The tuxedo reminded him of Joan, simply because it fit him, as did she. It wasn't often that you came across someone like that—someone you could look at and wonder what higher power had made it possible for you to meet. Because with the universe constantly being against you, it's a big surprise when it goes, "Here's someone that's perfect for you." He wouldn't call it love at first sight, since, as far as he was concerned, it didn't exist. But when her last few weeks as a companion loomed like an oncoming storm, it suddenly hit him: He was in love with Joan Watson. Irene's reappearance hadn't dissolved those feelings in the slightest, but had made him set them aside for the time being. After Irene had revealed herself as Moriarty, it had taken a few weeks to cope with the fact that the woman he had admittedly loved was not who she said she was, and was a malicious killer, at that. After that, his love for Joan became stronger than ever, because he realized she would always be there. It was a big assumption, that she would never leave his side, but he stuck by it. Joan wouldn't betray him as Moriarty had, wouldn't lie and scheme. Another thing to add to her long list of wonderful qualities.
For years, now, Moriarty would try and find ways to screw things up, to make things just a bit more difficult for him and Joan. Once, it had gotten so bad that he had begged Joan to get the hell out and go live a safe and normal life. But she had stayed. Through all of Moriarty's attempts, she was always there to comfort him and say, "We'll get her one day." That day never seemed to arrive, although she insisted that it would.
About two years after they had first met, he had finally decided to tell her that he loved her. He didn't plan anything big and fancy—that wasn't his style. In fact, he didn't even really have a style, his only plan being to simply walk into the room and say, "I love you." Not every woman's dream way of hearing those words, but he had a feeling that, if the feeling was reciprocated, she would appreciate it nonetheless. Whether or not she would feel the same way was questionable, but, as long as she at least knew how he felt, he wouldn't give a damn. Fear of rejection was uncommon in the heart of Sherlock Holmes, mostly because he had maintained very few relationships to get rejected from. Joan could reject him, though. And if she did, well...he figured he would get to that later.
However, he had walked into the living room, preparing to utter the rather dangerous phrase, when he laid eyes on a heavily made-up Joan, strapping on some stilettos to accompany a violet cocktail dress. "Sherlock," she said with a nervous smile, standing up to put her beautiful figure on display. "You're stunning," he blurted out, wondering if he should regret that. She arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" Grinning, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, revealing her sharp, breath-taking features. "Thanks, Sherlock. Never knew you were one for compliments," she laughed airily. "Anyway, I'm just about to head out for a date. I went ahead and ordered you some Chinese...it should be here in twenty minutes or so."
The doorbell had sounded, and who else would be there to greet her but Detective Bell, who told her, as if it weren't blatantly obvious, that she was beautiful. What made it worse was that she seemed more grateful when the remark came from him, like she took anything Sherlock said with a grain of salt. They had left, and the Chinese did show up after twenty minutes. He hadn't enjoyed it.
It won't last, he had thought. Then I'll tell her.
He was at their wedding.
Bell proposed after an agonizing two years of watching them greet each other at the door, kissing outside the brownstone, and horrifying mornings where he would accidentally run into the detective. How hellish it had been, greeting him in the kitchen and offering him a coffee, Bell totally oblivious to the fact that this was an awkward situation.
As soon as he proposed, Joan moved into his apartment, and that really hit home. She was leaving him. Of course, did he expect her to never live with her future husband, or for Bell to move here? But it still bothered him, still made his heart break as she packed up her things, kissed him on the cheek, and left. He still saw her at work every day, but he no longer got to ride home with her and order pizza and listen to her rant about his eccentricity. Instead, they parted ways, and he always lingered long enough to see her hop into the car with Bell, laughing about something he stopped caring about.
Now he stood in front of a floor-length mirror, adjusting his cufflinks and wondering why the hell he agreed to be the maid of honor. The femininity of the role wasn't what bothered him—Joan had once made him watch a movie where Patrick Dempsey had done the same—he really didn't care if he stood among a bunch of pastel-adorned women. But he had considered not even attending the wedding in the first place. He had to, of course, because Joan and—for the most part—Bell were his friends. It would definitely not be easy, however, to stand right near the woman he loved as she wed. Yet he was still here, preparing to go and see her before the big day that he wished didn't exist.
