When John had placed his hand on Sherlock's knee for stability, uttering "I don't mind," it sent Sherlock's thoughts into a drunken spiral. After a few minutes, he reached a point at which he could no longer move on in his thoughts and actions until he expressed to his friend exactly what he'd been thinking about - the development which he rarely let come to the forefront of his mind, but which overwhelmed his consciousness in its current haze.
"John, I- I... Have to tell you something," Sherlock slurred, sitting up in his chair.
"Okay," John slurred right back, remaining slouched back in his own chair, drink in hand and feet propped up on the edge of Sherlock's seat cushion.
Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it, furrowing his brow. "I'm actually not really sure how to um, put this," he said, looking sideways and pressing his fingers to his lips.
"Take your time," John said, his eyes closing contentedly for a moment.
"I'm having trouble-" Sherlock said, hiccuping midsentence, "mm- thinking."
John chuckled lazily. "You alright?" he managed.
Sherlock swallowed clumsily and answered, "Yeah, yes... good." He rubbed his eye and studied his friend for a moment. "Very good. I - er - John, listen."
"Lllllistening," John said, though he could have appeared to be falling asleep to the untrained eye.
"Clearly I feel... Something very strongly toward you..." Sherlock said, looking a bit troubled. John's eyes opened attentively at this. Sherlock continued, glancing at his friend only intermittently. "While I've never... actually had a... a best friend before I- I'm certain my feelings actually... exceed the normal level for... um, that sort of thing." John thoroughly furrowed his brow but could not get himself to say anything. He felt inclined to hold his breath. "I s'pose..." Sherlock continued, gesticulating vaguely, "the way I feel about you more closely resemblessss... a romantic... ssssituation..." He was fluttering his hand back and forth delicately in order to express approximation, this movement the only remotely graceful thing about his current state. "Vvvvery strongly... obviously. Sort of. And well, not sexual-"
John, feeling very shaken, squirmily sat himself more upright, his feet on the floor. He listened uncomfortably as Sherlock continued.
"I'm no'really interested in engaging with anyone sexually, so it erm," the detective swallowed, "works out. Though if I were in fact to... seek out... that-sort-of-thing, then I s'pose you'd um..." He trailed off, looking at his friend for the first time in a few moments and feeling embarrassed despite his intoxication when he saw how unnerved John looked. "But... in fact... not," Sherlock finished, flourishing the sound of the T and pursing his lips in the silence that followed.
That silence persisted for too many seconds. John was covering his mouth absentmindedly with his fingers as though fearful of what would escape his lips.
He cleared his throat. "Uh, Sherlock," he said, making eye contact for only a second. His mouth was still open but he couldn't find suitable words. He was flooded confusingly with memories of living with Sherlock, what his friend had brought him out of, and miraculously into. And the heartbreaking loss of when the bastard feigned death for two years. And then Mary. Now, Mary. Now that he had her, his feelings for Sherlock weren't much (if at all) more, than those of friendship. And they certainly could never be sexual now. Not that they could have been before - he wasn't gay. Of course not, yes, he had Mary.
All of this moved through his mind like sludge.
As the silence had pressed on for those twenty seconds, Sherlock had felt increasingly empty, like his insides were draining out of him and leaving behind only a residue of regret. He couldn't get himself to speak again, however painful the silence remained.
"Sorry," John slurred quietly as Sherlock tried to ignore the sensation brought on by that terrible word - like a thumb tack being pressed into his sternum. "I'm... Well you know... Mary and I-... I'm not gay, Sherlock."
"Yeah of course, neither'm I," Sherlock said, almost cutting him off.
"Well," said John, as if uncertain Sherlock's claim could really be true.
Sherlock's jaw was set as he looked as his friend.
He couldn't have been so far off about this. These feelings, however unclassifiable, couldn't be completely unrequited. Of course he knew Mary came first, and he loved the two of them, he was happy for them. He was. Really. These feelings didn't necessarily have to conflict with John and Mary's relationship. But John didn't necessarily have to reciprocate them, either-
Sherlock's thoughts were reeling too quickly for his inebriated consciousness to keep up with. Frustrating.
"Right, well..." he slurred. He couldn't make sense of John's expression, nor could he tear his eyes away from it. "Forget I said anything. As not to... compromise the integrity of the friendship."
Should there have been any more painful silence to endure, it never arose because Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door, bringing in a client. Of course, there could not have been a more inopportune time for this, but both Sherlock and John were far too drunk to avoid the situation in an appropriate manner... and their inebriation was perhaps compounded between the two of them.
