"Sherlock, please, I'm not going to ask you again."
"I doubt it, seeing as you've said that twice already," came the sharp retort.
John rolled his eyes but did not reply, watching as Sherlock placed a glass slide underneath his microscope and peered into it.
"Will you at least look at me?" he asked mutedly.
Sherlock heaved an over-dramatic sigh before leaning back in his chair and gazing up at the doctor stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He crossed his arms.
"Well?" he prompted impatiently, eyebrows raised expectantly.
"Why won't you come?"
"I've told you; I'm too busy to come."
"But it's my wedding!"
"And?"
John looked about the flat in exasperation before his hazel eyes rested on Sherlock again. "And it would mean a lot if you were there." he answered.
"Why? Why does it matter if I'm going to be there or not? You're not marrying me, it doesn't matter if I don't attend. I would be more concerned about whether Mary was attending, rather than fussing over me."
"Well of course Mary's coming, we're getting married!" John exclaimed, raising his hands in frustration. He took a deep breath before speaking again, his tone more subdued.
"I would like you to be there because you are my best friend, and this day is important to me, and I want my friend to be there when I get married."
"But what would I do there? Sit at a table with people I don't know and be forced to make conversation, either feel obliged to dance with guests or if not linger at the back and watch, and I wouldn't make it home until late, meaning my experiment would be ruined." He gestured to the chemistry set in the middle of the table where a conical flask filled with an alarmingly bright yellow liquid was emitting worrying gases. "I would be bored stiff, and all because you want me to see you place a ring on your wife's finger then dance for the rest of the night."
"I want you to be my best man, Sherlock, but you've already turned that down, so what would you like me to say?"
"You told me Lestrade was your best man." the detective answered.
"Yeah, only because you wouldn't do it in the first place! I'm sure Greg won't mind swapping with you."
"But weddings are so boring! I would much rather be here with these experiments, which, by the way, I cannot leave alone, so your answer's there." he answered defiantly. He looked over to the chemistry set and started slightly at seeing the gases the yellow liquid in the conical flask was producing. That wasn't quite supposed to happen, though it did rather support his point that it couldn't be left alone.
Sherlock glanced back over to John to see the doctor's bowed head, disappointment radiating off of him. The detective sighed again and ran a hand through his hair.
"I just don't see the point." he said in a quieter voice than the one he had been using before.
"I know, Sherlock." John answered, just as quietly. He raised his head, avoiding eye contact. He glanced at his watch. "I have to get going; I'm supposed be getting ready about now. And... if you really don't want to come, then it's okay." Going by John's tone, though, it didn't sound okay.
"The experiments." Sherlock repeated as a last effort to get his point across.
"...Have to be monitored, yeah, I get it." John said. He offered Sherlock a slight smile before turning to the living room. "I guess I'll see you... well, I'm not sure how long it'll be, we're flying out tomorrow morning... I'll – er – try and drop by after the wedding, if not–"
"John." Sherlock called. He heard his friend stop on the way to the door.
Another sigh escaped him. "I should probably be finished with this by late afternoon. I might be able to make it to the reception, if that would be suitable."
"Would you?" John rounded the corner back into the kitchen, his voice filled with hope. Sherlock smirked slightly.
"Yes."
"Thank you, Sherlock, really." John gushed. "You know where it is, don't you? Yes, right. Um – OK, you don't have to dress up or anything, you can come in one of your suits, I really don't mind. And, er I'll have to get some to add an extra chair to one of the tables, unless you want to sit at the head table with us? That would probably be better, actually, because then–"
"John, you're babbling." Sherlock interrupted, smiling.
"Right. Sorry. See you later?"
"Yes, you will."
John flashed a grin at him before hurrying out the flat and down the steps, the front door opening and closing moments later. Sherlock let out a slight chuckle at John's enthusiasm before returning to his microscope.
Hopefully it wouldn't be as dull as he imagined, though he doubted he'd be able to have a proper conversation with John what with the army doctor's new wife that he would be clinging to. Ugh.
It wasn't that he had a problem with Mary. Really, she was a nice enough woman; she didn't seem as horrified as any of the other girlfriends John had had when he was first introduced to her and he had casually mentioned the cat's liver in the fridge later on in the evening. She even grinned when John shot him a glare. And he could remember one time when everyone in the world was annoying him to the extent that he refused to remove himself from the couch for a weekend. What had brought him out of his depression was the smell of smoke, and when he turned his head towards the living room to find the source, Mary was stood in front of him offering a lit cigarette. She had made him promise not to tell John, which he had agreed to immediately. She had continued to supply him cigarettes whenever he was in need of one for the rest of the time he knew her.
So yes, Mary was fine. John was obviously infatuated her, and it was clear she reciprocated those feelings. The only thing Sherlock disliked about their relationship was the face that John had moved out of 221B.
