It was time.
The sun had finally begun its slow decent from the sky and casted a lovely array of pink and blue across the courtyard and among the people below. The crowd had paused in their drinking and small talk once the music began to sound and they had all taken their seats, eager and excited, awaiting for the ceremony to proceed.
John peered out of the window of the dressing room, watching the guests make their way down the hall and to the right, past two glass doors and eventually outside. Before long, everyone had gone, leaving him alone inside and to his thoughts.
Well, not completely alone…
"Nervous?" a voice asked gently from behind.
John hummed a little and gave Sherlock a glance from his location, nodding ever so slightly. The voice continued.
"You know, in the 1300's, King Edward I -aka Edward Longshanks- ruled long and arduous hours during the Scottish Revolution. He often found himself getting tense from all the hard work and searched for a way to relieve his stress. He hired several prostitutes-"
John cut the voice off and with a stern and almost pleading tone.
"Sherlock." He muttered, turning round to face his friend and best man.
Sherlock hummed in response. "Hm?"
"What am I missing?"
Sherlock looked up from his position from the mirror and was met by two distant blue eyes. Caught off guard by the question, he blinked away his confusion and looked at him sternly. "Pardon?"
John took his time turning around, sighing to the ground before looking up. "With Mary," He began, twiddling his hands together, " What am I missing? There has to be something. I've never felt this way for someone or kept such a long stable relationship with them, and the way I get whenever she's around, I just- God!" He slammed his fist into the wall and shook his head frantically. "It's all too perfect. There's no way this can be real, I can't be this happy-"
Sherlock was stunned by the sudden outburst. His eyebrows furrowed and he took tentative steps towards his flatmate.
…former flatmate.
John looked back towards him, squaring his shoulders a little (something Sherlock had noticed he did when he gave orders or needed to assert himself) and took a small step towards the man. He took a deep breath and hesitated before speaking.
"Deduce her."
Sherlock remained silent, a questioning look upon his face.
John said it again, repeating himself a little more firmly, "Deduce her. Tell me everything about her I don't see- that I'm not seeing. She's too perfect! This- all this- can't be real. She's got to be cheating on me or something or, Christ, I don't bloody know. Just- deduce her."
Sherlock sucked in air. His throat felt dry, constricting, and all he could do was stand there stupidly staring at John.
Ever since he returned, he had sworn to himself he would do whatever John would ask of him, whenever he needed it. He remembered the night when he had come back, how he'd never seen such sorrow and hurt in someone's face. After the initial shock from his return, John had entered doctor mode and helped him get to the bathroom to clean up and care for him (having been recently hurt on his way back home), not even after hearing half of the story. It wasn't until later that night when John was helping the detective to his bedroom that he had noticed the gun on the side-table by John's chair.
John cared for Sherlock for two weeks after that, Sherlock himself having falling suddenly ill. Once he recovered, he managed to fully explain to John what happened. He watched those hands shake as the tears gathered in John's eyes again before hugging him and making him swear not to leave him again. He promised John that, and swore to himself that he didn't want to see that expression on his face ever again.
Ever since he met Mary, he had started to realize his feelings towards him. At first, it was annoying, having John leaving him once, twice a week for a date. Later, when it started getting serious, Sherlock had planned to find out everything he could about this Mary in case she ever hurt John. One day, however, John was saying goodbye to her from their doorway, and he saw him smile. A genuine smile. And suddenly, he felt such a burn in his chest, he had to turn away and leave the room. He raked his mind for hours afterwards, trying to find out why he felt that way, and in the end, he found out he had fallen for his friend. He wanted John. Longed for him. He wanted him all to himself, just the two of them, and he wished to be able to say how he lo-
He didn't allow that thought to continue to run through his mind.
However, one night, about a month ago, he had allowed himself to continue that thought; fallen asleep to it; dreamt about it; then he woke up two hours later with a concerned John hovered above himself. Ironically, it was also the anniversary of his fall. John said he had come in when he heard Sherlock crying, saying he must have been having a nightmare, but, before long, Sherlock was holding his shaking friend, trembling himself and promising he'd never leave him again as the two of them shared the pained memory of his death. Even if John left him, he would always be there. He promised himself and promised John.
His hands twitched slightly at the old memory. Then, what he did next, was possibly the most difficult task the detective had ever gone about in doing. No, not possibly; it was.
Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders and stared deeply down at him, breathing slowly, then, saying softly,
"John, I have always said to you that you see, but do not observe. However, I think this is one of the most obvious things that you have ever asked me." He paused, "There is only one thing wrong with her- one thing wrong with all of this- right now."
He closed his eyes briefly, then smiled. "The only thing wrong- is that she's not with you, right now."
This wasn't really saying goodbye to John; no, not really. It did feel like half his heart was leaving though, walking down that aisle, and waiting for his love to come to him.
It didn't matter though. He had promised. He would never leave John, and he'd always wait for him, for whatever he needed; whatever he wanted.
Always.