Here is chapter 3! This time I split season 3 into two different chapters, otherwise it was too long. This first chapters deals with TEH and TSoT.
Whom to expect: just Sherlock, John and Lestrade. Molly, Mrs Hudson and Mary are mentioned.
What to expect: fluff and friendship, as usual. No angst, or very minor. Half of the chapter is the dance rehearsal scene!
Enjoy :)
3. TEH + TSoT
Things with John don't go quite as expected. He isn't delighted to see Sherlock, he's angry and disappointed, as Sherlock realises quickly during their conversation.
John doesn't want to hear explanations as to how Sherlock didn't die, and gets even angrier when Sherlock reveals there were other people who knew the truth. John makes it clear that he's livid, and that for the time being he has no intention of pursuing any further contact with Sherlock.
The only moment they touched is John's hands on Sherlock's neck, twice, not nearly definable as affectionate, and John's head against Sherlock's nose, again, not pleasant at all.
The only thing Sherlock can do is walk away from John, let him be angry, and hope he will change his mind eventually. He will, won't he, Sherlock wonders. He can't imagine his life in London without John. Learning that John doesn't live in Baker Street anymore, nor has he any intentions of moving back, was painful enough.
Thankfully, with everyone else things go exactly according to the plans Sherlock made in the previous months while wandering across Eastern Europe.
Sherlock surprises Molly Hooper waiting for her in the changing room of Bart's Hospital. She's startled at first, but then she grins and runs to hug him.
"I'm so glad you're back, I missed you!" she whispers to his ear.
He hugs her back, holding tight, a bit troubled by the emotion that is quickly taking over his mind and forming a lump in his throat.
Someone missed him just as much as he missed them. He's home.
Lestrade too conforms to his plan when Sherlock walks out of the darkness in the underground car park.
"Oh, you bastard!" Lestrade says, before hugging Sherlock, thus throwing him completely off guard. He definitely wasn't expecting to be hugged by Lestrade, but after a couple of seconds of bafflement, Sherlock hugs back.
Before they part, Lestrade pats his back twice.
It's so good to be home.
After screaming her lungs out in fear and shock, Mrs Hudson hugs Sherlock too, tightly, her eyes tearing up with delight.
"I'll make you a cup of tea," she tells him, drying her eyes with her tissue. Then, a second after having pronounced those words, she changes her mind and hugs Sherlock again, ruffling his hair and pulling his head down for a forehead kiss that leaves there the mark of her lipstick.
Home is the best place to be.
Sherlock meets up with Mycroft the following morning, to discuss the new terrorist attack and play some old-fashioned board games.
"He's secretly pleased to see you," Mrs Hudson says at some point.
Both brothers brush it off, both knowing it's actually very true.
At first Sherlock thinks it might be enough, living without John, but he changes his mind as time goes by. After a case with Molly, he gets himself some chips, hoping carbs would help filling the void John left. Irene would be proud.
He apologises to John, over and over, he compliments him, he jokes with him. They never really joked before, but Sherlock admits that death, even a fake one, changes everything. When finally John apologises and praises him, Sherlock is so happy that he keeps joking, to hear John laugh just once again, such a beautiful sound. Then, as the police arrive and Sherlock feels things are good now, he turns to John and opens his arms, just a little, his palms facing upwards, hoping that John will close the distance between them and envelop Sherlock in a long-awaited hug. John doesn't.
Sherlock tries again, and then again, in the following days, but nothing ever happens. Soon he stops trying altogether.
It's okay, he thinks. He'll just be happy they're solving crimes again.
There's something in Mary Morstan that Sherlock can't define, she's different from everyone he's met before.
She likes him, she liked him immediately, he could tell. He interrupted her precious proposal, completely ruined her evening, and she liked him anyway. In a situation in which it was Sherlock versus John, her own fiancé, she sided with Sherlock.
She treats him like a normal person. She's not impressed by his deduction skills, not the way his other friends are, John included, but she doesn't tell him to piss off either. She just doesn't seem to care, one way or the other. His intellect is not the reason Mary likes him.
Sherlock isn't used to making a good first impression, it never happens, only with John, but then again that time Sherlock showed off his best skills, deducing a detail after another, like a chain he couldn't reach the end of. It never happened with Mary. She liked him before having heard any of his deductions.
What is even weirder, the thing Sherlock really can't explain, is that he likes Mary too. He never liked any of John's previous girlfriends, he would find them insignificant and definitely not worthy of John's attentions. Conforming to that pattern, and adding the fact that she is the very reason John doesn't live in Baker Street anymore, Sherlock was supposed to dislike Mary too. Textbook aversion, really.
