, tripping over his own feet several times, and not keeping up with the rhythm of the man has no rhythm, and despite how eloquent Sherlock's violin playing is, he is having difficultly getting his body to move in accordance with the soft melody.
John lifts his eyes up to meet with Sherlock, looking defeated. A soft, exasperated sigh expels from his lips.
"I'll never get the hang of this, Sherlock. It's useless. I'm useless." He looks miserable, on the teetering edge of giving up. His shoulders slump, his face crumples, and he looks frustrated with himself. "Do I have to dance? Maybe I can get away with-"
Sherlock shakes his head, plucks one of his violin strings, not really playing anymore. "You don't want to dance...at your own wedding? It's traditional, John. I figured that as a traditional man you would like to participate in the simple act of dancing."
"Simple?" John scoffs. "Yeh, maybe for the likes of Sherlock Holmes, but for me? Yeh, right. I'll be utter rubbish and everyone will be watching! I'll look like an idiot."
"Nonsense. You just need someone to lead and show you the ropes." Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. He places his violin down carefully, and stands, one of his hands outreached towards John.
"What?" John's voice raises in pitch, his voice coming out a bit choked. "You want to dance...with me?"
"Must you ask questions that you already know the answer to?" Sherlock smiles warmly at John, the tips of his fingers twitching invitingly. " Come on, I don't bite."
This loosens the tension in John's body, muscles relaxing. Sherlock watches as the man giggles and stutters forwards a few steps, until Sherlock's larger hand is clasping John's smaller one.
"This is ridiculous," John says as he stares at their adjoined hands. "Dancing with Sherlock Holmes? I think this is the most ridiculous thing that I've ever done."
Sherlock sees the internal panic that must surge through John, the cogwheels turning frantically in his friend's mind. After all, from this close-up Sherlock must seem terribly intimidating. Their faces are so close that it's possible to feel the warmth radiating from one another, their measured breaths mingling together.
He knows that before they begin their lesson, John needs to calm down. Or else the man will be too stiff to move fluidly around the room, and it will make teaching him to dance infinitely more difficult. So he squeezes the hand connected to his, meaning for the gesture to be comforting, and for now he settles his free hand on John's shoulder.
"You invaded Afghanistan." He says, reminiscent of their first case together. This produces further giggles from John, and Sherlock feels rather than sees him relax, that internal panic fading away.
"Nope. I think this tops that, Sherlock."
"You trust me, don't you?" Sherlock asks, voice rumbling dangerously close to John's ear. The shiver that runs down John's entire body like electricity goes unmentioned by them both.
The question causes John to look quite incredulous, expression pulling back in disbelief. As though he is silently saying 'how can you even ask that?' What he says out loud warms Sherlock all over, makes his belly flip inside him, and his toes curl with happiness. It's vaguely similar to when John confirmed Sherlock was his best friend, but it feels more intense somehow, more meaningful.
"Yes, of course I do. Of course, I trust you."
"Good." Sherlock's lips form a genuine smile. "Shall we begin?"
"Yes, but...how?"
"Well, you'll be leading on the day of your wedding, I presume."
"Of course I'll be leading! Like you said...I'm a traditional man."
"That was a rather ridiculous question." Sherlock muses, before shaking it off. "Apologies, let's begin."
He draws John closer to him, so that there is merely a few inches between them. As their chests press lightly together, he almost forgets how to breathe, as he revels in how solid and dependable John feels next to him.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock realises that he hasn't moved or said anything in a while. His brain feels fried, everything around him hazy. The only thing he can truly focus on is John and how good it feels to have him so close, after spending two whole years apart from him.
"Hmm?"
"You OK? You seem a bit spaced out."
"Me? Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just, um, calculating how best to teach you."
He takes the hand that isn't holding his and places it on his waist. "You'll need to hold your partner here firmly to support them. Focus on holding your partner close. It's comforting for them to know that you are in control."
"Ah," John runs his thumb along the soft fabric of Sherlock's purple shirt. He makes sure his hand is gently but firmly gripping his best friends' waist. "Does this feel good, Sherlock?"
Sherlock nods so hastily that a few of his curls go awol, and they sweep across his eyes. "It feels quite incredible, John. You see? You're already a natural."
His heart rate is excelling inside his chest, and he feels an unfamiliar warmth rising from his cheeks, all the way down the slender stretch of neck he has on display. The vein in his neck throbs as his pulse reaches new speeds.
It seems ridiculous as they haven't even begun to move yet. His pulse should be steady, and he should not have developed a flush. He isn't quite sure what his transport is doing, or why it is suddenly developing strange behavior and acting of its own accord.
As his gaze settles on John, the flush deepens to an even more embarrassing shade of red, as he realises how closely John is watching him. John is a doctor, so surely he knows what is wrong with him, but the man doesn't seem particularly concerned. If anything he just seems amused, lips twitching.
