A/N: Holmes is a little OOC in this, but everyone gets a little out of sorts when they're in love.
Disclaimer: Don't own.
That Fire You Built Me is Throwing Heat
His eyes are bloodshot with dark smears of black and purple underneath. His jaw line covered with two day old stubble, his hair unwashed and standing in disarray; he is an absolute wreck. He looks away from the mirror, unable to look at himself anymore, a hollow shell of a man. He walks from the bathroom back to a small room, with a single bed and an undersized sitting area, holding only a chair and a diminutive side table. There is a fireplace against the far wall that's heating the room, and creating a smoky haze.
He's miserable, utterly miserable. The thought of going through with all this, makes his stomach churn, and bile rise in his throat. He can't imagine the world after the proceeding events; the infinite walk down, the promises, and the meeting of two bodies, it's sickening. He feels his stomach constrict painfully, and his breathing hitch. He collapses down into the single chair, completely lost.
He was losing his Boswell today to someone else; she was stealing his whole world from him. Sherlock Holmes could see a bleak world after this entire affair. His colleague, his flat mate (well old flat mate), and friend, Dr. John Watson, was getting married today. He was starting his life anew with his beloved Mary. It was dreadful really, how they were so happy in love, swift, soft touches of naked hands, and the amorous gleam held in their eyes. Holmes couldn't fathom the honeymoon; it was all just beyond him, just dreadfully real. He acquiesced to coming to the event just to be right by his friend's side, just a support beam to the entirety of this matrimonial structure; he could never deny his Watson anything.
There's a light rapping at the door; he meticulously made his way over to answer the call. He swiftly rips the door open, hinges whining in protest. Standing on the other side is a diminutive young woman, who is frighteningly frail and painfully pale, looking alarmed by the gruff greeting.
"Mr.H-Holmes?" She queries, looking up into the dark, brooding eyes of the detective; he gives a gruesome snarl of a smile and a nod of his head in assent. She reads off from a small piece of parchment, "Your presence is requested by Dr. John Watson in his rooms, in a quarter of an hour." She peers up at the detective, shaking slightly, like a rabbit ready to exercise its flight response.
"You may tell the Doctor that I will be there," and with that slams the door in the poor girl's face, done with the pleasantries, if there ever was any. He retreats back over to his chair, and falls back against it; trying to conjure up the will power to see his friend before he is entirely lost to him.
His mind is frighteningly blank, and sluggishly whirling to find the words he is expected to say to his Watson; the 'congratulation' and the 'best wishes,' it's all nauseating really. He feels as though he should celebrate with his friend, but it would all be a lie, and lying is illogical, and Sherlock Holmes doesn't deal in the illogical; he groans out in protest and brings his hands up to his face in exasperation. He feels his emotions wash down on him, drowning him; not one to normally deal in the realm of sentiments and passions, he feels himself splitting at the seams. His feelings for his closest, dearest friend will be his undoing, but he stubbornly remains keeping them locked up tight, keeping them for his thoughts only; he would rather wither in this lie alone, then lose Watson to this truth.
He glances up at the small clock placed stylishly upon the mantle, reminding him of his meeting with his friend. He precariously stands from his chair and grabs his suit jacket from the rack and gives himself one last glance over in the small, wall-mounted mirror. What looks back at the detective is a mess of a human being, face awash with hurt and fatigue. He grimaces, but no time to try the fix the unchangeable; he moves on, whisking his jacket over his shoulder with one hand. He opens the door and descends the stairs, taking care to make sure he doesn't miss a single step, in a sad attempt to delay the inevitable.
Holmes reaches his friend's temporary room, loaned out to them by a distant aunt of Mary's, for the wedding. He picks up his free hand and raises it up to the door, but can't seem to complete the rapping motion against the wood. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to will his mind to regain conscious thought, no such luck, at least not when his Watson is involved. He let out a huff of air, and raised his fist against the door again, this time able to knock quit firmly against the ruff grain of the wood. He shook his head, because this recent folly of trepidation would do him no good, none at all. There was no reason for him to feel like this, but I guess that's why he never gave feelings a chance before, they made good men fall to their knees. Holmes felt that he was falling, that gravity was suddenly becoming too overwhelming, instantly snarling at his whimsical path his thoughts were traveling down; no room for the illogical in his mind, unless it deals with Watson, he corrected.
Soon the door was opened to reveal a dapper and smiling John Watson, dressed impeccably in a finely tailored suit. His hair artfully styled and parted towards the side, mustache trimmed, and sparkling blue eyes; he was blissful. Holmes instantly plastered on a smile and moved to clap his hand on his friend's shoulder, in a congratulatory manner; all fake sincerity. Watson just beamed and guided them into his room, the set up mirroring Holmes' own accommodations. They moved over to the sitting are, Holmes artfully arranging himself in the chair, draping his coat over back; Watson just leaned against the fireplace's mantle, all smiles.
"Would you like a taste of brandy there old boy?" Watson inquired of his friend, Holmes nodded dutifully. He moved over to the small table on the other side of the diminutive room, and grabbed two glasses off the shelf and poured two glasses of the amber liquid, handing one to Holmes. Watson leaned heavily against the hearth, regarding Holmes with a keen eye. Holmes just stared into the fire; obstinately trying to avoid direct contact with Watson's blazing orbs.
"Thank you Holmes," Holmes heard come from the fireplace, this drew his attention up to his friend.
"You are absolutely welcome Doctor, but may I inquire as to why I am being thanked," He quirked an eyebrow in question, trying look anywhere but directly in Watson's eyes. He decided on his mouth, trying to pay attention to the words forming from those rose tinted lips; Holmes inevitably found this choice a bad idea, as he missed what the Doctor had said. He shook his head slightly, breaking his eyes away from those tempting lips and ducked his head, staring at the floor. "I'm sorry there old boy, what was it you said?" Watson just regarded Holmes with a tinge of worry, he thought his friend seemed a little off, not as refined as the Holmes he was use to.