In general, he doesn't like people, a fact supported by the scarce number of friends he counts.
Instead, he likes her, truly. She's unequivocally clever, and frankly a pleasure to be around. She jokes with him. She laughs with him, not at him.
Day after day, Sherlock grows fond of her, helps her with the wedding. Most times John is there too, but it happens once or twice that it's just Mary and Sherlock, and he enjoys it. She takes him by the arm when they stroll around the city looking for the perfect florist.
"Oh, and I'd like you to help me pick my wedding dress," she informs.
"That's a job for a bridesmaid."
"Oh darling, you're already John's best man, you can't be my bridesmaid as well," Mary says, and she winks.
Sherlock laughs. He could have rolled his eyes, or remarked that she had misunderstood the meaning, but he laughs.
It's a feeling he can't qualify.
When Sherlock realises Lestrade did in fact go to the trouble to reach him as soon as possible, he feels a little guilty, just a little. But then again, Sherlock truly is facing an emergency and an insurmountable problem, writing his best man speech.
"You called me here for this?!" Lestrade grumbles, still out of breath.
Sherlock blinks. "Yes."
He swears he can hear Lestrade muttering a considerably wide range of curses while he storms down the stairs, shaking his head.
Sherlock blinks again and turns to face his computer, his head in his hands, as the noises outside from helicopters and police cars gradually fade away.
Then, much to his surprise, Lestrade is back.
"All right," he begins, taking a chair from the kitchen and placing it next to Sherlock's. "What's the problem?"
Sherlock is staring at him, trying to understand why Lestrade chose to come back after having expressed clear signs of irritation.
"Is this what you've written so far?" Lestrade asks again, nodding at the screen where black sentences cover about half a page of a document.
Sherlock nods, giving up his purpose to understand Lestrade's motivations and focusing on the speech.
Lestrade reads through it quickly. "Sherlock, this is an eulogy," he points out just a couple of seconds later.
"Well, yes, I downloaded the template from Google. The main features are strikingly similar."
Lestrade bursts into laughter, leaving Sherlock very much confused.
"What?"
"Nothing, just… let's start over, mate, shall we?" Lestrade offers, clearing his throat in an attempt to repress further giggles. "I'll help you out."
He does, explaining Sherlock what he's expected to write in his speech, to start with some feelings before getting to the anecdotes.
"What feelings?" Sherlock objects instinctively.
Lestrade smiles warmly. "You can say something about what makes John special, why he's your best friend… in your own words, you know. Maybe say something nice about Mary too."
Sherlock takes notes. It seems so easy, to just say what makes John special, Sherlock has a mental list of at least thirty-six points, but that's exactly the problem. It's all in his head. He does love John, very much, but putting it into words and pronouncing them aloud in a room full of people is precisely the reason why he had originally downloaded the template.
"Then I can move on to the funny bits?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Good, do you have any? It's the reason why I called you here in the first place."
"I may have a couple, but I think John would rather hear your stories."
Sherlock doesn't understand at first, but then Lestrade suggests they have a look at John's blog as a source of inspiration.
"How funny does it have to be?" Sherlock asks. "Should it be embarrassing for him? The book says the groom should feel embarrassed."
"Well, yes, a bit embarrassing is fine, but, you know… not humiliating? Not something, er… private, that would make his mother want to stick cutlery in her ears, do you know what I mean? Not those stories."
Sherlock has no idea what he means, which is apparently a source of hilarity for the older man.
Lestrade spends a couple of hours at 221B, letting Sherlock bounce ideas off him, picking the anecdotes he wants to tell. Then, he helps Sherlock writing a couple of actual paragraphs, although, as he keeps repeating, "John chose you as his best man because he wants to hear your own words."
"Thank you," Sherlock says as Lestrade puts on his coat. "And I apologise for inconveniencing you earlier."
"Anytime… I'm always around when my friends face their biggest challenges."
With that, Lestrade pats Sherlock's back twice before heading towards the stairs.
"Though the next time I'd be grateful if you could maybe tone down the drama in your messages a bit, so I don't mobilise half of London police force for nothing," he adds.
Sherlock nods, appreciating Lestrade's validation of his fears much more than he could ever express with words.
"Sherlock, mate, I need to ask you a big favour," John's voice on the phone sounds slightly distressed.
"Go on," Sherlock prompts him.
