A/N: And because old ping hai is so awesome, everyone, you get two chapters in one day. I am almost done with that chapter for you, so you won't have to wait too long to get you answer to the cliffhangers of today. Most likely late tomorrow. There, that should stave beating a bit longer, I should think.
Sherlock waited. He even paid the guard to keep the White Tower open an extra hour but still there was no sign of John. Sherlock began to pace. Darkness fell and still there was no sign of John. Sherlock decided that he had had enough and to hell with the no-texting rule. It was something he had never wanted in the first place.
Where are you? - SH
John? - SH
What happened? - SH
Please answer me. - SH
Please! - SH
My heart is breaking, John. Please, tell me what I did wrong. - SH
Finally the guard had to throw Sherlock out. He trudged out into the courtyard and gazed up to the White Tower where he had waited all night. A single tear dripped silently down his pale cheek. In a fit of pique he walked to the Thames and chucked his mobile into the river. He sank to his knees and put his face into his hands.
He didn't know how long he sat there sobbing as though his very heart would break before a black sedan pulled along side him.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade called as he got out of driver's side.
The younger man raised his tear-stained face and Lestrade felt his heart shatter at the sight.
"What the hell happened to your phone? I've been trying to call since Mycroft told me you were out here and in desperate need of a pick up. Something about CCTV or something," Lestrade babbled, as he trotted over to the painter.
Sherlock waved vaguely in the direction of the river.
"Oh." Lestrade blinked and looked out toward the dark mass of the Thames. He shook his head and then moved to help the dark-haired man to his feet. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get you home."
Sherlock nodded and allowed his friend to pull him up.
Lestrade gently led the way to the car and placed him carefully into the car. All the way home he kept glancing in his rearview mirror to the shattered man in his backseat. Half way there Sherlock fell asleep, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion caused by his emotional distress. Lestrade called ahead to have people open the doors for him as he carried his friend up to the flat he shared with Irene.
The former driver was grateful the lady of the house was gone for the weekend, otherwise she probably would have woken her ex-fiancé with her recriminations. He placed him on the couch in the living room and put a blanket over him.
The next morning, Sherlock awoke to voices.
"What are we going to tell people? He can't stay here. Irene will throw a fit," the first voice asked. It sounded like Lestrade.
"We will say that he is sick and convalescing at my house, as he does not want to burden his fiancée or get her sick as well," the second voice replied. And Sherlock would have known the oily tones of his brother anywhere.
"Are you going to try and find out what happened to John?" Lestrade asked and Sherlock perked up his ears in hope.
"It wouldn't do any good. Regardless the reason, the fallout is going to be massive."
Sherlock groaned. He should have known better than to rely on his brother. As far as Mycroft was concerned, this whole thing was a disaster.
They stopped talking and turned toward the sofa on which Sherlock lay.
"Ah brother, good to see you awake. I have taken the liberty in moving all your things to my place for the time being. Hopefully, this will all blow over and you can move back here. The wedding-"
Sherlock shot straight up. "The wedding, dear brother, is never going to happen, you hear me?"
"But Sherlock, he didn't show," Mycroft reasoned.
Sherlock stood up and got in his brother's face. "It doesn't matter. The only person I ever intend to marry is John. I don't care." He stomped off and out the front door, which he slammed behind him.
They were moving things into Lestrade's flat, Sherlock not having been able to stand his brother's place for longer than a week, when Irene showed up and they had their very public break up. She insulted him, his family, John; even Lestrade felt her wrath. Sherlock told her that she was a money-grubbing, soulless whore and he would make sure she didn't get his grandmother's estate if it was the last thing he did.
All of Sherlock's paintings took on a darker tone. All, except one. Upon hearing his grandmother had finally passed on and sent him the coat John had greatly admired, he sat and painted John in it. His blond hair like gold, his blue eyes like the ocean, and his smile like the sun.
It was the thing that drew Mrs. Hudson, of the Baker Street Gallery, to his collection. She loved it so much that she wanted to buy it for herself, but Sherlock refused. He couldn't sell it, not to her.
She smiled her understanding and picked the best from both his John period, as she called it, and his dark period. And in the middle of the two periods, was John's portrait. Building the bridge between to them.
His art was getting rave reviews, but there weren't a lot people buying. He was okay with that right now. He couldn't part with them, it hurt too much to think about. But he continued to let Lestrade try. All but John's portrait.
One day while he was at the gallery, Sherlock happened to overhear a couple of the patrons talking.
"You really have to see this band, Sarah. They are amazing," the young woman enthused to her friend.
"If they're so amazing, then why I haven't heard of them, Molly?" Sarah asked.
"Well, they are a bit of a mouthful. Northumberland Fusiliers," Molly told her. Sherlock turned around in shock and inched closer to better hear them.
"God, Molly. That is a mouthful," Sarah muttered. "Are they going to be playing anytime soon?"
