Ch 2. I Found Love Where it Wasn't Supposed to Be
It was two days before the big day. Mary had dropped off Sherlock's tux the day before, giving him an excited little hug before she left. Sherlock had smiled as well as he could, feeling the shreds of his torn up heart aching more and more with each day.
After making a few adjustments to the violin piece Sherlock had written for John, he transposed the sheet music onto a new ledger so that it no longer said 'John's song' at the top. It was just called Wedding Waltz now. He prepared an envelope to put the sheet music into after he played it at the reception so that he could gift it to the bride and groom, and he felt as though he couldn't breathe while writing 'To Mr. and Mrs. Watson.'
There was nothing left to do but wait. He had written his best man speech, or as close to a written speech as Sherlock ever got. He knew what he was going to say. Sitting in his chair, staring across at the empty space that once was the home of John's chair, Sherlock lost himself in memory.
He would never forget the feeling of John's arms around him, of being led around the flat in a near perfect waltz. He would never forget the way John had looked at him when he dipped Sherlock back, or the way it felt to have John clutch at him almost desperately as he had dipped the doctor back. He would always remember that John, dear oblivious, frustratingly beautiful John had forgotten about Mary as Sherlock looked down into his eyes.
And he would certainly never forget the kiss. After years of longing, hoping, waiting, severe disappointment and mourning as Sherlock helped plan John's wedding to someone else, Sherlock finally got his kiss. It was everything he had dreamed and more. He never thought it would happen. Sherlock had never really wanted to kiss anyone before, not until John, and then it was a near constant battle to stop himself from doing so.
John broke every rule Sherlock had, made him feel things no one else ever could. He was not himself with John, and that made Sherlock wonder who he even really was anymore. He didn't want to be who he was without John, but it was too late. He was too late.
Two years had been far too long to expect anyone to wait, especially someone who had no idea that Sherlock had been hoping he'd wait. He'd had a plan, damn it. Hiding, fighting, killing, barely surviving torture, and the entire two years Sherlock was dismantling Moriarty's network, he was devising his plan to finally tell John how he felt. He knew after John's frequent and loud outbursts about not being gay that his feelings may not be welcomed, but Sherlock was tired of lying, of hiding.
John had changed everything the day he stepped into Bart's lab, had turned Sherlock's world upside down. Certainties he had always lived by were obliterated as Sherlock realised very quickly that John was different, and the rules just didn't apply to him. Every barrier, every safeguard he had ever put around his heart to lock out sentiment was completely blow away by the short army doctor, and it scared the hell out of Sherlock.
Instead of trying to deal with all of these new, terrifying emotions, Sherlock had gone deep into his Mind Palace, built a vault, and shoved everything in. He could not let his feelings for John ruin the only true friendship he'd ever had. If pretending he wasn't in love with John Watson kept the doctor around, then that's what Sherlock had to do.
That day on the roof had changed it all once more. John was in danger, and so was Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but honestly that had been overkill on Moriarty's part. Jim had promised him that he would burn the heart out of Sherlock while John was strapped in a Semtex vest, and the significance of that was not lost on the consulting detective.
Moriarty knew, and when he'd planned his next move, he honestly had only needed to threaten John, and Sherlock would have jumped. He adored Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had saved his life more than once, but if anything had happened to John – well, Sherlock would have jumped anyway.
When discussing contingency plans with Mycroft, Sherlock had fought hard to make sure John was going to be in on most of the plans. He couldn't bear to lie to John, but he knew a certain level of deceit was necessary to put some of the plans into effect. There were some plans that required John to not be included at all, and Sherlock had tried to avoid them as much as he could. The problem was that he would have no idea which plan he'd need until he was on the roof and Moriarty made his move. Of course the heartless bastard had made it so that the plan Sherlock hated the most, the one that would break John, was the plan they had to use. Lazarus was go, and Sherlock hated himself.
He had begged Mycroft to make it possible to contact John, or at least let the man know he was actually alive, but it just wasn't safe, and John's safety was top priority. Listening to John talk to his headstone, hearing the utter anguish in his tearful voice had left Sherlock split open and seething with self-hatred and guilt, but there was nothing he could do. John would never truly be safe until Moriarty's network had been neutralized, and as much as it killed him, Sherlock had to turn his focus onto his mission instead.
