The room was full of chatter and excitement as the bride and groom walked over to their table, blushing profusely with pride and happiness. Sherlock followed nimbly after, nodding to everyone in polite regard. They sat and everyone hushed as Sherlock rose again, glass clenched in his hand. He gave a small smile, the kind he gave to all his clients and the public, as he called "A toast to the groom!" Everyone else stood now, glasses raised to the grinning couple.
"A toast to the groom!" They echoed, just as joyous as the bride and her groom.
"A toast to the bride." Sherlock's smile widened slightly, tipping up the tinniest bit.
"A toast to the bride!"
"To your union and the hope you provide. May you be satisfied, Sherlock."
It was in that instant that time seemed to stop still before Sherlock as he recalled how far he and John had come so far. Everything froze around him. His mind palace rewound everything back, back to moments before hand.
Months and years blended as one as they flew past. Mary and John said their vows. Sherlock returned after being presumed dead. Sherlock jumped from the rooftop. Sherlock discovered who Moriarty was. All these moments reversing to one significant event.
Sherlock met John.
Suddenly, Sherlock was back in the same spot he was in when John limped in to his life. In that instant, Sherlock studied John like predators do to their meat. He took in every detail from the fabric of his clothes to the stance he held. It was interesting how this human being attracted his attention by simply standing still.
His face was marked by sleeplessness and his hands trembled in the manner that only soldier's did. His stance was that of a proud solider cloaked by some casual leaning upon his cane (which is the result of a strong physiological belief that his leg was damaged). However, the eyes were the most interesting. A grey colour that seemed to glint with emotions from curiosity to guilt,each as powerful as the last.
Sherlock thrived on being smart. He revelled in his deductions and the thrill of his work, his game. He hated being wrong so he ensured he would hardly ever be wrong. Of course there would be times when he assumed the wrong thing at the wrong time or said a deduction aloud and ruined the positive atmosphere. He supposed no humans could be flawless and let it be.
Humans were foolish, irrational and all were idiots, busying themselves with trivial things like relationships and romance. Sherlock never sought to bother with such things. Then John came.
"John Watson."
"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker's street."
Their flat was their home. Within its walls, their secrets and stories were held. Bullet holes scarred the walls with a irrational sense of serenity and familiarity. It cocooned them in an open environment where nearly everything was shared. Their flat was where their escapades occurred and Sherlock was thrilled by every one he shared with John.
"You're going soft, dear Brother."
"I don't have friends..."
Sherlock always chastised himself for mellowing around John. Mycroft did the same. For reasons frustratingly unknown, the Holmes brothers held everyone at arms length, sparsely showing their emotions. John was different for Sherlock. John made him realise he cared, for better or for worse.
"... I've only got one."
It was true. Sherlock had associates but that was it. Everyone else was considered an enemy until proven otherwise. Friendship was almost a foreign concept to Sherlock and he liked it that way. At least, he had liked his solitude. His 'fall' made him realise he was more dependant on his associates than he originally perceived ; he had people he cared deeply about.
"Goodbye John."
He missed John the entire two years he was gone. He left so swiftly that his goodbye was forced from his lips. John was devastated. Sherlock was more upset by this than he let on. Sherlock missed the glances between them where John knew what he was thinking exactly and would either be amused or annoyed by it. He missed the thrill of adventure with someone by his side. He missed the company. Molly was lovely company, of course, but John was irreplaceable. He added a certain excitement that Molly considerably lacked. While Molly was charming in her own right, John was a man who had been hardened by war and was willing for adventure like the ones Sherlock embarked on. That was the way it was and the way Sherlock enjoyed it.
There was a dull ache surrounding Sherlock without John. A tear in normality and a scourge of dirt on what was Sherlock's life. It was a constant indescribable emotion that lingered behind every memory or thought. It seeped in to his 'Mind Palace' to infect
and plague him with fantasies of trivial matters. Like the way a flutter of emotions surfaced at the slightest touch. The disgustingly squirming feeling that reacted to certain phrases or facial expressions. Sherlock could not deduce it properly without leaping to conclusion far too soon. It was there. He could feel it and he despised it.
"I'd like you to be my best man."
Sherlock froze. The words had awkwardly tumbled from John's mouth and were now some how blocking every part of his brain that was attempting to figure out a response. John was getting married. He was moving forward in life while Sherlock clung to his cases like a toddler, grip fierce. It took a few moments to process John's request. He agreed, confused and slightly stung.
Sherlock removed himself from his daze, speech done. His thoughts recollected as he realised he had been standing in silence. Sherlock excused himself. His chest felt oddly constricted as if he could not breathe. His throat was tight. Mouth dry. There was an air of certain sickness that baffled Sherlock to no end. It arose questions like why did he feel crushed or as if he was aching? This caused him to become far more aloof than usual.
Many remarked that Sherlock was envious of Mary. This obviously was not the case because Sherlock approved highly of Mary. She was witty and clever whilst being enormously caring, especially towards John. Sherlock supposed that is what drew John to her. They balanced each other perfectly. Their relationship was stable. Unlike his and John's, constantly on their toes as to anticipate the next argument or case ; always expecting something to go wrong even when things were calm. Mary made John happy and Sherlock supposed that is all that mattered.
That still did not make it any better. It did not soothe the ache. It did not subdue the emotions that plagued him. Sherlock knew he was the type of man who could never be satisfied by everything that was given to him. That was part of the reason he was such an excellent consulting detective. He would scrutinise every detail until everything was examined in depth. John still puzzled him. Everything began to make less and less sense when emotions got involved. They would turn him blind and incompetent, unable to detect or determine the simplest facts.
He could not explain why his best friend's marriage made him ache. He could not explain why he adored Mary yet could not stand to see John and her legally bound to each other. His only explanation was that he could not be satisfied by the fact all this had happened so suddenly. Mycroft knew precisely why. "The trouble with you, Little Brother, is that you are never satisfied." He had said. Infuriatingly, he refused to explain how or what he knew to Sherlock.
Sherlock left the couple's side after congratulating them as earnestly as he could. He paused. The couple were so blissful that Sherlock knew that his dampening thoughts would spoil the occasion. He decided he would leave at the reception.
"Who leaves a wedding early?"
The music blared as loudly as it could, mingling with the cheers and laughter that erupted in to the air. Guests glided across the dance floor, entwined with each other. Sherlock stood separately, sipping some alcoholic beverage he did not care to remember the name of. The taste was supposed to be sickeningly sweet but filled the man's mouth with a bitter taste that burnt as it seeped down the throat. Sherlock watched as John waltzed with his bride. They moved as one, captivatingly so. Their unison unmatched, they spun around and around, giggling gleefully, before colliding with each other.
With one last gulp, the glass was finished and disposed of. Without a word or murmur of goodbye, Sherlock turned up the collar on his coat, glanced briefly at John and swiftly left, taking a brisk walk away, all the while thinking of the groom twirling with his beautiful wife.
"I'll never be satisfied." Sherlock realised bitterly. The realisation left a cold and numb feeling in the chest, almost as if his heart was being tightly clenched. Sherlock realised he could never be satisfied with everything anyone had done so he could be never satisfied with John which meant that John was not good enough for him.
John had not been enough. Except he had. John had been more than enough but Sherlock refused to see it and now he paid the price. Hence why John was married now and Sherlock was trudging solemnly towards his now empty flat.
And he wished for once he could be satisfied.
Inspired by the song Satisfied from the musical Hamilton.