"If you're not comfortable with this, I can always go somewhere else for lessons." John is being kind, giving him an escape route, but Sherlock can't bear the thought of losing this moment.
"I'm fine, John. You're just proving to be a tad distracting."
"Am I?" John asks cheekily, sounding as if he is flirting with Sherlock. He isn't! Don't be so ludicrous. Why choose now to flirt with Sherlock anyway? John is getting married to Mary, that's who his heart belongs to, not Sherlock.
"Shut up."
John doesn't speak after that point, but the amused smile doesn't leave. As they begin to move around the flat, learning an English waltz together, Sherlock repeatedly whispers the steps until they become drilled into John's head as a mantra.
John's feet catch up with his mind, as soon as he has become aware of the rhythm and movement required by him. He starts to become braver, bolder, and leads Sherlock in the dance as though it is something that comes perfectly natural to him. There is a new look in John's eyes now, something that sits on the borderline of hungry and lustful.
He watches Sherlock, gaze never faltering, and he looks blind drunk off ecstasy. Their bodies touch, electricity passing between them, swaying together in blissful harmony. They move like two lovers and Sherlock is becoming more and more aware of his bodily reactions to this notion. He tries to block it out but it feels so good, and he is unable to pinpoint when he was last this happy, so he lets it happen.
As they dance he realises how particularly damning his actions are. He might as well be wearing his heart on his sleeve. He hopes that John ignores how he is turning into a pliant mess, or how certain extremities were now pressing up against John's hip. No matter how much he wills his body to calm down, everything feels heated, and every inch of Sherlock leans into John, as though drawn by a magnetic pull.
Sherlock dares to close his eyes, as he soaks it all in. He is unable to think coherently with John pressed up against him like this. A deep attraction builds inside him like a volcano, threatening to explode at any given moment. It would just take a fractional moment of John pressing into him in the right way and the game would be over. John might pull away, utterly disgusted by Sherlock's response, might ban him from the wedding entirely.
Unfortunately for Sherlock, there is no time to extract himself from his dancing partner. John is suddenly moving him in a way that makes the blood in his head rush, his entire body tilting at an angle, and his eyes snap open. John has titled him, as he will with Mary on his wedding day, his stocky body hovering over Sherlock's leaner one.
Their faces are so close their noses brush. All Sherlock can focus on is John's lips, how soft they look, and how he wishes they were his to kiss. John looks like he's thinking the exact same thing, licking his lips, and he leans in closer. So close to kissing Sherlock, so close to sealing the deal, and it causes Sherlock's pulse to gush in his ears. He realises, to his horror, that he would not mind in the slightest if John followed through with a kiss, and there is nothing in this world that would stop him from reciprocating.
For a moment it's just them, a tangle of limbs, hips pressed up against each other, both of their chests moving with ragged breaths. Everything is warm and tingly, and John's arm around his waist tightens.
Sherlock is foolish enough to think that something may come from this moment, that John would change his mind about Mary, and choose him instead. But a moment later John pulls away and tugs Sherlock back into a standing position. His expression is a wild mixture of confusion and fading arousal, and he backs the hell away, chest still heaving with exertion.
"I'm sorry." He mumbles. "I don't know what that was."
"It's fine," Sherlock reassures him, even though it is very clearly not fine. "It's all fine."
John just nods and moves to grab his jacket. This causes Sherlock's heart to ache. He doesn't want John to leave just yet. It feels wrong, like there's something between them that they need to air out.
"John-" Sherlock is almost entering full blown panic mode, his hypnotizing blue eyes widening with all his fears and insecurities. "please just forget this, John."
"Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm not mad." John sighs, sounds exasperated. "I'm just...confused, I guess. I'm not sure how things got that far."
"But we're good?" Sherlock practically snaps, feeling on edge. "I didn't offend you, did I?"
"You didn't do anything wrong, Sherlock. You're an excellent dancer and a very good tutor."
"Well," Sherlock says, somewhat less panicked, but no less tense. "I had a very good student."
"I need to go cool off." John says then, very suddenly as he reaches for door handle. "Same time next week though, yeh? I still think I have two left feet. Could do with a bit more practice."
"Yes," Sherlock agrees with John hastily. "Of course. Same time next week."
John nods, then takes his leave, and Sherlock collapses in his chair. His hands cover his face, and a low groan emits from his throat. He is as confused about what has just taken place as John is. He feels frustrated at himself, bitter that their session had ended so awkwardly.
He'd felt as though he'd at last found his place of belonging, by John's side, bodies locked together. It was as though they had been dancing partners for years. Images of him and John twirling around together, until they are both grey and retired, filter through his mind.
He wonders what it would be like to marry John Watson, to have him as his own, to be two husbands growing old together. Marriage was not a subject that he liked to dwell upon, and yet here he was, feeling giddy from the fading body contact with John, and dreaming about things that were no longer possibilities.
