Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. =(
Warning:
Please do not read this and don't read on from this point if you don't want any spoilers for season 3!
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About:
This story has been inspired by the #setlock pictures of John's wedding. Though I don't actually think it is very spoilery. It could be seen as a sequel to my story "Baker Street" but can stand alone; it will still make sense if you haven't read that one.
I have seen the excitement and ado about who is playing Mary, and it was alarming to read what some people think about it, there was much hatred. It didn't shed a good light on the fandom, and I do hope that something like that won't happen again.
My own opinion is that I am sad about John moving away from Sherlock, which is really all I can say right now because we haven't seen the actual episodes yet.
Furthermore, this story is of course set after Sherlock's return.
Enjoy!
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Best Man
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John Watson thinks it is ridiculous, really. He is an army doctor and has served in Afghanistan. He has seen all kinds of danger, something which didn't change once he had met and moved in with Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. And yet he has never been as nervous as he is now, he is sure about that.
He is standing in the small, slightly dusty vestibule of a church, about to marry a beautiful, wise, funny and interesting woman, and he can't even bind his own bloody tie because his hands are shaking too damn much. Harry, who is supposed to be helping him, has vamoosed, and his Best Man- well. John isn't sure whether he'll turn up at all.
Sherlock, the Best Man in question, has been unusually quiet about the wedding. He hasn't commented on the choice of colours or anything else for that matter, has given Mary his measurements for the suit without protest and has even organized a stag night with Mike Stamford's help. Predictably, he has excused himself quite early from it- a phone call, and he was off, though John was sure it hasn't been a case- Lestrade had been with them, after all.
He sighs and tries his tie again; he wants Sherlock to be there, to be with him on this day.
As if on cue, the door opens and the great detective himself slips into the room. Immaculately dressed, of course; John doesn't think he's ever seen him with a tie before.
He stands behind John and looks him over with one sweeping glance. When their gazes meet in the mirror, Sherlock gives John a brief smile: "No point in being nervous," he says quietly.
John raises one eyebrow: "Any other equally brilliant suggestions?"
Sherlock smirks, then turns John around by his shoulders and hands him a small flask he pulled out of his pocket: "Here."
John gives a short laugh, but takes a sip nevertheless. "Thanks."
Sherlock studies him: "You've got nothing to worry about," he murmurs and reaches for John's tie. "She's lucky."
For a moment, John closes his eyes and lets Sherlock take over, who's binding the darn tie with expert movements. His presence is soothing John's frayed nerves and he is suddenly glad that it's Sherlock and not Harry. That Sherlock has come at all and is going to be by John's side.
He opens his eyes when Sherlock's hands disappear, and looks at his friend. "Thank you," he says.
"You could have practiced it."
"I don't mean the tie."
Sherlock doesn't tell him how he has lain awake that night, another bout of insomnia despite a general lack of rest during the past weeks. He didn't have many cases, but he couldn't sleep anyway; John had occupied his mind like a curse, something he couldn't shake off. That morning, it has almost been impossible to get up, it felt like stepping into the abyss once more.
The feeling is still there; his chest is burning and he feels hollow, but he knows he isn't allowed to show it. This is not about him, after all, it's about John and Mary and their future, just the two of them.
To Mrs Hudson it seems that the loneliness is rolling off Sherlock in waves, even though he does his best to hide it. He is lonely as he hands John the ring, he is lonely as the groom says his vows, he is lonely as the crowd cheers for the couple when they come out of the church.
She doubts that anyone else has noticed it, not even John; Sherlock's a good actor, and everyone is preoccupied with the wedding or themselves. Even Molly Hooper only seems to have eyes for that nice, silver-haired detective inspector from Scotland Yard. But Mrs Hudson has witnessed the past few weeks; Sherlock has been restless and agitated, much more so than usual, and he has been far too silent altogether. Ever since John had told him that he and Mary were about to get married, Sherlock hasn't played the violin once, which is downright alarming.
Usually, it was noticeable if Sherlock was home, nowadays it's not. Sometimes Mrs Hudson pauses in whichever she is doing and listens, barely breathing, until she knows he's there. When it is too quiet altogether, she sneaks up the stairs; due to the doors being open most of the time, she can peek into the living room and the kitchen from her vantage point in the hallway without being seen. It does of course help that she knows which steps squeak if you tread on them.
On those occasions, she then tries to find a reason to go in and talk to Sherlock, just to break the silence and make sure he's reminded of her presence, hoping it is enough for him to refrain from doing something stupid.
And now he's standing next to John, a smile frozen on his face which only lights up and turns into the real thing when he embraces John to congratulate him, and looks so utterly forlorn that Mrs Hudson can hardly bear it. Despite her frequent complaints, she loves Sherlock with all her heart. She doesn't know the exact nature of his feelings for John, and she doesn't care. She simply doesn't want him to ache like this, and she worries what will happen after the party, when Sherlock is alone in the flat. She will have to come up with a life saver; her mere presence in the flat below his may not be sufficient this time.