True, the doctor tried to visit him every other day, so it wasn't like Sherlock never saw him, but it didn't feel the same.
He couldn't simply stride into John's workplace and whisk him off on a case like he used to be able to do before, because John would say that he was going out with Mary that night. John did still accompany him on a case here and there, and the doctor was more than willing to patch him up were he to have been hurt, and Sherlock knew that if he was injured to the extent that he was in dire trouble, John would drop everything and find him with one phone call. But it just wasn't the same as before, and that was what got to Sherlock.
And now John was getting married, and Sherlock knew there would be no chance of it ever being the same as before.
8 o'clock in the evening rolled around and Sherlock had finally managed to work out why the yellow liquid in the conical flask had been emitting fumes. It was because when John had visited earlier, Sherlock had been smoking. Upon hearing John's recognisable footsteps, he panicked and proceeded to flick the cigarette into the relatively harmless yellow liquid in the conical flask. The acerbic acid in the cigarette had reacted with something in the yellow liquid, and thus fumes had been given off.
Having solved this little case, Sherlock rose from the table and made his way into the living to slide on his coat and scarf. Glancing at his watch, he mused that the reception would be in full swing by now. He'd probably only missed about an hour.
Hailing a cab was easy enough, and he spent the time musing over whether he should have brought John and Mary a wedding present. Rummaging in his pockets, he pulled out his half-empty cigarette carton and briefly considered giving this to Mary. After all, she was a smoker and he was sure she'd get the joke. And John wouldn't be expecting a present, really just going to the reception would probably be enough of a gift for John. He knew that was a bit shallow, but he also knew that would be what John would say to him if he did appear with a gift. So. Sorted that out.
The reception was to be held at Pembroke Lodge, in Surrey – Mary's choice. Sherlock knew John would never have gone for something extravagant had he been given the choice. Still, John had told Sherlock that the place was relatively cheap and the grounds were spectacular, so he was happy with the suggestion.
Fifteen minutes later the taxi pulled up outside Pembroke Lodge; it was a large, white manor with a long driveway leading up to it. Surrounding the building were various plants and tall trees, and just behind the Lodge was a large expansion of field, presumably for guests to stand at the edge of should they need some air.
Sherlock paid the cabbie and gently pushed open the double doors, walking down numerous corridors and listening out for music or the chatter of guests, but he could hear nothing. Frowning, the detective circuited the building twice, but no sound was heard from any of the rooms.
On his third circuit of the place, Sherlock made sure to check in every room, opening doors and sticking his head in, even if other events were taking place. Those people gave him funny looks but he paid them no heed, increasing his speed now as he looked in every room.
He was marching down one of the last few corridors when he happened to glance into one of the rooms, the door already open. He had passed this room twice already, but because no sounds had come from it, he hadn't paid it any attention. Now though, he walked forwards slowly until he was stood in the doorway of a very large room.
Decorations covered every aspect of it, and circular tables covered in white cloth had been placed along the lengths of the two opposite walls. At the back of the room was one long rectangular table, again it was covered in a white tablecloth and Sherlock could see plates and cutlery set out at the places, but no one was sat there to enjoy the food.
But what really made Sherlock pause in the doorway in shock, was John.
John was sat on his own at one of the circular tables to the right of the room, dressed in his tuxedo and downing a flute of champagne. He looked back down at the empty glass sadly, before reaching forwards for the champagne bottle in the centre of the table. His whole demeanour was defeated – his shoulders slumped, his head bowed – and he didn't even notice Sherlock watching him. Going by the state of the room, which basically looked untouched, John had been the only one to set foot in it.
"John." Sherlock murmured, walking forward towards his friend. The doctor jumped slightly and glanced up, his face expressionless as Sherlock came closer and sat in the chair to his left.
"What happened?" he asked. John didn't reply immediately; instead, he swallowed the refilled glass of champagne before setting the drained glass down on the table slowly, his fingers circling the rim of it.
"Go home, Sherlock." he said eventually, his voice quiet. "Everyone else has."
"What happened?" he repeated.
John's eyes travelled over to Sherlock, looking him up and down and then returning to the empty glass. He grabbed the champagne bottle and was about to pour himself another drink when Sherlock snatched the bottle from him and out of reach. He looked at John with his eyebrows raised.
John sighed. "You were right."
"What? Right about what?" Sherlock frowned.
The doctor ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "She didn't come." he mumbled.
"Who didn't?" Sherlock asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.
John's voice cracked when he spoke again. "Mary."
A/N: "Hello, hello, is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's - well, technically it is a plane..."
Sorry, I always start quoting that whenever I say hello. Either that or I start singing the Book of Mormon.
Anyway, thank you very much for taking the time to read this. I've gotten most of the story planned out and written so updates should be pretty regular, and I only hope you'll enjoy what's to come x