John was more sleepy than anything else. He was also very practiced at selectively repressing emotional concerns he found confusing, so he hadn't planned on giving the previous conversation any more thought if he could help it. The alcohol diffused the concern even further and his mind was nearly idle as the client told her story. He felt nice really, he liked the sound of a female voice even when he was inattentive to the words it brought forth, he liked the light feeling in his head, he even liked the accidental graze of Sherlock's arm resting behind him on the back of the couch. He glanced toward Sherlock fondly, though oblivious to his friend's perspective.
As the last of the alcohol he'd consumed pushed him further into his haze, Sherlock's mind, accustomed to normal procedure, worked to filter through everything irrelevant to the objective. Intoxication made this process less than effective, especially because pinpointing the objective was a major task in and of itself.
"Maybe he wasn't quite as keen as I was..." The client said about the man she'd had a date with. She became tearful after a moment. "But I- I just thought... at least he'd call to say that we were finished."
Something about this drew Sherlock in and he suddenly felt startlingly upset, mirroring the client. Something made it so this empathy was relevant. Why? What was the objective again? Or was it just a failure to assess relevance? Regardless, Sherlock was a bit repulsed by his own emotional display, and he couldn't think clearly in order to understand it. Before long, though, it didn't matter.
The case was fascinating. The lost dog - or rather, ghost dog. No, the ghost. The ghost that couldn't have been a ghost. Something. But either way, the game was something. On.
John and Sherlock followed the client to her flat - or, no, the ghost's flat. Needless to say, no deductions were possible. John simply wobbled serenely, and every time Sherlock thought he began to understand what his current objective was, it would seem to slip away. With no framework to guide him, he was left struggling to follow procedure, struggling to struggle, struggling not to drift off with his face against the rug which hhe wasst ryingto exameienzzzz
"Woah, woah woah!" He slurred, batting away the landlord who had angrily woken him after a moment. He was sleepy and unsteady, he was an indistinguishable cloud of irritability and nausea. "What do you think you're doing? Don't... compromise... the integrity... of the-"
He saw John out of the corner his eye and tasted an echo of the word 'friendship' on his tongue like bile. The alcoholic contents of his stomach then rose painfully in his throat before he could even consider finding a receptacle, but he was only able to deduce that this had occurred based on the taste lingering in his mouth the next morning.
And thank goodness for the next morning. Relief accompanied the pounding sobriety he woke with, no matter how dizzy he felt - he could think again. He could think.
Among the first thoughts to enter his mind, along with why he was currently in a cell, were recollections of last night's emotional conversation. "Not important," were the words that he forced into existence, loud and bright and nauseating as the rest of his surroundings, but drowning out all they were meant to dismiss.
And it all remained dismissed, for a while. But the closer the date grew to John and Mary's wedding, the more dismissing actually had to take place. Still, things were much easier with a clear head.
Until Sherlock found that his head was anything but clear, and he wasn't even intoxicated. During the reception, after the commotion of the attempted murder had settled and everyone had begun dancing, he made one more deduction than expected: Mary was pregnant.
"Well, you're hardly gonna need me around now that you've got a real baby on the way." This is what Sherlock had said, and it replayed in his head for several seconds until he felt the lightheartedness with which he'd said it evaporate from his face and his chest. This was it. While it was easier to belittle the meaning of marriage, the idea of a child - a life - a real live human being - was impossible to dismiss.
John and Mary, a family. John and Mary, their love, their child.
Sherlock was not a part of this picture. But John... John was Sherlock's picture.
Not import- he tried to dismiss this information, the emptiness in his core. But he saw John look at her and it took all he had to plaster a smile for them onto his face. What he felt for John, John didn't feel back-
Not imp- but the music was too loud. The happiness around Sherlock was too loud, too neon against the unlit silence his heart pumped through him. Join his surroundings, this is what he had to do, this would surely drown it all out. But his only possible counterpart had already found herself a dance partner, and in the meantime he couldn't dismiss what he felt. He had to get out of here.
The ghost of him drifted over and folded the sheet music he'd written for John and Mary into the envelope that displayed their newly united title.
His current objective was getting away. His current objective was not feeling this feeling anymore. He felt another pang of it all as he remembered John's face when he looked at Sherlock with pity in his bleary eyes and said "Sorry-"
He tucked his face away from the thought and toward the protective collar of his coat as the music faded behind him and he walked into the quiet night. Not important.