Later on, she dances with him. Who knew that Sherlock Holmes had it in him, but he is leading her with easy grace. Her hip has been tolerable lately, it always agrees with good weather. So she dances to more than one song with him, talking about her dancing lessons in 1952, the impending remodeling of her kitchen and how Angelo had seemed strangely disappointed when she had told him that John was about to get married. A mistake, she realized the moment she had said it, for Sherlock's formerly amused face falls slightly before he catches himself.
"Of course, you know how he is," she hurries to continue, "he'd have expected John to hold the reception at his restaurant. Ridiculous, really."
"Yes," Sherlock murmurs, slowly, "ridiculous." She isn't sure whether they mean the same.
When the music pauses to allow for the dancers to catch their breath, Mrs Hudson decides to devise a plan. She can't leave Sherlock alone tonight, but since he is not going to want company, she will have to force him, for his own good.
After bringing her a glass of punch, Sherlock has wandered off, so Mrs Hudson keeps her eyes on the dancers during the next round. She has soon found what she has been looking for: an elderly gentleman who swings his partner around with reckless abandon. She has noticed him before when he's repeatedly nearly bumped into her and Sherlock.
Predictably, the lady he's been dancing with excuses herself and hurriedly leaves the dancefloor once the current song has ended, and Mrs Hudson is carefully moving closer towards him. She is in his line of vision when he turns around, and shyly smiles at him when their gazes meet. Apparently, he likes what he sees, as he raises his eyebrows and makes an inviting gesture. With a hesitant little shrug, the old lady accepts, and only moments later is being whirled away.
After having survived the ceremony, John mainly has eyes for Mary. Mary, who is his wife now, Mrs Watson. It will probably take some time for him to comprehend that it has happened. In between accepting congratulations and cutting the cake, they have been dancing with each other a lot, and he finds that it is a completely different thrill to hold a woman in your arms if you can call her your wife.
He is oddly proud of her for being admirably tolerant of the way he has been leading his life so far; he has already told her that marrying him means having a sometimes rather irritating Consulting Detective in her life as well. She was remarkably unperturbed by that, having already realized that at times, John and Sherlock seem joined at their hips.
"I think I can deal with that," she said, and smiled at him, and John had loved her even more, if that's possible.
When her grandpa comes to claim a dance with his granddaughter, John steps aside and looks around. Sherlock stands at the bar, chatting with Mike Stamford. Or maybe being chatted at by him, from the looks of it. Sherlock is holding a glass of wine which he doesn't seem to be drinking from, and his expression is bordering on absent.
John lightly rests his hand on his friend's back for a moment as he joins them: "How are things?" he asks, and Mike claps him on the shoulder: "Splendid, Mr and Mrs Watson," he exclaims, obviously a little ahead in the drinks department already.
John takes it as a good sign that Sherlock doesn't roll his eyes at that. They talk for a while, but it's mainly John and Mike who contribute to their conversation. When the other doctor excuses himself to find his own wife, John eyes Sherlock: "Are you all right?"
"Me? Yes, I'm fine. Couldn't be better, in fact. I've been dancing with Mrs Hudson."
"Yes, I saw that. I wonder why Molly hasn't tried her luck yet."
"Miss Hooper seems rather disenchanted with me lately. It's Lestrade she's haunting now."
"Don't be mean."
"I'm not, he seems to enjoy it."
John looks at Sherlock more closely and sees nothing but a relaxed face and an open expression. Which is what Sherlock wants him to see, he's certain.
"I'm still here, Sherlock," he says, because he feels the need to make that point clear. "I'll always be here for you. With you."
Sherlock stills. He has been standing rather motionless before, very unlike his usual fidgety self, but now he seems to freeze. And even that looks graceful.
"I know," he says after a moment's hesitation, his voice very low, his gaze dropping to his shoes.
John's heart suddenly aches for him, because despite their close friendship, things will be so different from now on; not living together anymore is a bigger issue than he would have anticipated. Sharing a flat with Sherlock meant having an eye on him, caring for him. Making Baker Street a home not only for himself but for a man who's refused everyone else's affection in years. After Sherlock had returned, John had found himself staring at his watch at odd times whenever he hadn't heard from his friend, wondering whether Sherlock was at home, had eaten something, had slept, had remembered to pay this or that bill, or to buy milk.
"Okay. Good." John knows he is not allowed to say more at this point, because Sherlock, for all his acting skills, looks as though he is going to break if he does. John suddenly is overwhelmingly grateful that his friend is still here with him, hasn't left immediately after the ceremony. Hasn't rejected him out of jealousy. He wants to hug Sherlock but senses that it wouldn't be received well.
