A/N: Hi there! Goodness, it has been a long time. Well, this is two firsts for me- my first story that's not full of angst, (SHOCK HORROR!) and my first that has deviated away from my beloved Ashes To Ashes fandom, which I will take this opportunity to say a fond farewell to. (Although I'll no doubt pop back in again in future. I'm still recovering from that ending would you belive :p)
Thankfully, Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss were on hand to provide me with a tantalising glimpse in what will no doubt become my new obsession. I was never a Holmes girl before Benedict came along. My oh my.
Hope you enjoy this little ficlet, nice to be writing again (do excuse the typos), will hopefully be back (a lot sooner this time around, I assure you) with something a bit more substantial.
Ruby :o) x
He had known it would only be a matter of time before John foolishly decided to ask that woman to marry him. John was painfully predictable in that sense; Sherlock could practically see his moral compass emblazoned on his forehead, the needle never deviating from Insufferable Do-gooder. He found it in turns irritating and endearing. Mostly irritating.
So of course, in his eager quest to 'do the right thing', and after jumping headfirst into what Sherlock deemed an unstable relationship, John had committed the irreversible crime of falling blindly in love- irreversible in the sense that, John was lost to him; if the relationship failed, he would be a heartbroken wreck with no common sense or logic left in him, therefore of little use. If it survived…well. Sherlock did not want to think about that.
The worst of it all, was that he had idiotically tried to hide it from him- and, to make matters even more tiresome, thought he had succeeded. But Sherlock knew most likely from the very moment the thought of marriage had entered John's head. He observed his nervous energy, the way his eyes followed her around a room as though fixed permanently on that one glorious point in the universe. Devastatingly obvious. The way every conversation they had seemed to stray to the topic of her, of 'them', resulting in mindless, infernally dull questions. But am I good enough for her, is this life good enough? Should I finish it? Where do you think Sarah and I are headed, then? D'you think she's in it for the long haul?
To each of these, he only offered an exhausted groan and whenever the topic was brought up again he plucked madly at the strings of his violin. It rarely shut him up though.
"I mean, I really think I love her. Can you believe it? Christ, I thought when I got back to Blighty I was done for- emotionally, I mean. Crippled in every bloody way possible. But you know, we just sort of…clicked. You know?"
"Not particularly."
"I mean, we work together so there was always the danger of it getting complicated but…nearly a year it's been. I can't believe it."
"Neither can I."
"She's the one. Yep, this is it, I can feel it."
"Would you kindly go and inform someone whom this information may be of some use to."
Naturally, John had gone and opened his heart to her. Sarah. He narrowed his eyes at the thought of her; how she had transformed from mild irritation to bane of his existence. John seemed to want little to do with him currently. Of course he dutifully answered when summoned but rarely did he spend time in the flat, choosing to spend the free time he had…elsewhere. And whenever he did chose to grace him with his presence, she was more often than not close behind, carrying the same doe-eyed look and the same heartfelt sincerity and the same dull, drab willingness to be a good person. Clearly they were made for each other. There was no doubt she would say yes to anything he suggested.
And now marriage. He shuddered at the word. What on earth was he doing? It was so painfully conventional, surrendering to a path of utterly mind-numbing triviality; Sherlock couldn't think of anything worse. Of course, he couldn't offer this particular opinion, seeing as he wasn't supposed to know about the arrangement. Knowing John, he would probably be hurt that he wouldn't have the opportunity to announce it, so he had kept quiet. Honestly, he sacrificed so much for this half-formed friendship.
Today was the day, he had deduced, when John would tell him. He'd noticed his sweaty palms the previous evening as he'd left, saw the slight bulge in his shirt pocket where that precious velvet box rested, inside which rested the ring he had sought out with a feverous desperation. Sherlock had watched with a dark amusement as he hurriedly tried to hide the jewelry catalogues from his keen eyes whenever he returned to the flat, almost tempted to pry information from him…but observing his foolhardy attempts to conceal any item with the word wedding on it was decidedly more fun.
Of course, John was many things, but he wasn't a complete idiot. He knew that he'd worked it all out; Sherlock didn't doubt it. Telling him was just a formality, he assumed; to be honest, he didn't know all the ins and outs of the traditions that surrounded a proposal. Trivial, useless information that he had no concern with. Until now, that was.
