Sherlock Holmes sat with his feet propped on the desk nearest the hearth; the one that John Watson sat behind, smoking his cheroot and chatting happily about Mary. Mary, thought Sherlock disgustedly, the simpering, characterless cow. If it wasn't bad enough that the particular evening in question was Watson's last in 221 B Baker Street, he had to waste it talking about Mary. For the most recent and irrefutable fact of the matter of the detective's existence was that Watson was getting married, and Holmes was disgusted by the very idea of it.
He'd never admit it of course; he was too proud and self-absorbed to admit that he could muster anything above toleration for another human being. But he hated the reality of the situation; both because of how quickly it was approaching and because it was completely undeniable in its certainty. The couple had come so far that they were utterly impervious to sabotage. Holmes knew this mainly because of some ill-advised attempts early on in their courtship, one that involved masquerading as a prostitute named Penny, and another that concerned a fake broken back, and which ended in exchanged blows and a near month of indignant silence from the good doctor. She was Watson's sweetheart, his betrothed, his lover. And much too soon, she was to be his wife.
"-and if you could find something in your wardrobe that isn't alternately threadbare or completely black, that would be wonderful. Holmes?" The detective sprung from his chair and began rifling through the top drawer of the desk by the window.
"Yes, yes, I shall be both dog and pony at your wedding, Watson, of that you can be certain." he retrieved his pipe and bag of tobacco with a near-heroic cry, and seated himself on the sill as far from his companion as he could.
"Are you alright?" Watson asked, cocking an eyebrow rakishly. Holmes gave him a look of indifference from the sill as he poured himself a glass of wine; one that Watson knew quite well. It read clearly that the discussion of his emotional well-being was closed. It worried Watson a tad-that he'd been getting that look so frequently of late-but he brushed it off as best he could, and returned to the discussion he knew he needed to have with his old friend.
"Anyway...we'll have you with at the bridal party for the reception, but you'll need to behave yourself for Mary's parents-" Sherlock hurled the glass he had previously enclosed in his hand at the floor, and let out an inhuman cry of rage.
"Holmes!" Watson uttered, diving for the broken glass.
"No! Leave it!" Holmes said, batting his partner from the scene. "I'll get it, just...I don't know. Take out your frightful dog, or make wedding plans if you must. But do it over there."
"What's gotten into you?" asked Watson.
"Nothing." Holmes spat, chucking the shards of glass out the window. "My hands are sometimes unsteady. I apologise deeply for any momentary lapses you may observe from now on, I know I'm not as perfect as everyone assumes..." He trailed off and took a few deep breaths before returning to his corner on the window sill, looking more miserable than before. Watson stood cautiously and took a few steps toward his friend.
"I never thought you were perfect, no need to worry," Replied Watson, garnering a hysterical-sounding chuckle from his friend. "What's the matter, Holmes? You've been acting off all week." Holmes looked at him for a moment; one of those gazes that Watson had only been privy to twice before. It was a hard look; one that both weighed the pros and cons of telling some truth to the recipient of the aforementioned scrutiny, and one that also judged the importance of the person in general. Watson's lips, much to his own surprise, were curving into a funny little smile, and the look in Holmes' eyes was becoming desperate.
"Watson, stop smiling immediately," Holmes said. Watson's face cracked into a full-on grin. "Stop it!"
"I'm sorry," Watson giggled, sitting on the other end of the sill. "I don't know why I'm so happy." Holmes let out a sigh, and smiled wanly at his friend, whose grin made him glow like a British, well-dressed descendant of Apollo (or as far as Holmes was concerned anyway). He took a few steps over, and clasped Watson's upper arms.
"I hope you and Mary are...very happy, John," said Holmes. "Really. All the best in the world." Watson's grin had fallen slowly, from the beginning of that statement to the end of it, and he suddenly, and without warning, pulled his friend into an embrace so tight that neither man could breathe. When Watson let go, he was not at all surprised to feel tears prickling his lower eyelids.
"It'll be a tad empty without you here." Holmes said, coughing and trying very hard to keep himself together.
"I expect it will be." Watson replied. He stood and collected his things-dear God, thought Holmes, not already. It can't be already time.
"I don't like Mary you know. Not one bit!" Holmes bellowed, as Watson approached the street-door. The doctor looked over his shoulder at the crazed detective, who hung on the railing of the top stair, hurriedly stamping his feet into slippers and shrugging a dressing-gown on.
"Where do you think you're going?" asked Watson, trying to smile beneath the tears that were subtly leaking, one by one, onto his cheeks.
"Wherever you are." replied Holmes.
"In slippers and a dressing-gown? Need I remind you that it's raining and November?" replied Watson. Holmes nodded resolutely, brushing the tear tracks from the doctor's face with remarkable tenderness.
"Yes. Perhaps if I contract pneumonia, you'll have to stay." Watson choked on a weak laugh, and was immediately cut off from saying whatever he would've by a pair of lips and stubble that certainly did not belong to Mary. And for the longest time, he didn't care about a single thing but the man that stood in front of him.
"Yes," said Holmes, after pulling his lips from Watson's. "I rather like that idea."