You'll always be my best friend, John's eyes say instead. Please don't forget that.
I won't, Sherlock's eyes reply. How could I.
The moment is interrupted by Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade, who also claps John on the shoulder; it must be some kind of ritual which is required to ensure manly companionship in the face of domesticity, Sherlock muses. John's shoulders will probably be black and blue tonight.
Sherlock only half-listens to the ensuing conversation, he feels a little shaken now. As much as this wedding represents the end of something, he doesn't want John not to enjoy it. He wants John to be happy, John deserves to be happy. He obviously doesn't expect too many changes in his life, apart from the new living situation, but Sherlock can't stop himself from thinking about it.
They will have children at one point, surely, and the detective doubts that Mary will welcome John to continue with his often rather dangerous 'hobby' as she calls it, namely solving cases with Sherlock. John will very likely have to find a better paid job instead, which is going to result in seeing each other even less. Whether John wants it or not, he will not have much time for Sherlock on top of having and sustaining a family. Which is something most people want, of course, and Sherlock tells himself that he should have known his and John's living together would come to an end eventually. Due to all that has happened however, his faked suicide, it has come too abruptly.
Whenever he has come to this point, Sherlock feels like breaking something. He never does; he can't have Mrs Hudson know how desperate he becomes at times. Though he is aware that she's keeping an eye on him, and that she even has been spying on him from the hallway. It does little to make the whole situation easier, it's like putting a band-aid on a broken bone, but Sherlock appreciates her efforts.
His old self would have been put out by it, but he can't seem to find the energy nowadays. He often simply stands at the window, his hands and his heart longing for his violin which he somehow can't pick up, can't touch. It has been like an extension of his body once, but now it feels alien. He has tried to play only once in the past weeks, and the tones seemed mismatched and wrong in his ears.
But John can't know that. He mustn't know how much all this is taking out of his friend, especially when Sherlock doesn't understand it himself; suddenly, emotions are playing such a substantial part in his life, and while he doesn't want to miss some of them anymore, he'd gladly dismiss others and go back to his former state of ignorance.
He is doing his best to pull himself together; Lestrade has just told a joke containing a rabbi, a priest and a butler, and while Sherlock doesn't think it's very funny, it seems the perfect opportunity to show that he's all right, so he gives a vague smile: "That would have been hilarious if you hadn't gotten the preface wrong," he says, a perfect imitation of his old self, with just enough edge and smugness to confuse Lestrade and irritate Donovan, had she been present.
The smile feels wrong on his face, just as it has done all day, but there you go, it serves its purpose. Lestrade begins to vividly defend his joke, supported by Molly, while Sherlock easily goads him. John looks from the D.I. to Sherlock and subtly relaxes, probably isn't even aware of it.
They are interrupted when an elder gentleman approaches them; it's the kamikaze dancer Sherlock has seen earlier, and he's supporting Mrs Hudson who seems to be limping.
"What happened?" John, Molly and Lestrade ask simultaneously while the old lady does her best not to attract too much attention, but she is clearly avoiding to put too much weight on her left side.
"My bad hip, I'm afraid," she breathes, wincing a little, "I think I have overdone it on the dancefloor."
"I fear I am solely responsible for that," the man says, looking downtrodden, and Sherlock can see John nodding in sad understanding. Apparently, the man is one of his guests. Surely enough, he introduces him as his uncle Allan.
The little group escorts Mrs Hudson over to the seating area so she can get off her feet and have a drink of water; she appears rather embarrassed about all the fuss, as she calls it, especially when the bride joins them and hears what happened.
"He did remind me of the guy from Four Weddings and a Funeral," she says, "with the way he was dancing. Only Uncle Allan did it with a partner." She looks at Mrs Hudson sympathetically: "Will you be all right, Mrs Hudson?"
"Oh yes, dear," the old lady nods bravely, "I just need to refrain from moving around too much for a few days."
At that, Sherlock feels four pairs of eyes turning towards him. Mrs Hudson herself is pointedly avoiding his gaze. He raises one eyebrow: "What?"
"You'll help her, won't you?" John asks.
"Of course I'll help her," Sherlock says nonchalantly, "what did you think I'd do?"
John purses his lips but doesn't say any more.
That evening, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson share a taxi home. With a relieved sigh, the old lady leans back in her seat: "That was rather nice, wasn't it?"
Sherlock fixes her with a stern look: "Apart from the incident with your hip."
"Oh, right," she hurries to say, "I meant the ceremony, of course. And Mary looked pretty. You look really good, too. Very handsome." She casts an approving glance on his dress coat, then smiles. "And I had no idea you'd look so dashing in a top hat."