"Mary picked a waltz for our first dance, at the wedd-"
"I know, it was my idea."
"Yeah, great, anyway, my problem is I can't dance and-"
"I know that too, John, did you just call me to state facts I'm already aware of?"
"If you could just shut up and let me finish, okay? I want to impress Mary and not make a fool of myself in front of my guests, so I thought perhaps you could teach me a bit? You know how to waltz, don't you?"
Sherlock is taken aback by this odd request, but agrees nonetheless.
When John arrives at 221B, that same evening, he's welcomed by the sight of the furniture pushed against the walls, and Sherlock standing in the middle of a bare-looking living room, his hands joined in front of his stomach.
"Thank you for agreeing on doing this with such a short notice," John says.
Sherlock nods. "I am your best man, I couldn't let you embarrass yourself at your own wedding."
John smiles, a bit awkwardly, glancing at his own feet, his hands in his pockets. "So, er… how do we start?"
Sherlock has spent the day thoroughly preparing his dance lesson, not wanting to be caught unprepared. They start with the basics.
"Okay, so posture first," he illustrates, assuming himself the position briefly so that John can copy it. "Right hand on Mary's shoulder blade, cupping, like this, look at me… With your left hand you take Mary's right one, and she'll have the other one on your shoulder seam."
John gets his arm in position, only touching the void in front of him, before glancing a quizzical look at his friend. "I thought waltz was a dance for two."
"You don't need an actual partner at this stage, perhaps later."
Sherlock positions himself behind John, fixing the height of his arms and grasping his shoulders to help him straighten his back as much as possible. If Sherlock's heard John's gasp at the contact combined with the feeling of Sherlock's breath against the top of his head, he chose to ignore it.
Once the detective made sure John's in the correct position, the actual lesson starts. First, the box, then the counts. Sherlock remains on John's side but a step in front of him, so that John can watch what he's doing and mimic it. Sherlock counts aloud at first, slowly, punctuating each time so that John properly associates it with a step.
One, two, three, one, two, three. After a considerable amount of repetitions, Sherlock stops dancing himself and just watches John, studying his mistakes and correcting them. He's not bad for a beginner. His movements are insecure and not nearly as gracious as his own, but it's just been half an hour and he's doing great.
"Very well, John," he says. "You're quick at mastering the art of waltz."
"Thanks… not to argue with your teaching methods, but wouldn't it be better if I tried with a partner, or I don't know, some music?"
Sherlock considers it for a moment, and decides that John is ready for the next step.
"Take off your shoes," he instructs.
"What, why?"
"I am barefoot. The chances of you stepping on my toes are way too high to let you keep your shoes."
John does as he's told, before positioning himself once again. This time, however, his arms are not suspended in mid-air. His right hand is cupping Sherlock's sharp shoulder blade, his left hand holding the detective's one.
Sherlock can't deny how bittersweet the whole situation is. It's the first contact he has with John since he came back to London. He never even got the hug he'd dreamed of. His only hope was the stag night, last weekend – being known for toning down people's inhibitions, Sherlock counted on alcohol to get John to embrace him. It didn't happen. He got a knee touch, if he recalls correctly, his own memories are a bit clouded.
The worst part about this dance lesson, however, is the considerable chance that this is also their last contact. John is getting married in three days, and after that, time will make them drift further and further apart, until they're just a faded picture in each other's memories. Sherlock still fondly remembers the affectionate moments they used to share before he was forced to stage his own death.
Now, almost three years later, even this dance feels awkward, especially to John. Sherlock notices the way he looks down, or at his sides, an obvious attempt to ignore the other man's vicinity, or the way he chews on his lower lip. The way he stands as far away as he can from Sherlock given the position of his arms.
As they start moving in silence, John silently mouthing the counts while staring at his feet, Sherlock closes his eyes, cherishing the feeling of John's hand in his. Both are a bit sweaty, he supposes for different reasons.
When John steps on Sherlock's toes, as per Sherlock's predictions, he mutters a quick apology. The second time it happens, John apologises again, but it comes out with a giggle.
"Jesus, I'm really bad at this," John says, finally looking up and meeting Sherlock's gaze. The giggle seems to be contagious, and soon Sherlock is laughing too, softly, his low, vibrating laughter almost echoing in the room.
After that, gradually, step after step, they drift closer, both mentally and physically. John seems more relaxed, the clasp on Sherlock's shoulder blade less harsh and more resembling the gentle touch it's supposed to be.