A few updates from Mycroft about John's condition, how he was coping and fairing ('not well at all, little brother'), and Sherlock couldn't do it anymore. He instructed his brother to still keep watching over John, but unless the man was seriously injured or in extreme danger, Sherlock didn't want to know anymore. It was too much, too painful and there was nothing Sherlock could do but try to move through Moriarty's web as quickly as he could.
Of course, because he no longer received updates about John, he'd had no idea about Mary until Mycroft had taken him back to London and put him back together again after his torture in Siberia. Looking through the files that Anthea had handed to him, Sherlock felt his excitement at finally getting to see John again turn to ash.
John had moved out of Baker Street, had moved on completely. There was a copy of a receipt for a lovely, modest engagement ring, and Sherlock felt the bile rise up in his throat. He couldn't let his brother know, so he locked it all in the vault and pretended he wasn't dying on the inside.
He was too late. He should have said something during that final call with John, but he'd been trying so hard to make John hate him, to try to spare him from the grief of Sherlock's suicide by replacing it with anger. He should have known that John, the man who had killed someone for him on only the second day of knowing each other, would never believe that Sherlock was a fraud and would stay faithfully loyal, even in death.
After the kiss, though, John had to know. There was no way Sherlock's feelings had not been screaming loudly at the doctor, and John had simply apologized and walked away. He had chosen Mary, again, and Sherlock made sure the vault was locked down tight. He had to make sure that every single emotion from that night was gone before he could even fathom attending the wedding, let alone being the best man. He would have simply deleted the memory, but Sherlock never deleted John, and he could not bring himself to delete the only kiss he would ever share with the only person he had ever loved.
Sherlock had been lost in thought for a few hours before the knock came. He'd been so deep in his Mind Palace that he hadn't heard the footsteps on the stairs, and so he wasn't sure who could be knocking. Checking the clock and seeing that it was nearly midnight left very few possibilities, and Sherlock took a deep breath before standing and answering the door.
John was soaked through, his coat dripping and his hair plastered to his forehead from the rain that Sherlock had not even noticed pounding against the windows. They had not seen each other since the night of the dancing lessons, and Sherlock felt his stomach churn. Why was John here so late, sopping wet, and looking as though someone had killed his dog?
"Sorry to stop by so late, but I figured you wouldn't mind since you never actually sleep like a normal human being."
Sherlock couldn't help the smile that John's words inspired and stepped back to let his former flatmate in. He watched as the doctor peeled off his wet coat and hung it on the back of the door, and then toed his boots off, which were similarly soaked through. His socks went next, and Sherlock realised that John did not intend for this to be a short visit. He felt a niggling of hope rise in his chest, and shot it down immediately, shoving it into the vault and locking it firmly.
"Not that I don't appreciate your very moist company, John, but why are you here so late?"
John took a deep breath before turning toward his chair. His chair that was no longer across from Sherlock's. Sherlock had lugged the red arm chair up the stairs into John's room – the spare room – the day after the kiss. He just couldn't stand to see the reminder of what he had lost every single day, staring back at him as he settled into his own dilapidated leather chair.
John blinked rapidly, just staring at the spot where his chair used to be, and Sherlock felt the air around them grow tense.
"So that's how it is, then?"
"It was blocking my view of the kitchen."
John had turned to stare out the window, Sherlock still standing beside the door, his arms crossed protectively across his chest. He would not feel guilty about this. John had no right to be upset about Sherlock moving his chair when John had left first.
"Right, that's definitely it. Couldn't possibly have anything to do with you kissing me the other night."
Sherlock bristled as he moved further into the sitting room, but still not very close to John. "Excuse me, but I seem to remember you kissing me. Don't twist it around because you feel guilty, John. Your moral dilemma is your own; I have no qualms about what really happened," Sherlock snapped.
John still hadn't turned to face him, and had moved closer to the window. He looked down at Sherlock's music stand where the two versions of John's song were sitting – one with the real title, and one with the fake title that Sherlock was rewriting for the wedding.
"You're right, I did kiss you. But you kissed me back, Sherlock. Why did you kiss me back?" John asked, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the rain.
Before Sherlock could even begin to think of what to say, the vault exploded open, and there was little he could do to stop the flood of want, regret, guilt, pain, longing, and love – so much love – from pouring out in waves. It flooded every room of his Mind Palace, drowned all reasoning and logic and lodged in his throat until his eyes burned.
"For God's sake, I know you're not that stupid. Deduce it! You've watched me often enough. Go on; tell me why I kissed you back. Don't strain yourself, now! Christ, John, I really thought you weren't as big of an idiot as the rest of the world, but clearly I was wrong. I guess I've always been wrong about you."