Sherlock isn't thrown off so easily, however: "Funny how you'd choose to dance with someone who obviously was more than a little over-enthusiastic."
"I couldn't say no to him, dear. He looked downright devastated after his previous partner had abandoned him like that." She waves her hand dismissively.
For the first time on this day and what seems like a long while in general, Sherlock feels a genuine smile spreading on his face.
At Baker Street 221B, Sherlock escorts Mrs Hudson into her flat. She is leaning rather heavily on his arm and gives a little mewl of pain when he eases her down into her favourite armchair in front of the fireplace. "Could you get the fire going, my dear?" she asks, "it does get a little cold in the evenings."
So Sherlock lights up the already stacked logs, brings her her slippers and a blanket and goes to boil some water for a 'herbal soother'. He also finds Mrs Hudson's painkillers, which he brings her along with a glass of water and a new glossy magazine which was lying in the kitchen but hasn't been read yet. He puts it all on the small side-table next to her chair, then adds the remote control for the TV.
"You're such a darling," Mrs Hudson says. "Won't you sit with me for a while?" She expects him to politely decline or come up with an excuse, but to her surprise, Sherlock folds his lanky form onto her sofa. He looks tired and still a little lonely, but Mrs Hudson takes it as a good sign that he's here with her.
Sherlock knows why he is with Mrs Hudson. It's not about her hip. She is, despite her frail and innocent appearance, a gifted actress herself. He has seen her in pain after she had fallen that night, long ago, and this is nothing like it. He is here because she wants to keep an eye on him, just like John would have done on a night like this. And Sherlock simply can't muster the energy to protest; it has been a long day and he is exhausted.
It feels like the end of a case when the lack of sleep finally catches up with him, leaving him drained and bone-tired. Without the euphoria of having solved a puzzle, it is even worse. And it is cosy here in Mrs Hudson's flat, cosy and so much less empty.
"What exactly is in your herbal soother?" he asks.
"Just... herbs," she says. "I told you, it's from my shaman."
"Is he a doctor?"
Mrs Hudson huffs: "Nothing against our John, but these doctors nowadays... Sometimes a little knowledge about the healing properties of plants wouldn't be amiss if you ask me."
"It seems your shaman knows his stuff. Though you were rather anxious about the police finding it, if I recall correctly." That first night with John as a flatmate; he hadn't even properly moved in yet. But shortly afterwards, he had already saved Sherlock's life for the first time, killing a man for him without second thoughts.
"Stop mocking me," Mrs Hudson says, half-amused, half-concerned. "The drugs bust wasn't on my behalf, after all."
"Touché." Sherlock tips his fingers to an invisible hat.
Mrs Hudson looks rather smug at that.
With a sigh, Sherlock leans back; the sofa really is comfortable. "It was good to have a doctor in the house nevertheless," he murmurs, closing his eyes.
Mrs Hudson watches him silently; let him have his grief about it, she thinks, it's better like this than it has been on earlier occasions.
"It was," she concedes, "and now it seems we're back at the beginning."
Right now, the thought stings less than expected. Sherlock hums in agreement without opening his eyes. "He'll be back. He's my friend."
"Of course he will, my dear."
"He'll have less time."
"Probably."
"He'll have a family at one point."
"Also probable. Imagine that, a little boy or a girl... They will be so adorable..."
"He won't work with me any longer."
"Also probable. But Sherlock- we also count as family a little, don't you think?"
"Sentiment. And not the same."
"You don't know that." The old lady fondly beholds the young man: "There's nothing for it, Sherlock. You'll have to wait and see. And John won't simply stay away, you have said so yourself."
"I know," he breathes, opening his eyes once more and meeting her gaze. But it's good to hear it from someone else nevertheless, someone who's not Mycroft, preferably.
He thinks back to the day on which Mrs Hudson had told him that the flat above hers would soon be empty and ready to become his; it's not quite true that they are back at the beginning. He's got a friend now, and on top of it all, he's still got Mrs Hudson. Despite living in the same building with her for a few years now and everything which has happened, she still cares about him. Which means that they have come a long way.
"And yes," he therefore adds, "we probably do count as family."
With that, he closes his eyes once more.
He has just dozed off when the text message alert of his phone comes to life. Sleepily, Sherlock digs it out of his pocket and unlocks it.
Thank you for everything. I'm glad to have you by my side. J
Present tense, Sherlock notes with a small jolt of his stomach. He quickly types his reply: Aren't you on the plane already? Illegal procedures, Dr. Watson? S
His phone pings again only half a minute later: I learned from the best. J
Sherlock stares at the message until the phone goes into stand-by mode; funny how such a few words can make one feel better.
It's not the same as having John here with him, of course. But it's also indefinitely more than he would have expected, back then, at the beginning.
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The End
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