May I Have This Dance?
John sits quietly at the fancy table, in a fancy restaurant he really can't afford on his pay-check, as a bundle of anxious nerves boil inside him. He pulls the small blue box out of his pocket one last time, checking that, yes, the ring is really there, before replacing it so no one sees. He'd be the first to admit that this was scary, terrifying even. Honestly, he wondered where he'd even worked up the courage to follow through with this crazy plan, but it was far to late to back out now and he found that he really didn't want too. He wanted this. Two years after Sherlock and he was finally moving on.
He looks up just as another man enters the restaurant. Blonde hair and dressed in a blue jacket, bow tie and black pants, he looks around as he stands at the concierge with a worrisome expression, but when the concierge leads him to the table John currently waits at, his face melts into relief.
"John!" He sighs as he sits down, happy that he's finally united with the other half of his date. He never thought John would, but there was always that fear of being stood up.
"Michael." John replies, watching the concierge walk away before shifting his eyes back to the blonde man, the same expression of relief and happiness spreading across his face as he takes the other's hand, which is resting on the table, into his own.
Michael gives him a small smile, linking their fingers as he turns to listen to the string quartet playing the overdone Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons' in the far right corner. John supposes it's appreciated by the high-class customers that come here on the regular though, and at this moment, he finds he doesn't mind, because John can't believe this man chose him and now, he so desires wants to make it permanent.
Clearing his throat, John catches Michael's attention and almost immediately starts to fumble. No, he was going to do this. He'd planned it all out in his head and this was going to go the way he wanted it to, no exceptions.
"Uh, so Michael?" He begins, hoping the other doesn't notice the tremor in his voice nor the pale sheen of perspiration on his brow. He pulls out the tiny blue box and Michael's eyes immediately widen like saucers as his gaze lands on it and he takes in all the implications of what this means.
John clears his throat once again. Was it hot in here? Perhaps his collar was too tight? He felt like he was gasping for air and his heart beat is pounding hard in his ears.
"Uh… would you… do me the honour of… becoming my husband?" John extracts his other hand from Michael's tightening grip and he opens the aforementioned box with shaking hands.
Then, as if the world had to mess up John's life, like it always did, a waiter seems to pop out of nowhere.
"Can I get you anything, sirs?" He asks.
"No, not at the moment, thank you." John replies, his eyes never moving from Michael's unreadable face.
"Are you sure, sir?"
"Yes, very, thank you."
"How about some―"
"I said, NO, thank you!"
This time, John turns to firmly dismiss the waiter, but before the words can leave his mouth, his jaw has already fallen and the box in his hands has dropped onto the maroon table cloth. He can't believe this. This isn't real, he's imagining things. Or, at least that's what he wants so desperately to believe, but then…
The waiter gives him that sly smile.
"Hello, John."
Everything that was in colour suddenly seems to seep away like running paint, and the only colour John can still see is red. Everything is black, white and red. This isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real, his mind chants, though it doesn't believe the lie. Except, John has wished for this for two years, so it can't be real. He cried, he mourned, he lost himself in a world of nothingness until someone―though he doesn't recall who―forced him to see a therapist. He'd struggled for so damn long! Struggled to get over this man, struggled to move on from the loss of his best friend, comrade and lover. Because Sherlock had been his true love and he'd been snatched so cruelly away from him. John had been unutterably heartbroken. He hadn't been sure he'd ever recover from that.
"John?"
In some corner of his mind he registers that Michael is calling him, but he can't face him right now. He can't do anything at all, but sit, frozen in his seat. It doesn't seem to matter though, because Michael puts two and two together.
"Oh no," he hears him whisper. "You're not…"
He watches unblinkingly as Sherlock pulls that ever-so-familiar, knowing smirk and turns to Michael, as though the man were dirt under his feet and had the average intelligence of an ape.
"Yes, I am. Sherlock, nice to meet you."
Except John really can't deal with this anymore. He shakes his head an almost imperceptible amount before he stands, the chair scraping back on the wooden floors before he turns and heads for the exit, leaving no explanation for either of the men that he loved.
"John?" He hears them both call out, but he's already gone. He's halfway out the door and stepping onto the street, he hails a cab.
"Wait, John!"
Sherlock grabs the cab door just as the smaller man is about to step in―curse this man and his long legs for catching up to him. John doesn't want to talk to him, he's not sure his voice can find the strength, but Sherlock is preventing him from getting away and he solidifies this by lightly gripping John's upper arm.
"Look, I'm… sorry, I… didn't mean to…" Sherlock attempts to babble out an explanation as to why he gate crashed John's proposal, or perhaps its the coming back from the dead he's apologising for, but John isn't listening and doesn't care anyway.
It takes him a few seconds to realise he's crying, and a few more after that to realise he's opening sobbing in the street.
Sherlock closes the taxi door and the cabbie drives off just as John's knees give way and he lands on the concrete pavement, Sherlock quickly kneeling beside him and taking the smaller into his comforting embrace.
John wants to push him away, wants to punch Sherlock and lambaste him with words of hate. There's, in fact, a lot of horrible things he wants to say and do to the suddenly revived man, except he physically can't do anything but sob like a child, so he lets himself be comforted by him.
And just for a moment, they're together again. Just for a moment they're doing the same dance of love that John recalls in his bitter-sweet memories.
Hi! So thank you for reading! I just want to share that this is my first present tense fic and the idea was inspired by CornishGirl so if anyone reads the "Supernatural" category, you should check them out. I also think this may be my first Sherlock fic, so if anyone has any comments, nice words or criticisms, please leave me a review! Thanks guys!
Much Love,
Soulhearts