Sherlockturns abruptly and notices John before he can announce his presence. "I was... just finishing up," Sherlock says, as he places the violin gently on the sofa.

"Was that our waltz?"

Sherlock looks visibly wounded, though John is completely unaware it is his word choice that is to blame.

"For your wedding," he states, turning back to put the violin securely in its case.

"It's beautiful."

Sherlock offers a shy smile and a nod of thanks.

"Must be difficult."

"Composing? Hardly."

"Being the Best Man."

Sherlock is stunned. How does John know? He's tried so hard to accept this with good grace. To let go of something he was never quite sure he could ever have. It's all out there on the table. He almost laughs at how good it feels to not hide it anymore. John continues.

"If I had to stand up and give a speech in front of a hundred plus people, I'd be a wreck. Not to mention playing an instrument in front of them."

Sherlock's face shifts from relief and amazement back to cold indifference. Not what John meant at all- of course not.

"What?" John's brow furrows, then raises in anxiety. "That wasn't what you thought I was going to say. What did you think I was going to say?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. "Hardly matters, John."

"Course it matters. You. Matter."

Sherlock is about to roll his eyes in utter disdain- over how little he really does matter- but John plops down on the sofa and makes a grand flourish indicating Sherlock should do the same. Sherlock scoffs, but sits at the opposite end.

"I'm a bundle of loose nerves right now. This whole wedding. Came up fast. And I'm sorry if I have been a bit distracted by it all. The planning. The decisions. Harry said she'd come...haven't seen her in years. And..." John's eyes shift nervously and his voice is as stiff as his bearing, "And some other people who are very important to me that I haven't seen in quite a long time. It's a bit distracting. If I haven't been there for you as much as I should... well...I'd imagine coming back from the dead is a bit of an adjustment, so if you need an ear, I'm here."

"It's fine. It was Mycroft's plan and he is the one responsible for cleaning up the mess. Apparently there is a lot of paperwork involved in a resurrection."

"Was probably much easier for Mark Twain."

"Hmm?"

"Oh, just someone else people thought was dead. Not important."

"Yes. Not important. What did you want, John?"

"What did I want?"

"Yes. Milk problem is resolved. You are a barely adequate dancer, but I'm sure even you could struggle through the waltz by this point. Why are you here?" Sherlock rises from the sofa and turns quickly away with a flourish. He is fully dressed, but he somehow still manages to convey the petulant swish of his dressing gown.

John's eyes widen, and his lips twitch. "Sometimes... sometimes I'm walking home from work and I wind up here. My feet just seem to know the way. I've been here before. When you were...gone... I would just find myself here. And lately, with my mind a mess of confusion, I still sometimes do. I was distracted, and, I looked up and here I was again. So I, decided to stop by, and I heard the music, and.."

Sherlock turns quickly back to face John. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you weren't welcome. You are always welcome here John... always. I just wasn't thinking you would have the time or the inclination."

"I suppose I have been avoiding you, Sherlock."

"And I, you."

A long silence hangs between them before a puzzled-looking John finally, hesitantly, asks why.

Sherlock is all too quick to answer. "Because sometimes you take yourself out of someone's life first, so you won't see the final proof that they don't want you in it."

John rests his hands on his forehead and looks down at the floor. He speaks very slowly. "I did want you in it. I wanted you in my life so much. And when you were gone, I wanted you in it even more. Not to offend you... but, I wanted you in my life in ways I never thought I would."

"That would... offend me?"

"Oh. Right. Not that there's anything wrong with feeling those things, right? I'm used to being the one saying things like that. Telling Harry it was fine... that she wouldn't lose me, too." John smirks. Then concern momentarily clouds his features. "Anyway, it was just a past attraction, no big deal. No, no, it was a past confusion. I found Mary, and she turned my life around."

"So, you weren't. Attracted to me. Just confused?" Sherlock's voice is carefully neutral, until he reaches the last word, which spills over the edges with contempt.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this. No one wants to hear that his friend had romantic feelings for him. Sorry."

"Well, when said friend is getting married in a few days time, probably not, and to hear it expressed in past tense when one is thinking identical concepts in present tense is a bit disconcerting as well."

It takes a moment for John to fully process what Sherlock is saying, and he continues on before John's brain can quite catch up. "I would have loved to have heard it before now. I would have had the opportunity to freely return the sentiment, and I'm reasonably confident it would have gone over much better." John looks up at Sherlock in shock. "I can't say I loved you the day I met you, John. I didn't know enough about what that would feel like to have had the proper terminology for it. That part took more time. But, once I had reconciled language with emotion, I knew I did. Love you."

John was slow to meet his eyes. "I do love you, Sherlock. Not loved. Love. But I, love her, and I can't let her go. I can't not marry her." The next sentence is delivered with a fierce determination, as if he is trying to convince himself of its veracity. "I am marrying her."

Sherlock says nothing. John continues. "I... I need time to figure this one out. I don't know if I can do this. I'll meet you later. We'll talk this through." John gets up and heads toward the door. "I can't just cancel the wedding. I can't do this in front of everyone ... I've... I've got to go think. But I don't know if I can do this. God, one word, Sherlock, one word and I would have waited a lifetime."

"One word, spoken by Moriarty, and the snipers would have been called off forever and you would have been safe. He confirmed that little fact for me before shooting himself in the head." Sherlock's face takes on a harder edge and his voice rises and speeds up to near deduction pace. "Plans don't always work out the way we anticipate. And forgive me for not dropping a postcard off to you from the steppes in the dead of winter saying "Wish I wasn't here" or perhaps once I was in a major city I could have located a postal box, but then again it would have required my hands not being tied to a chair behind my back to address it, or when I was in the trunk of a car and didn't have enough of a light source to write legibly, but it's just as well I didn't get the word out, because if you lied about me being dead with the same degree of skill you lied about Irene being alive it would have all been for naught. I almost died four times anyway, so it proved to be very nearly accurate. I'm not as good a shot as you are, after all, plus I was barely able to squeeze the bloody trigger. And I think you should go. Go on!"

John walks solemnly to the door, glances back at Sherlock who has taken his violin out of its case only to find that flinging it up to his chin has hurt his shoulder far more than he had expected it to, and he lets out a yell of pain and frustration
before dropping it on the sofa in disgust and grabbing at the muscle to ease it. He knows John will see it. He doesn't care. John will leave any moment now and he will be alone.