Sherlock had actually been looking forward to his dance with the bridesmaid, but when the music started and he looked around for her, only to find her already dancing with someone. He gave her a halfhearted smile, and although he did care, he didn't let it show. His eyes wandered to Molly, hoping for a dance, but she; also, was busy, dancing with that fiance if hers, Tim? No, Tom.
He straightened his back and hid his feelings of disappointment behind his emotionless mask. Sentiment never seemed to work well, but Sherlock knew sentiment wasn't the problem, but he was. Expressing it just didn't work for him like it did for regular people.
Seeing as how no one could dance, and that's all anyone was doing, Sherlock knew no one would notice, or if they did they wouldn't care, if he left so he departed the wedding.
Leaving early made him think of what Mrs Hudson had said, and he knew it was true, weddings changed people, and with a baby on the way, Sherlock knew that no matter what John would say, he was a third wheel. The crime solving and the relationship they had developed would never be nearly as strong. No more John to entertain him in 221b, no John to be there for him.
He knew he should have seen it coming, leaving for two years, he never really expected John to move on, though. But now he had, and this was why he hadnt made friends before. Sherlock Holmes wasn't to have friends. Friends just never worked for Sherlock Holmes.
John was wrong, alone protected him. Alone was all he had left as he walked out into the ice cold air.
He felt a buzz in his left pocket and pulled out his phone to find a text message which he then proceeded to read.
How is the wedding, brother dear?
MH
Sherlock sighed and texted back;
Just fine.
SH
Then he put his phone back in his pocket and made his way back to 221b, he walked in and eyed the chair, johns chair, the chair that would be empty much to often.
He lay down on the couch and steepled his hands under his chin as he tried to distract himself from sentiment by thinking of a case that he knew Lestrade would calk about soon. He had seen it in the newspapers, and after hacking into New Scotland Yards computers he got all the info he needed.
Yet he couldn't focus on the case, as try as he might, he felt horribly alone, when he got another text.
They're all goldfish, brother dear, don't take it personally.
MH
Sherlock read the text and shook his head, "Not John." He whispered, "Not John."
He didn't change out of his suit when he fell asleep, and he only awoke from the sound of the door opening. His eyes flew open in an irrational hope that his blogger had shown up. That his John had returned.
His scoffed in displeasure and shut his eyes again when he saw who his visitor was.
Mycroft gingerly sat himself down in Johns chair and looked expectantly as Sherlock.
When Sherlock didn't say anything, Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke; "Sherlock, you didn't answer my text messages."
"That's very nice."
"Sherlock." Mycroft said with an authorative tone.
Sherlock open his eyes and promptly rolled them, "Am I now not allowed to sleep?"
"You didn't answer my texts, and I thought you might be doing something stupid." Mycroft explained gingerly.
Sherlock spread his legs and rolled himself up so he was sitting up with his knees tucked against his torso, his arms enwrapped his langky legs and his chin rested on his knees. "You don't need to worry, Mycroft." He said in an exasperated to be, "I'm perfectly fine." He smiled falsley and leapt to his feet, "in fact, I'm absolutly fine. Care for a cuppa?" He ruffled his hair to slightly dispell the bedhead look that had taken his hair.
Mycroft shook his head and rose to his feet to casually stroll into the kitchen.
Sherlock was frantically making two cuppa teas. As he made it, he had to dodge several test tubes of murky looking liquids, and his ever present microscope.
"Sherlock. I know what is wrong, and I want to help you." Mycroft insisted, his chin slightly raised as usual.
"I don't need help, Mycroft. I am fine." Sherlock insisted once again, as he handed Mycroft his tea.
Mycroft put the tea down on the counter and shook his head, "if you insist, brother dear, but I'm only a phone call away."
"A phone call I will not be making." Sherlock spat out before he stalked into his room where he changed into his pajamas and night gown. He didn't plan on sleeping again, once he was awake, he was awake. But he stayed stubbornly in his room until he heard the front door close. That's when he left his room and looking at his phone saw he did in fact have several messages from Mycroft the final one reading;
I'm coming over.
MH
Sherlock sighed and shook his head, he looked at the time to see it was only just midnight. He didn't think Mrs Hudson was home, and so he solemnly picked up his violin and began a slow, sad song. Just as the song reached a climatic bar that truly sounded just as Sherlock felt, he heard the front door close and he abrutly tossed down his violin and threw himself down on the couch as if he were sleeping. He heard Mrs Hudson come up into his flat and give a sweet sigh before she disappeared into her own room.
Sherlock sat on his couch, his fingers steepled in front if his face for the remainder of the night.
The next morning Sherlock shot Lestrade a text telling him that it was the housekeepers granddaughter, assuming the detective inspector would understand, before he got up, pulled his coat on, tied his blue scarf around his neck and went for a long walk outside.
He didn't mind that the sun was hardly up, nor that the air was bitterly chilly as he strolled along the London streets, his nose turning pink from the cold.
As he walked he thought about how often he might be having these walks now. With no John to keep him company he didn't know what he would do.
He wondered what John would fill his blog with now, probably just rambles about Mary. He felt a pang in his chest.
As insolent as the yard was, they still did solve some cases, and he only got called on the ones they couldn't solve, so that wouldn't keep him from getting bored.
He thought about calling Molly but decided it was still early and after a long night, he didn't want to wake her. But he still felt like he needed to talk to someone.
As he sat down on a bench in a small park he let a single tear roll off his prominent cheek bones before he composed himself once again.
Molly had Tom, she didn't need him. John had Mary, he didn't need the world's only consulting detective any longer.
Sherlock Holmes was once more, alone. With no one but himself.
Alone protects me.
No. Friends protect me.
Friends used to protect me.
All that's left for protection is me. Is alone.