He buried his nose further into The Times as he heard the sound of a key rattling in the door, a scowl already forming on his face. This was going to be torturous.
He heard John's footsteps bouncing across the floor; good grief, he had an actual spring in his step.
"Good morning!"
"Is it?"
"Oh, absolutely- for God's sake, open those curtains already, it's 11 o'clock."
He winced as sunlight streamed into the darkened room, dust particles dancing in the air around him. When was the last time John had cleaned up?
"I rather think that you parading around like a walking cliché has put a dampener on things," he mumbled, tugging his dressing gown across his chest like a petulant child and feeling no shame in that whatsoever. Like reading lines from a script, he drawled on in an overtly sarcastic tone. "What on earth do you have to be happy about?"
He dragged his eyes away from the blurred images and text in his paper to look up at John. He was swallowing, looking a little nervous, a plain smile on his lips. Nauseating.
"I've, er…got some news."
"Really. Should I be lying down for this."
He laughed. He actually laughed. So she'd already completed her task of turning him into a mindless buffoon. God help them all when they finally 'tied the knot'.
He sat down on the chair opposite, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and clasping his fingers- unquestionably nervous. Sherlock had no idea why- yes, he'd made his opinion clear that he was against all forms of what society considered normality (marriage being fairly high on the list), but surely he wasn't so frightened of telling him? Of course he'd show his support- he'd have no choice.
"Um…well, here it is."
"I take it she said yes," Sherlock said with barely restrained venom, turning back to the paper.
"Yep, yes she did," John said, without missing a beat, a hesitant grin forming on his lips. So he had known. Sherlock glanced at him, inwardly relieved this whole ordeal had been charged through so efficiently. He focused his gaze- John was still nervous, his eyes still darting around the room, his feet still tapping an uneven rhythm on the floor. Sherlock watched, intrigued, as he drew in a breath.
"Sarah and I are getting married, and…I'd like you to be, uh, Best Man."
Well.
It was a brief moment in time unlike any he'd experienced before, was his first assessment. Then came an unwelcome, uncomfortable rush of feeling that left him feeling both warm and cold, and at first he thought it was some sort of premature fever. At the forefront of all this, was shock. Shock that he'd not in any conceivable way seen this coming. Shock that John had still managed, as he often did, to rip the rug out from under his feet and leave him in this winded, confused, utterly vulnerable state.
They had sat in silence for a short while, staring at each other; John with an expectant expression and he with one close to abject horror.
"Well go on then, bloody say something!"
"Certainly not!"
To his credit, John looked disappointed for a brief second before letting out a resigned sigh.
"Ah. Any, uh…any particular reason?"
"The fact that you think I'll be attending your nuptials at all shows what little knowledge you have of me," he said in a bored voice, turning back to his paper. "I wish you both well, of course, but I'll unlikely be wasting my precious time seated in the darkened corner of a run-down community centre whilst people I neither know nor care about prance around under a mirror ball, all celebrating the fact that you have decided to condemn yourself to a life of banality."
John cleared his throat, a smile still on his face yet one that was a little dimmer than before. His eyes still shone brightly though.
"Well," he said inarticulately, running a hand through his hair. "Nice to know we've got your blessing, at least."
Sherlock detected a hint of laughter in that, and he was reminded once more of why he put such a deep investment into this odd relationship that the two of them had formed, despite all its obvious faults. Beyond colleagues, beyond flat-mates; they'd become companions of sorts. Brothers in arms. Something that forged its roots deeper than either of them expected, he presumed.
John didn't expect any more from him than exactly what he was- and he deciding to marry wouldn't change that. And before he was suffocated by the absurd sentimentality of this thought, he took a private moment to truly appreciate it.
While all of this ran at lightning speed across his mind, his face remained hardened, frowning down at his paper. He hadn't read a single word. Beside him, John stood and let out another weary sigh, but he could tell that his feelings were far from hurt.
"Breakfast?" he said brightly, rubbing his hands together.
"Please. We've no food so you'll have to go out."
"Right. Got any cash on you?"
He didn't respond to this.
"No, course not. Okay. I'll just see what I can scrape together."
As his footsteps trod heavily to the kitchen, Sherlock allowed a smile to grace his features, his eyes softening. Perhaps the prospect of John Watson getting married was not as objectionable as he'd first thought.