Author's note – I set up a Sherlock tumblr – lostinsherlock – if anyone wants to follow!
John
"We're getting out here," Sherlock says briskly. John, anticipation growing, grumbles and politely thanks the drivers. He is about to wish them well (compensating for Sherlock's abruptness has become his modus operandi) when the detective seizes his elbow, a familiar and obnoxiously secure hold, saying in a clipped voice, "John? We've got to get to the tube. We're running late, so if you would refrain from unnecessary pleasantries, I daresay it might be to your advantage. I've plotted out seven different routes, and I would much prefer to exercise the plan that is most conducive to your pace and comfort, and has the least probability of breaching legal gray areas. If need be, of course –"
"Oh, shut up," John says, shutting the door and dodging an onslaught of giggling teenagers, struggling to keep up with the detective. He walks so damn fast, with a sense of purpose that John swears to god drives his heels off the pavement until he's practically running. More like flying, really. Beautiful to observe, but a right bastard the moment he opens his mouth. Still beautiful. Or not. Mary's beautiful. Mary Mary Mary. He shakes any remotely non-platonic, Sherlock-related sentiments out of his head and pipes up, "I suppose you aren't going to tell me where we're going?"
Sherlock's silence is more than indicative of the answer. Rolling his eyes, John follows the detective down the stairs. Heads turn, now, when passersby catch a glimpse of that infamous jacket, flapping out to the sides like some sort of superhero cape. Sherlock ignores them, always has, which leaves John to explain to reverent fans that the detective is very busy, that he's been ill, that's he's a little scatterbrained – all extravagantly false statements to cover up the fact that Sherlock simply does not give a shit about his admirers. His exact words: "My so-called 'fans' are nothing more than imbeciles attempting to inject happiness into their lives by targeting any entity suggestive of success, all for the sake of feeling marginally less miserable about their lives. They are as insignificant as flies or yapping dogs. Please hand me the liver, I'd like to examine the decayed segment again." Needless to say, this is a detail that John opts to overlook in his interactions with fans.
They have only a minute-long wait on the platform. Sherlock stands upright as always, feet splayed out, until an old woman with a cane accidentally stumbles into John, pushing him precariously towards the tracks. Sherlock grabs him automatically. "Thanks," John mutters, heartbeat quickening when his friend forgets to let go.
"You ought to be more careful," Sherlock says shortly, though it is with a hint of hesitation that he relinquishes his hand.
"Me be careful? It was her bloody fault," John feels the need to retort.
Sherlock shrugs, bundling his hands deep inside his pockets as if making the point that they are utterly inaccessible. John feels his face begin to burn up. Nope. This is not good. He's never felt this way about anyone before, never felt the overwhelming urge to lace his fingers with theirs for absolutely no reason, never -
The train arrives. Sherlock's arm drifts dangerously near John's shoulder as they board. When it takes off with a lurch, John topples onto the empty handicap seat. Sherlock, of course, has no problem on the tube, much to John's perpetual annoyance. He raises a calculating eyebrow and says snidely, "Having trouble balancing, are we?"
"You could help," says John, struggling to his feet and grabbing the overhead bar.
"Mm. Yes." The train goes round a bend; the entire population involuntarily shifts to the side, strangers flopping on top of each other for an awkward, fumbling moment, before everybody rights themselves. Sherlock remains there, impassive and perfectly still, throughout. Typical.
"Good friend," snaps John. "Just let me flail around."
"My pleasure." Sherlock thinks for a moment, opens and closes his mouth, then says, "So we're friends."
"No, I was being sarcastic."
"So we aren't."
"We are, but in that particular instance I was being sarca –"
"No matter," says Sherlock shortly, and angles his body so he's staring out the window.
"What's wrong with you?" John swipes dirt off his jacket impatiently. "Of course we are. Friends, that is."
Still with his back turned, Sherlock asks, "Really?"
"Obviously."
"Oh."
The train lurches once more, and even Sherlock stumbles slightly this time around. His hand grasps at the metal bar, slender fingers smooth and cool against John's knuckles. John feels butterflies, like he's a bloody twelve-year-old dancing with a girl for the first time. Sherlock does not acknowledge this physical contact, but doesn't withdraw his hand, either.
When they are running along straight, level tracks once more, making support unnecessary, he still does not move. God.
Silence hangs between them. Sherlock maintains solid, firm pressure, a surprisingly intimate touch that slowly begins to drive John insane. Neither breathes a word until they reach their stop, at which point Sherlock removes his hand, gracefully leaps over the gap, and begins striding down the street, John trotting stupidly after him.
