The question wasn't meant to hurt, it was just my fear of losing you.
/ / /
It was absolutely ridiculous, John knew, to ask this question.
Sherlock Holmes was not one to attend weddings, let alone be part of a wedding party.
Really, though, John was just afraid that if Sherlock wasn't at the wedding, he would disappear forever and go find another jam-loving companion who watches crap telly while he tries to solve a case. And maybe he would anyway, but there was no problem in asking.
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock said, looking up quickly.
"Would you be my best man at my wedding?"
/ / /
Sentiment was his least favorite thing in the world, and Sherlock was sure of it.
Sentiment is absolutely terrible, because it makes situations like this the hardest in the world.
Of course John was going to ask him to be the best man. Of course, that would happen. And the worst part is, Sherlock wanted to say yes. He wanted to say yes because it would involve getting to spend time with John again. It meant getting to stand on the altar next to John.
Worst of all, it meant having to hand John a silver wedding band which would be placed on Mary's finger and being okay with it.
"No" would mean letting one of John's less intelligent friends take over the duty.
"Yes" would mean having his idiotically sentimental heart shatter the second he watched the rings slip onto John and Mary's fingers.
In the end he said no.
Actually, he said no, but his mouth spoke a very firm"Of course."
John hugged him tight, and for a moment, he wanted to believe they were hugging for other reasons. For another wedding where they would still stand next to each other on the altar and a ring would still be slipped onto John's finger, and a matching one on his.
"Did you hear that Mary? He said yes!"
Sherlock smiled sadly, "I should go now, though, I think. I'll call you when we have a case."
/ / /
No one ever in the world could read Sherlock Holmes. Not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not Mrs. Hudson.
Wait, but what was that in his gray eyes as he said his goodbyes?
An ignorant John would answer that question with: Sadness, Remorse, maybe even a little of Regret.
John Watson, his best friend, however, was aware that Sherlock Holmes would never have those kind of feelings.
Ever.
/ / /
You never told me why you couldn't tell me about your death. –JW
The text sprung up sometime during Sherlock's visit to his mind palace.
He shook his head, assuming his position of hands folded under his chin and his eyes clamped shut.
Sherlock? –JW
This time, Sherlock threw his phone across the room, and then fell back into his position.
"Sherlock!" came a yell from downstairs, Mrs. Hudson.
He would have continued to ignore it if a short blond man hadn't just burst into his apartment.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, still standing in the parlor of his Palace.
"I can't sleep. Tell me."
"What, like a story?" he chuckled, finally snapping out of his palace and sitting up.
"Sure, anything," John said, plopping himself down into the red armchair that still laid just across from Sherlock's.
Mrs. Hudson appeared, walking off into the kitchen.
"Tea, boys?"
John smiled at her offer.
"No, thank you."
After a few moments of silence, Sherlock spoke.
"You always said you hated this wallpaper," he said sadly. "I thought you would have changed it."
John chuckled.
"Yes, well. No one would do it, what with the bullet holes and such. Said they wouldn't be blamed for faulty construction if the walls came down, since their names would be on the record."
"Really? You'd think they'd do it anyway. For the publicity."
"Perhaps they should have."
"You could've done it anyway, you know."
The shorter man nodded.
"I know. But why should I cover up perfectly good bullet holes?"
The two finally broke the tension that had been hanging over them since Sherlock's introduction to Mary, bursting out in laughter.
"You don't like her?" John said finally, needing to get the question out of the way.
Sherlock pursed his lips slightly.
"I love her. She's smart, funny, and she's a brilliant cook if my nose still works correctly," he explained. "She's perfect for you."
He gladly left off the And that's why I hate her.
John smiled.
"Okay, good. I'm really looking forward to the wedding, you know. She's absolutely brilliant."
/ / /
John Watson did not expect Sherlock to say that about Mary.
He had expected a stern repetition of Sherlock's initial observations and his deductions about her. Not anything nice, polite, or even human.
Yes, John would be honest and say that he missed Sherlock.
He missed him like hell, and to be honest, he spent a few days (weeks) locked in 221B, crying (like a widow).
Still, that would not change the fact that Sherlock was being nice about Mary. Not cynical or rude or even the slight bit annoyed. Not that John had expected Sherlock to come back, but in the dreams (and sometimes nightmares) that he'd had about their meeting, Sherlock had hated Mary. Hated Mary and somehow convinced John that she wasn't right for him. That Sherlock Holmes was the only person worthy of his love.
A part of him wished that he would.
/ / /
"It's getting late. Mary will worry," Sherlock said after John had told the stories of how he and Mary'd met (she frequented Speedy's and he'd just left 221B for the first time, just to get milk) and how their first date went (complete rubbish, by the way. John thought he'd reserved for dinner, called the restaurant an hour before their dinner was to start, found out that he hadn't, arranged a picnic, chose a location, informed her of the change of plans, and it started to rain. "We still had a bloody good time, though.") and how he'd proposed (it was completely out of character for John to arrange a secret meeting at a bloody warehouse. He'd gotten help from Mycroft).
"Oh, well. I suppose you're right. You'll have to tell me your stories sometime."
"Of course I will. Get going, now."
/ / /
John hadn't had a nightmare since he and Mary met.
Tonight, though. Tonight was different.
Of course he was still haunted by the images of Sherlock falling, falling, falling, and finally hitting against the pavement.
There was no easy way to remember it, because even in his memories, it was all just a shaky blur.
The last thing he remembered was the moment he placed his hand over Sherlock's wrist, feeling for the pulse. Feeling for the pulse, and the agony of realizing there was none to be found.
The dream was back.
For half a year, the dream had disappeared, but here it was again.
"Goodbye, John."
Falling, falling, falling. Eternally falling until he slams against the hard clouds.