Joan and Bell were marrying at the Plaza, a venue that had taken much bribery to acquire. Despite himself, Sherlock had to admit that the wedding was going to be a beautiful one, especially with Joan as the bride. As he made his way down the carpeted hall, florists and caterers rushing past him, he considered trying to talk her out of it. A foolish idea, but one he couldn't help but entertain. That would be the perfect scenario, wouldn't it? Him and Joan, ditching the wedding at the last minute, Bell standing at the altar like an idiot, reassuring all the guests that, "Oh, she'll come. We're in love, after all." Nothing like this would ever happen, a fact that became clear as soon as he entered Joan's suite and saw the happy look on her face. God, he loved it when she was happy, when she was wearing that smile that lit up the whole damn room. If only she weren't wearing that white dress, though she looked absolutely ravishing in it.
"White, Watson?" he asked, leaning against the door. Joan turned in his direction, her eyes brightening when she saw him. "You're fooling no one." Rolling her eyes like the good old Joan Watson he knew and loved, she smoothed out the skirt of her dress. "Oh shut up," she half-retorted, half-giggled. Trying to emit anticipation for the day's events, he approached her. "Putting aside the deception of the fabric, you look beautiful." He kissed the top of her head and faced the three-paneled mirror with her. "Look at you, Watson," he whispered, holding back tears, much to his own dismay. Crying? Come on! She bit her lip and turned around, unexpectedly throwing her arms around his neck. "Don't cry," he mumbled, patting her back. "I saw the bill...you paid that make-up artist a bit too much. I could have done it for free." He heard a muffled laugh, then a small whimper. "I told the other bridesmaids to wait in the other room," she explained, sniffling. "I wanted to...to wait for you. Because..." She looked up at his face, the face that he kept frozen in a expression that didn't convey the absolute longing he felt to kiss her. "I love you." He stiffened. "You're my best friend." Oh God, no.
Putting his head on top of hers, careful not to mess up the curls, he sighed. "You're my best friend too, my dear Watson. And...I'm happy for you." She pulled away, smiling and wiping her eyes tentatively. "And as your best friend," Sherlock continued, "if you wish to...I think the proper vernacular is 'bounce,' I can go call a cab." She laughed whole-heartedly, except it had only been a partial joke. Being piloted off to the brownstone, where he could kiss her and tell her he loved her...too good to be true, which it was. She was getting married, and showing no signs of cold feet. "My dad should be here any minute," she said quietly, checking the mirror to see if she had smudged her makeup. "I think, right before we walk down the aisle, I'll tell him how much this all costs. He doesn't know yet." He grinned. "That's quite the scheme, Joan." They both froze. He had only referred to her as Joan in his head. Very rarely had he been on a first name basis with anyone, formality being his strong suit.
"Joan," she said quietly. "I like it."
Much to the wedding coordinator's horror, he didn't proceed down the aisle to the rubbish "rhythm" she had taught everyone involved in the procession. Instead, he fast-walked, dragging Gregson, the best man, behind him. Along the way, they received plenty of strange looks from the guests, which Sherlock waved off. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, we're not important anyway."
"Holmes!" Gregson hissed. "What the hell are you doing?" At the altar, Bell watched with wide eyes alongside the minister, who seemed to look up and utter a prayer that this wedding would work out okay. "Getting the show on the road," he replied, wanting to laugh at how the piano player sped up the tempo of the song to go along with their brisk pace. He practically shoved Gregson over to where the groomsmen stood, all of them looking disapprovingly at the maid of honor. "You messed everything up!" one of the bridesmaids whispered angrily. "Piss off," was all he had to say.
When Joan stepped onto the aisle, he noticed two things: 1) She was an absolute goddess, and 2) Her father was looking as white as her dress. She must have just told him about the wedding's total price. They continued their steady walk, the bridesmaid growling, "See, that's how it's done!" He ignored her, totally fixated on the glowing Joan. She whispered "hello" to multiple people, waving to little children who obviously adored her. Who couldn't? Bell, of course, looked almost as captured as he, but he didn't pay attention to him.
When Joan and Bell joined hands and the minister started his slow droning, Sherlock decided that the only way to get through this ceremony was to pretend that he was Bell. It seemed petty, but he could easily admit that he was jealousy-ridden. He wanted it to be him looking into Joan's eyes, about to be married to the greatest woman on the face of the earth. But what he had learned long ago was that things will always work out for men like Bell, the men who shine their shoes and use their manners and always stay composed. Men like Bell get women like Joan Watson. Men like Sherlock end up with a drug problem, meaningless one-night stands, and unrequited love. Maybe it's his fault, since, after all, he's chosen to be this way: A rather arrogant asshole that women can only stand when they're drunk and feeling spontaneous. There's a reason why he's not getting married in the Plaza today. There's a reason why Joan is paying no mind to him, just staring and staring at Bell, the man who did everything right, and was able to snatch her up in the process.