When he thinks John is ready, Sherlock puts on some background music, a playlist he selected on Youtube. He's composing an original piece for the wedding, but it's not done yet, and even if it was, he wouldn't spoil it for the rehearsals.
"How am I doing?" John asks after ten more minutes. The tiniest smile has finally appeared on his face.
"You're doing fine, John," Sherlock kindly replies. "You may just be ready to learn the big finale."
They stop.
"What finale?" John asks.
"The dip."
As he pronounces those words, Sherlock moves his hand on John's back and shifts his weight forward, slowly, so very gently, in order not to startle John, who lets himself inelegantly dip down.
They're face to face now, the tip of their noses mere inches apart.
"This is how you conclude the waltz," Sherlock explains. "And then of course you kiss the bride."
John's breath is warm against his chin, and the desire to kiss him is so overwhelming that Sherlock can't even fathom it. He presses his lips tightly together to resist.
"Well, can I try?" John asks.
Sherlock is abruptly brought back to reality and away from the fantasy of his lips brushing softly against John's lower lip. "Yes… yes obviously."
John does, following Sherlock's instructions on how to place his hands and feet, he dips the taller man down until, once again, they're face to face. Or better, face to neck.
"Mary's not as tall and heavy as I am, it will be easier with her," Sherlock says, as he tries to shift a bit downwards to meet John's face. "But yes, the position is correct."
A new light has appeared in John's eyes as he finds himself staring into Sherlock's eyes. It's strangely intimate to hold him like this, and just as pleasant, so much that John can barely feel Sherlock's weight in his arms. John is reminded of another time that feels a bit like another life, before Mary, when it was just him and Sherlock against the world. Sherlock doesn't seems to have changed a bit, except for some more wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead. But his distinctive smell of expensive shampoo, that hasn't changed, and neither has John's surge of affection towards him.
They straighten up again, but John's hands haven't moved from his friend's back.
"Have I ever told you how happy I am that you're not dead?" he asks, his voice no more than a whisper. "That you're here with me again?"
Sherlock can distinctly feel his cheeks flush at his best friend's words, at the sweetness and love he can read in his face, something he hasn't read there in a long time. He nods. "I believe you mentioned it, yes."
For a second, they just stand there in front of one another, letting sentiment go unspoken.
"Let's do one more, shall we?" John proposes. "With the dip at the end."
They do.
But the playlist offers a song after another, and one dance turns into two. "Sorry, didn't hear the song was coming to an end… Let's keep going," John justifies himself.
Sherlock doesn't complain. He's loving every second of it, every single instant in which his hand is held by John's and their arms are around each other and their eyes meet.
Mrs Hudson walks in on them at some point, thinking it was Sherlock playing. They laugh it off, John a bit more embarrassedly than Sherlock, and they take it as an excuse to start another song.
However, John hears now that the final notes are playing, and he slowly dips Sherlock down just in time, while the detective positions his body so that they're directly face to face.
Neither of them moves away for a full two seconds, Sherlock's eyes shifting continuously from John's deep, adoring gaze to his sweet smile, his senses inebriated by John's smell, cologne, hospital, a hint of Mary's perfume, and now a tiny bit of sweat that makes it all more real.
And then, just a second later, John's lips are softly pressing on Sherlock's flushed cheek, making his eyes widen in surprise and his stomach jump with love.
Sherlock blinks repeatedly as they straighten up, and John's smile is still there, expressing all the love and tenderness he feels for his best man and had locked inside for the longest time.
With the back of his fingers, he softly brushes Sherlock's cheek, the other one, not the one still burning with his kiss, a simple touch that takes Sherlock out of his trance and grounds him back to earth, and to this somehow intimate moment they're sharing once again, after too long.
"Don't tell Mary you had the first dance," John whispers.
Any other occasion, and Sherlock would have joked. "Why, I think I will, I want to see her face," he would have said.
But here, and now, his mind is too clouded with love and the only thing he manages to do is nod. "I won't."
And just like it started, the magic is over. John thanks him for the lesson and says he has to go home, Mary's waiting for him.
Sherlock nods and watches his best friend, the love of his life, leave the flat they used to share.
At least they got one last moment together.
After the wedding, John will look for Sherlock to dance together once more, but Sherlock will never know. He will be home, alone, in an empty flat, busy moving John's chair far away where he can't see it.
They're married now. And they're having a baby. If he had one last hope that marriage wouldn't change things, offspring will for sure.
He blinks back tears, and locks himself in his room in the sole company of his secret stash.