"Oh hell yeah. This Saturday at the Blue Parrot. They start at eight," Molly gushed. "The lead singer is dreamy as hell. Especially his eyes. Wow." Sarah rolled her eyes. "Just you wait and see, Sarah. You'll find out what I mean."
"Fine. You win, Molly. Just enough already." The two girls wandered off and Sherlock was left barely breathing.
He had to go. He just had to. Even if John didn't want to see him, Sherlock had to see John. But he couldn't go alone.
"I can't believe you talked me into this," Lestrade groused.
"I can't be here alone. What if he doesn't want to see me? What if he hates me?" Sherlock pleaded.
Lestrade sighed, "Fine. But you're paying the tab."
"I got that money from painting that lady's house, so you're on," Sherlock said and then went to the bar to start up the tab. Ordering a beer for his friend and a single malt whiskey for himself.
They filled the time chatting about the odd jobs Sherlock had been picking up to help pay the bills. Painting houses for old ladies, covering up graffiti with large murals (Mycroft had gotten him that one), and a private portrait or two. They were never quite satisfied with how he painted them. They wanted to be painted the way he painted John. He didn't even bother trying to explain why there was a difference.
Finally the lights dimmed and the band came out on stage. Sherlock kept his head down lest John recognize him and refuse to sing. Oh, how he longed to hear John sing. But the voice that filled the air was not the soft, sultry tenor John had, but the hard, sexual baritone of some stranger.
He looked up and didn't recognize the lead singer at all. The new singer was a little taller than John but he couldn't have been more different than if he was made that way. He had dark, slicked-back hair, pale skin, and deep-set, dark eyes that reminded Sherlock of pools of ink. He sent chills down Sherlock's spine, but not in a good way. Not the way John did.
"I'm just guessing here," Lestrade drolled. "But I assume that's not John."
Sherlock shook his head, too stunned for words.
They sat through the performance anyway. Sherlock was more than a little shocked when the dark-haired man made his way over to their table after the band finished their set.
"Well, hello, sexy," he purred to Sherlock, completely ignoring the other man at the table. Lestrade rolled his eyes. He didn't care really as he wasn't into men, but it did seem rather rude.
"Hello," Sherlock replied, unsure of what to say. He never had this problem with John.
"What brings you to my neck of the woods? You look too pretty for a joint like this one," he stuck out his hand. "The name's Jim."
Sherlock took the hand and immediately wanted to take it back. Jim held on to it a little longer than strictly necessary.
"Maybe you can answer a question for me," Sherlock asked.
"Sure, babe. Anything for you."
"What happened to the other lead singer? The one before you. You see, I saw the band while they were on this cruise and I am merely curious how they got you."
"Oh, sexy. Didn't they tell you?" Sherlock shook his head. "He got married." Jim winked and then sashayed back to the stage.
"He-he got- oh god!" Sherlock buried his head in his hands.
"Come on, Sherlock. Let's get out of here. I wasn't that impressed by them. The drummer and bassist weren't too bad but the guitarist and lead singer seemed like they were trying to outdo each other."
Sherlock nodded and followed his friend out.
Lestrade decided a couple weeks later to take him to a musical to cheer him up. He picked the wrong one. A Cole Porter-penned tale about love on cruise ship. He also picked the wrong night.
After the show he spotted Mrs. Hudson and moved over to talk to her about how Sherlock's show was going. Sherlock was about to follow when he spotted someone in the back. He walked up to the couple and coughed discreetly.
"John?" He inquired softly, not daring to believe he was seeing him for the first time in nearly a year.
John looked up startled. "Sherlock?" He turned to Mary, frightened. Mary just placed a hand on his arm and he gulped.
"I just- I just wanted to congratulate you on your marriage," Sherlock stammered, fumbling over his words. He flushed and clenched his fists in frustration.
"I- oh- no. We're- we're not married. Just- friends," John forced out.
"But I heard…" Sherlock trailed off and John shook his head.
"You?" John asked and this time Sherlock shook his head.
The dark-haired man turned when he felt a hand pressed on his shoulder. Standing there was his agent.
"John, Mary; this is my friend, Lestrade. Lestrade, this is John Watson. Mary Morstan," Sherlock said, making the introductions.
Lestrade stuck out his hand. "Greg, pleased to meet you." He shook both their hands before he turned to Sherlock. "We have to go. You have a big day tomorrow and Mrs. Hudson will kill you if you miss your own opening."
"Opening?" inquired Mary.
"Ah, yes," Sherlock blushed. "You see, though my art has been hanging in the Baker Street Gallery for some time now, the owner, Mrs. Hudson, has drummed up enough interest to do a proper art show out of it."
"Come on, Sherlock," Lestrade pressed.
"Right." He turned to John, his eyes begging him to take him back but John looked away. "Good-bye, John."
"Good-bye, Sherlock," he croaked.
And with that, Lestrade led his friend away from the couple and out into the night.