"I said I was thanking you for attending Mary and I's wedding, and for accepting my invitation to be my best man. It really means a lot to me Holmes," Watson smiled down at him. Holmes just kept his eyes in rapt attention on the floor. He couldn't look into his friend's eyes, he would see all the joy and pleasure reflected there, but all that happiness would be directed to another, and not him. He would be forever lost if he let himself look into those strikingly blue eyes.
"Holmes, is there something the matter? You aren't feeling ill are you? You do seem a little pale," Watson moved over to kneel in front of Holmes, trying to catch his eyes. Holmes just obstinately kept averting his gaze, brown irises flittering over the course thread-work of the carpet; most definitely from Persia, he told himself. Watson narrowed his eyes at his friend's obvious refusal, letting out a breath of irritation. "Holmes, please tell me what is the matter," Watson implored pleadingly. Holmes couldn't take it anymore and made to stand, Watson stumbling back, knocking against the mantle, in his attempt to step back.
"I assure you Watson, that nothing is wrong. I just am feeling light headed due to my position in the ceremony that is all." Holmes lied smoothly. Watson wasn't the highest in intelligence, but he wasn't quite as daft as Holmes was trying to make him feel.
"Don't lie to me," he demanded, "tell what has gotten you so out of sorts!" He was supposed to be getting ready to walk down the aisle to wed his beloved Mary, this visit from his friend was supposed to be a joyous one; they were not meant to be fighting, not now. Holmes swiftly turned on the doctor then, walking right up to him, eyes on fire, mouth upturned in a sneer.
"You, you have me out of sorts. I tried to come here today and be happy for you, try to understand your love for your soon to be wife, I tried," his words loosing there ferocity as he went. "I wanted to be there for you my dearest Watson, but I find that my mind is not accustomed to- not accustomed to- feeling like this." He stepped back from Watson and let his head droop down towards his chest. Watson felt his mouth fall open a little, not use to his friend's emotional tirades.
"I'm-I'm sorry Holmes, I-I didn't know," Watson ducked his head as well, but curiosity peeking. "Holmes," he started gently, but with no response from the aforementioned man, "what are you feeling that has made you so upset?"
"I can't see you leave me, for her," he mumbled down to his chest; Watson stepping a hair closer, trying to hear the words spoken by his long time friend.
"What did you say?" He took another step till he was only two paces from Holmes, but close enough to reach out a hand to him, if need be. Holmes brought his head up then, eyes blurred with unshed tears. He reached up and wiped at his face, thoroughly embarrassed by such a poignant display, in front of Watson no less. Watson stutter back a step.
"I can't watch you leaving me for her, I'm sorry Watson. I don't know what has come over me, please do not despise me for my treachery," Holmes implored of his friend, reaching out his arms as if the grab hold of his friend but stopping short. Watson just stood there, gob smacked.
"Holmes I-I could never despise you, ever." Watson reached out and grabbed hold of his friend's hand that had fallen to his side. Holmes just looked pleadingly at his friends, eyes burning. Watson moved closer to his friend and brought his other hand to cup Holmes cheek, giving his other hand a light squeeze. "Holmes, I may love Mary," Holmes gave an involuntary flinch at this, but Watson trudged on, "but I will never leave you. I love you Holmes, first and foremost, no one can triumph over the love I have for you, not even Mary." Holmes sniffed and leaned into the hand that was cupping his cheek.
"Then why? Why are you marrying her?" His eyes searching Watson's for some sign of hope; a distinctive mark of logic, of reasoning.
"Because Holmes," he sighed, "It's what is expected of me," he completed in resignation. Holmes was angry, not one for moral objectiveness, but he let his face fall in defeat. "Holmes you must know, that I speak the truth when I say that you mean the world to me, I love you, but I can't." Watson let Holmes hand go, with a final squeeze and brought it up to cup the other side of his friend's face.
Holmes brought his head up and met Watson's eyes; he just stared, saying with his eyes that he understood, no matter how much he didn't agree with it. Watson just gave him a tight smile in reply, letting his thumbs rub softly along Holmes stubble covered jaw. Holmes sighed and leaned into the contact. Watson brought his face forward, and gently let his lips brush against his friend's. The kiss was barely a meeting of flesh, a soft and gentle promise. Holmes pushed forward slightly, to gain more pressure, letting his eyes slide closed.
Watson pulled back and looked at his friend's face, seeing his acquiescence. He leaned in bringing their lips together again, just another soft brush, a languid touch, speaking of all their feeling and unfulfilled desire. Holmes felt as though he could stand there all day kissing Watson, but they were interrupted by a swift knocking on the door. Watson drew back and let Holmes' face drop from his hands and moved to answer the door. There was wedding attendant, saying it was time for Watson to take his place at the altar in the garden.
Holmes followed his friend out of the house and to the garden. It was beautiful, the flowers in bloom, there scent wafting around the small gathering of attendants. The preacher was at the top of the altar, waiting, the sun was high in the sky, filtering its glorious warmth upon the ceremony. Holmes just felt ill, but he smeared a fake smile across his mouth and stood by his friend's side. He chanced a glance in Watson's direction and saw him looking back at him. Watson had a small smile across his lips, he let his hand reach out and gently clutch Holmes', giving the ruff, work hardened hands a squeeze.
The music started and the audience turned their heads towards the entrance to the garden to see Mary entering. She was lovely, she was pure, and she was Watson's; Holmes felt the bile start to rise again.
His heart broke, but no one heard a sound.