It was almost a good thing that today was not Sherlock's wedding, for he had no vows prepared, nor was he good at writing any. Bell started to speak, and Sherlock briefly remembered a short poem. A cheesy poem, but more than he would ever be able to articulate. He spoke as well, yet silently.
"The sun is no match for our heat, our light
The moon is put to shame by our pull
The stars admire our unity
I was empty, dear, now I am full!
A door opens, and I stop, clouded by fear
For I fear what is sudden and new
Yet you hold my hand, and we take it by storm
For I no longer fear it with you.
Your eyes contain all that is good
And your smile trumps any strife
Oh, your voice, your laugh, your kiss, my love
Brightens the dark that is life."
Bell's vows are followed by an impressed "Awww" or two, Joan's watery eyes crinkling as she smiles. "I love you," she mouths, and it hurts how much Sherlock wishes that were directed towards him. She says her vows, and, although he had planned to, he doesn't listen, just watches her. It really is a beautiful sight, her being happy. She giggles as she stumbles over words, bites her lip momentarily as she pauses between sentences.
He doesn't make her that happy.
Sherlock is not one to make someone happy. It's not an intentional flaw, obviously—he doesn't like overhearing conversations about how much people hate him. He's just always been better at posing a challenge, a small mystery for the companion to solve. Although he hates to think it, maybe that's the only reason Joan has stuck around: The fun of it all. Questioning suspects, examining clues...maybe that's all she craves. Not his company. It's obvious to him now, as he watches her grip Bell's hands more tightly as she recalls their first date. Joan's not like that...Maybe she isn't with good people! The people that deserve to see her so often! She did call you her best friend...She had been too emotional to say anything rational. He clenches his jaw, considering whether or not he should storm out of here, when Joan peeks around Bell's shoulder. Tears are running clear down her face now, and some bridesmaid behind him is whining about her makeup. "And Sherlock," she says, smiling softly. "My best friend. It's been five years now, hasn't it?" Everyone's attention is on him now, his quick passage to the altar quickly forgotten, for the bride has mentioned his name. He smiles sheepishly, wondering if he should answer aloud. Probably not. "Five years!" she exclaims. "We've been consulting together, and let me just say, Sherlock, it's been the best time of my life." The fact that Joan took time out of her wedding to acknowledge an irrelevant friend brings him to the realization that her intentions are good. Of course they are, though...shouldn't he have learned that by now? He's a bloody idiot, is what he is.
"Especially," she adds, looking at Bell again, "it's how I met this guy." A few chuckle at that, even Sherlock, except it's a chuckle out of disappointment. Because it's his fault, in the end. It's his fault that the priest is saying, "I now pronounce you man and wife," and Joan and Bell are kissing and everyone's cheering and crying because everything is oh-so-beautiful. It's his fault that, as they are stepping off the altar, Joan looks back and extends her hand for him. As a friendly gesture. He takes it, because that's what "friends" are for.
They all make it out of the room through the cheering crowd, and Joan gives Sherlock's hand a squeeze before letting it go. "We'll call you over for some pictures in a minute," she promises as she is whisked away by a grinning Bell. He has every right to, of course: He just married Joan Watson.
Yes, it's all his fault. He could have told her a long time ago that he loved her. Then, maybe, it could have been him standing in front of a photographer, looping his arms around Joan's waist and pressing a kiss to her cheek, or dipping her low to the ground before kissing her. People standing from a distance could have whispered to each other, "Sherlock and Joan make such a lovely couple." But they're not. And who's to blame? Him, of course.
Five years too late. He gives a small sigh, shakes his head, and walks straight out of the Plaza. Unbeknownst to him, Joan watches him head toward the door, about to call his name when the photographer yells, "Over here, Joan!" She pauses for just a second for the next picture. The camera flashes, and she turns back to the Plaza's entrance. "Sherlock!"
Except he's already halfway down the street, muttering, "I love you," over and over again, constantly professing to Manhattan that today was the wedding of the woman he loved.