"cooo-eee!" Mrs Hudson interrupts his train of thought with a light knock at the door. With her, as per usual, she carries a tray of tea and biscuits. "Has John left already? That was terribly quick."
"He got rather hot under the collar from the dancing lesson I gave him. Said he had to cool off." Sherlock sounds utterly bitter, and it shows on his face in the form of a scowl.
Mrs Hudson looks at him knowingly. It is a look that he hates because it is filled with pity. "You really ought to talk to John, Sherlock."
"About what?!" Sherlock snaps, as he picks up his cup of tea, sipping at the piping hot liquid angrily.
"You need to tell him how you feel. Because believe me when I say if he finds out after the wedding things will only be more difficult for you both."
"Oh do shut up Mrs Hudson." Sherlock snarls. "You and I both know that I don't feel things like that."
Mrs Hudson sighs, shakes her head in dismay. "I do hate it when you boys don't talk to each other about what's really on your minds."
She doesn't press Sherlock anymore, thankfully, and leaves him to drink his tea in peace. Her disapproval of the whole situation is shown by the way she slams the door to the flat behind her.
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his chair, sad gaze resting on John's empty armchair. It hits him all at once then; John is leaving to get married, that wouldn't be /his/ armchair anymore, it would just be a piece of furniture that slowly gathered dust.
John was never going to return to Sherlock's life, not in the way Sherlock wanted. A flare of pain sparks inside him, and he closes his eyes, trying to suppress the overwhelming emotion that wants to break free.
The memory fades away from Sherlock's mind, and he jerks back into awareness. He is still sat on his own, staring at John's armchair miserably, only this time the emotions are a little more willing to break free.
His hands fly to his cheeks, which are damp, soaked with a cascade of tears. He doesn't remember when he started to cry, but it's obvious he's been at it for a while. He's just thankful that everyone is still at the wedding reception, so no one will be able to see him looking so horrendously upset.
He wipes at the tear droplets still running down his cheekbones and lets out a bark of frustration. His transport is betraying him all over again, and he can't understand why. Well, actually, he can. He just doesn't want to admit the mistake he has made, or how John moving on with Mary has affected him.
Mrs Hudson was right, of course. This whole set of events could have been prevented, if only Sherlock had had the guts to speak his mind. Now it was too late, and he would never have the opportunity to tell John how he feels. If he does that, then he might lose the man forever. Oh, who is Sherlock kidding? That's already happened.
He usually uses his violin as his emotional outlet. Perhaps he can play for a while, train his mind on the music. That way he would be able to internalize his emotions, bottle them up, stop his body from giving too much away. The hand that he uses his bow with gives a startled twitch, and he gazes around frantically for the instrument.
Oh, of course. His violin wasn't in 221B. In his haste to leave the wedding, Sherlock had abandoned it there. Typical! He needs music to drown everything out. It will be the only way to stop his thoughts from moving too fast inside his mind.
Right now Sherlock is thinking too much. He needs to shut off his brain completely. Under the influence of cocaine, he suddenly leaps to his feet with a cry of "ah ha, gotcha."
Sat on John's abandoned armchair is a little, shiny object. It's an I-Pod that John used to listen to music on when working out, or on the tube journey to work. By some small miracle John has left it behind.
Sherlock grabs the item, notes that there are already earphones attached, and plugs them in. His thumb hovers over the on button, and then he clicks on an automatic playlist. As the music begins to ebb and flow against his eardrums, he curls up into a ball on John's chair. He turns the music up to its loudest volume setting, until it feels like the lyrics of the songs are crashing around him.
His lean body presses up against the pillow, and if he closes his eyes he's able to imagine that its solid weight belongs to John instead. His hands steeple together and move to tilt beneath his chin, in his usual thinking pose. He tries to concentrate on ridding himself of his awful emotions, but it's almost impossible with the song choices that John has on his I-Pod.
Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you're missing home
Only know you love her when you let her go
And you let her go
With each sound, each lyric, each meaningful word the tears turn to sobs, and the sobs turn into heart-wrenching screams. The euphoria of the drug he administered is wearing off, and with it comes more emotional trauma, and not the numbness that Sherlock had been aiming for.
He draws his knees into his chest and rocks back and forth, the action childish but comforting somehow. His throat becomes raw and painful as time passes by, his eyes itch and burn, and his ragged breathing causes him to gasp and gulp for air.
In the end it's exhaustion that takes Sherlock. He gladly accepts the quilt of darkness that embalms him, but even sleep can't stop his thoughts of John. He dreams of a life where things are different, where John chose him, and he knows that when the morning light hits the pain he feels will flare up once more.
There is no escaping it ; Sherlock Holmes is in love with John Watson and it's going to kill him.