This lovely depressing Story is based off the song "I Can't Make You Love Me" (the Kurt Hugo Schneider version)
Neither BBC Sherlock (nor the song) are mine. Believe me, the series would have ended differently.
Takes place during John's stag night, but this time Sherlock's not drunk. Can be read John/Sherlock, can be read as strong friendship.
Hope you Enjoy!
They came stumbling drunkenly through the door. The detective and his blogger.
Sherlock relished the goofy spirit of his companion. This night he would cherish.
This, the last night.
The night before it all ended.
Sherlock only allowed his merry spirit to dwell wantonly on that fact for a moment.
No, not now. It's not the time.
"Wa's that?" John slurred and pointed at his friend's face.
"What's what?" Sherlock rebuffed, looking a bit put off.
"Your face. It's got this thing on it. I think it's a funny look."
Sherlock quickly dismissed this remark with a swat to the hand pointing inches from his face and lead the stumble up the stairs to their flat.
Their Flat.
For one last night.
"Tea?" John stumbled over to the kettle. Sherlock had to snicker at his stumbling fellow.
"Are you able?"
John lazily swung his head to look down at the well worn appliance. He got up closer to it, seemingly to closely examine the inner workings of it before he swung his whole body around, almost toppling over in the process.
"Nope" John replied as he meandered and plopped onto the couch.
Sherlock gave a gentle side smile and muttered softly, "Thought not. Would you like some?"
John looked surprised at him and waved his hand gesturing for Sherlock to get on with it. Sherlock smiled to himself after he turned to the kettle. He would miss this.
No,not now. It's not time.
The younger man took a deep fortifying breath and finished prepping the tea for consuming.
"Ya' know, I could take this couch wit'h me. Is a good one." John slunk fully down into the soft folds of fabric.
"That's the client's couch. Can't part with it. It's important."
"It's important" John mimicked in a mocking voice.
Sherlock pressed the strong cup of tea into the rough hands waiting for it. He hoped this would help the night along.
He took up residency in his plush black leather chair and spread out himself a bit in languid comfort.
The evening progressed as thus. Sherlock sipping his tea and John taking his in long gulps. Playful banter back and forth. As the night wore on the conversation turned reminiscent. By the end of it John had almost regained his full faculties.
"Well, I better turn in before I get not a wink before that aisle tomorrow."
Sherlock nodded his agreement and they both stood. Each tiptoeing around the other, not wanting to address the feeling in the room.
They placed their cups in the sink and both turned to go to their respective rooms.
"Goodnight, John."
The man paused on the stairs, "G'night, Sherlock."
Sherlock pushed the door to his room closed and reclined heavily against it. The pain in his chest was almost unbearable. The lump in his throat was choking him. He looked around forlornly at his room.
This is how it would be now.
Just a man and his flat. An empty flat. Quiet. Hellish. Oh how he would hate it. His eyes were lured again to his tuxedo. All pressed and presentable.
He would do what was right.
He had to.
It was the least he could do after turning John's life into a living hell. So many adventures, so many near death calls. John loved it, Sherlock knew he had. But then Moriarty made him choose. And he now had to live with the consequences of that choice. John had to choose too, and he chose Mary. He chose her. And Sherlock would respect his decision.
But... just tonight...
"Sherlock? Is that you?"
John looked up from his pillow, squinting in the dark. Sherlock stood there in the doorway looking rather unsure and uneasy with himself.
"John, I wondered. If... just tonight..."
John knew. Of course he knew.
"Yeah, mate."
He shifted over to one side of the bed, furthest from the door. Sherlock shuffled over, all the voices in his head yelling at him for this embarrassing display of emotion. Still, he pulled back the covers, glad to find John fully dressed in pajama bottoms and a loose tee shirt, much like he himself was.
John wrapped one arm under him and the other around his shoulders. Embracing him, accepting him. Giving him the touch he so needed. All the voices in his head stopped. Sherlock sighed a deep sigh at the silence. John rubbed his back a few times.
"Sher..."
"No" the genius croaked out. "Not tonight."
John seemed to understand. He continued to rub the younger man's back soothingly, slowly.
Just give me till morning.