"Stop it, just stop!" John ground out through clenched teeth as he finally turned around to face Sherlock. His eyes were red rimmed and Sherlock could see his clenched fists shaking at his sides.
"Just stop, Sherlock, ok? I get it, I know, but that doesn't tell me how the hell I'm supposed to feel! What am I supposed to do?"
Sherlock could not meet John's eyes as he wrapped his arms protectively around himself, trying to shield himself from this conversation in any way possible. This wasn't supposed to happen. John wasn't supposed to bring it up ever again. It was supposed to be locked away and forgotten about, like John's chair upstairs. Only, John had noticed that too, hadn't he?
"I cannot tell you how to feel, or what to do. I'm a little biased, so my advice is probably not the best to ask. If you're only here to – to mock me or make me feel any worse than I already do, then you can leave. I can't tell you how to feel, but I can tell how you're allowed to treat me, and bursting into my flat in the middle of the night, soaking wet and making me feel guilty for trying to move on is not ok."
There was a long silence, only broken by the sounds of distant thunder and the steady pounding of rain against the sitting room window. Sherlock steeled himself and finally looked up at his best friend, and felt his stomach drop.
John's eyes were full of tears as he brushed at the wetness with an annoyed swipe of his palm across his cheeks. "I know. I know I fucked up, Sherlock, but I don't know what to do. I've been trying so hard to figure out what it meant that I could just waltz with you for a few hours, and then you look at me and I completely forget my fiancé even exists. And then I was a fucking idiot and I just followed my instincts and I kissed you and that was it. That was the final straw and I knew, Sherlock."
"You knew what?"
John took a shuddering breath as he stared up at the ceiling, as if looking up would stop the tears streaming from his eyes. "That I had made the wrong choice. But you were gone for two years, and once you were back and I had tried to forgive you, it was already too late. I've been telling myself since the day you came back that I had made the right choice because you would never want me the way I wanted you, and I could have that with Mary.
"And now…fuck, Sherlock, now that I know I could have that with you instead, how the hell am I supposed to go back to Mary and just pretend it never happened? How am I supposed to marry the wrong person and be ok with it for the rest of my life?"
Sherlock could feel that he was shaking now, and the burning in his eyes was too much to hold back. They were both so stupid. Sherlock had kept his feelings from John so that his friend could be happy, could finally marry a woman he loved and be free of Sherlock's antics, and the whole time, John had been feeling the same way.
"We're both complete idiots," Sherlock croaked, and he couldn't help his sad grin as a startled chuckle burst forth from John, who scrubbed at his face tiredly.
"That's an understatement."
"How long?"
John hesitated, and Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat. He was not about to admit to John that he had loved him from their very first case together if John wasn't honest with him in return.
"Sherlock, I killed someone to save you from poisoning yourself when we'd known each other less than two days. How long do you think?"
Sherlock felt the feelings lodged in his throat choke him more as he turned away from the man he loved, suppressing a sob as he covered his mouth to stop the horrible cry of grief that wanted to burst out of his chest.
They had wasted so much time being emotionally constipated morons, and Sherlock was still too late. It was like seeing the only drop of water in a barren desert dry up just before you reached it. They'd had eighteen months together before The Fall, and Sherlock had not once ever considered that John felt the same. He was so stupid.
"Stop blaming yourself; it's my fault too."
"Reading minds is my job," Sherlock whispered, and he smiled at John's answering laughter. He still hadn't turned around, and when he felt arms wrap around him from behind, Sherlock let himself relax into the embrace even though he knew he shouldn't.
"So what do we do, Sherlock?" John murmured, his cheek pressed into Sherlock's shoulder from behind as he held the detective against his chest.
"It's not my decision to make, John. I'm not the one getting married in thirty six hours."
John sighed gustily as he pulled Sherlock closer. "I know. But…but if I wasn't, what would happen?"
Sherlock grasped John's arms and loosened them enough so that he could turn around in his embrace. Now facing the doctor, Sherlock could not possibly ever let this go again. It would break him. "Well, you would have to help me move your chair back downstairs, as I nearly pulled every muscle in my back dragging it up there."
John tilted Sherlock's head down so that their foreheads rested together, a smirk pulling at his lips as he played with the curls at the base of the detective's neck. "It's ok, I won't need my room; we have yours."
Sherlock smiled, his arms tightening around his best friend and pulling them closer so that no space was between them, just like during their first kiss. "No, but you will need your chair," and then Sherlock closed the remaining space and kissed John again.
"Don't marry her. Please, John. I know you can't just move back in and have us live happily ever after, but please don't."
"I won't – I can't. It wouldn't be fair to either of you. I need to figure things out. Sherlock, I love you, I do, but you have to understand that I was perfectly content to marry her less than a week ago because I didn't think this was possible. I love Mary too."
Sherlock took a shuddering breath as he gripped John's upper arms and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "I know. And I know I don't even deserve the consideration you're giving me, but if you marry her, John…I don't know that I could bear it."
John stepped away from Sherlock, though they were still touching, their arms not quite releasing each other completely. The army doctor looked as exhausted as Sherlock felt. "Christ, why couldn't we have figured this out sooner? Damn it, you helped plan the damn wedding, and the whole time –"
"It killed me. But you were so happy, and that's all I wanted. I couldn't take that from you, not after all I put you through when I…when I jumped. I know I can be a selfish bastard, but not when it comes to you."
Sherlock felt the door of the vault swinging in the flood waters, useless and gaping open, like his heart. He felt raw and exposed in a way he had never allowed himself to be before, and once again he realized that John had changed him completely.
John shook his head, fixing Sherlock with an incredulous look. "You jumped for me. You spent years hunting down Moriarty's network, being tortured, to keep me safe. I know I've been angry with you for not telling me you were alive, but I understand why you had to do it. It's going to take me quite some time to completely heal from that. Now that you know how I feel, think again about how I felt after you jumped."
Sherlock tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, thinking about how much he had missed his blogger the two years that he was gone. But he knew John was alive the entire time – John thought he was dead. He can't even imagine.
"I'm sorry. I wish I could go back and do things differently and still be able to keep you safe, but I was out of time and viable options. I'll never regret anything more."
"I know. I know, love. That's not even what this about anymore. I just – I'm going to need some time. I need to talk to Mary. We have to – we have to tell everyone the wedding is off. I'm going to need some space at first, all right? But Sherlock, listen to me: I am not pushing you away, I'm not cutting you out, and I'm damn sure not giving this – whatever this is – up. Ok?" John asked, his hand brushing gently against Sherlock's cheek in a tentative gesture, like he was afraid he was going to break the detective.
"Ok," said Sherlock. He would do whatever it took to keep John, to get him back and bring him home again. If he had to wait for John to figure things out, he would wait. He'd waited this long.
Their mouths met in a gentle kiss, just a brush of lips. Sherlock felt John thread his fingers through his curls once more, and sighed when John deepened the kiss and pulled him closer. His own hands were clutching at John's waist, not daring to let the man go before he absolutely had to. Who knew how long it would be before they would have this again, if at all? John said he still loved Mary – what if, in the end, he chose her after all? Sherlock couldn't even let himself think about it; instead he focused all of his attention on pushing every bit of sentiment that had been overwhelming him into the kiss.
"John. If…you have to choose, and it's not going to be me, then don't ruin your relationship with Mary. If you think for even one second that you still want to marry her, do it. I can't bear to be the reason you lose her if it's not me you want," Sherlock implored. He could not handle it if John risked his happiness on a chance with him. Sherlock wasn't really relationship material, it wasn't exactly his area, but he was willing to try for John.
John pressed another kiss to Sherlock's lips before pulling away, and moving toward the door this time. He slipped on his boots and pocketed his sopping wet socks before shrugging into his jacket. "It's not a question of wanting you, Sherlock, because I definitely do. I just have to try to sort this with as much tact as possible. I love Mary, but…there's no question, ok? I was going to ask to stay tonight, but I don't think that's wise after all. I need to talk to Mary as soon as possible. I'll text you."
Sherlock crossed the sitting room and pulled John close by the collar of his jacket, stealing one more kiss. If this was the last time he would kiss John for a long while, he wanted to have as many kisses to remember as possible.
"Goodnight, John."
John's lopsided grin as he zipped up his jacket inspired Sherlock's own smile. The doctor stood on tip toes to kiss Sherlock one more time before bounding down the seventeen steps leading up to 221B.
Sherlock couldn't wait to hear his blogger's footsteps coming home once more.
A/N: Ok, so I didn't expect to write anymore for this story, but I received a comment that inspired me to continue it, and it looks like I'm still not done. I can't guarantee any kind of posting schedule for regular updates, but I'll try to update as soon as my muse decides I can write again. Thanks for all of your kind words, and please let me know what you think of part two!