–––––
Sherlock
They end up at a pub, which serves fish and chips Sherlock is quite partial to. "Are you ready for the..." He gestures vaguely.
"The wedding?"
Sherlock sprinkles a dash of vinegar across his plate and says curtly, "Yes, that." For some odd reason, he has, ever since the engagement, found himself unable to force the word out. The thought of giving up his best friend is painful enough; the fact that Mary is so very deserving of John rubs salt on the burn. Truth be told, he feels overshadowed. And, as previously mentioned, feelings don't come easily to him.
"I'm, you know. Nervous."
"How can I help?" Sherlock asks briskly.
John laughs. Does he assume that his friend is joking? Rightfully so; it is with a stab of regret that Sherlock recalls thoughtless comments, disregarding and taking for granted the constancy that their friendship has offered through the years.
Then again, it is not as though he hasn't played his part in the wedding. Unbeknownst to virtually anybody else (Mycroft, unable to resist sticking his head in everyone's business, made a handful of shrewd remarks but was quieted by Sherlock's resulting onslaught of profanities), he has placed inquiries. Anonymous orders. Research late at night, alone with the glow of his computer screen (John and Mary, he reckoned, were probably cuddling in bed, watching television, settling in for the night), a cup of cold tea untouched by his side. Research that led to strategically placed pamphlets, mysterious phone calls, miraculous and surprising surpluses in the budget.
He has planned the majority of the wedding, and is allowing Mary to take credit. Painful. Necessary. Seeing John happy, seeing his face light up, is the sole reason that he agreed to be best man, making it critical that John suspects nothing. If he discovered Sherlock's involvement, that he prevented multiple crises (color schemes that John would hate, cake that contains ingredients that he dislikes, table arrangements that he would not enjoy), his gratitude would overwhelm the both of them. Highly risky. Gratitude leads to displays of affection; a hug or handshake leads to a vast quantity of possibilities.
Far too dangerous.
It doesn't even matter. He is in the pub. His food is delicious. Everything is fine.
John's frowning at the menu, awaiting the detective's imminent return to reality. The echo of his partner's disbelieving laugh playing at the back of his mind, Sherlock maintains a serious expression. Brow furrowed, not so much so as to imply concern, but enough to disprove any misconceptions of amusement.
After scrutinizing him for a second, John shakes his head, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. Sherlock fights the urge to reach over and do the same, smooth down the pieces sticking out, feel the alternating textures against his palm. John takes a swig of beer and says, "Tonight's more than enough. I need a break. Thank god this wedding is a one-time thing. I don't think I'll be able to look at another stationery sample or smell another perfume for the rest of my life or I'll be sick."
This wedding is a one-time thing. Of course. Marriage lasts at least fifty percent of the time. John and Mary are – Sherlock invariably grits his teeth at the thought – perfect together. Happy together. And Mary's not a sociopath, which is always a bonus. Mary is a woman, a charming young woman, who has proven herself adequate of taking care of John.
Mary is a woman.
Well. Never mind that now.
Small talk has never been his strong suit, though out of necessity he has mastered the art of simultaneously bobbing his head up and down and carrying on a minimal conversation while his mind is otherwise engaged. As John goes on about something – the weather, politics, sports – Sherlock nods and makes appropriate comments.
Mary Morstan. There is something very odd about her demeanor. Nobody has ever been so supportive of his and John's relationship – apart from Mrs. Hudson, of course, but she's envisioned them as a couple from the beginning and therefore her opinion is as significant and biased as that of a grandmother or great-aunt. Nobody has ever been so kind towards him, besides John, but John is forever the exception. Nobody has ever been so cool and composed around dead bodies, listened so calmly to Sherlock's assessments of her character. Nobody (save for Sherlock) has ever made John's eyes wrinkle at the corners, a cause-and-effect event thanks to contractions along the edges of his mouth and subsequent ones on his cheeks. Until now, nobody else had incited the quasi-flirty behavior, the sarcastic retorts, the back-and-forth, near-playful interactions that flood Sherlock's chest with a pool of warmth.
But sometimes Sherlock wonders. Wonders if she has John memorized as he does; wonders if she senses, rather than observes, his needs, his emotions, his pain; wonders if she loves him as much as –
No. He cannot go there, will not go there. Love is a complicated thing, something from which he has always shied. Whether or not he loves John is inconsequential. Should he choose to analyze further, which he does not (out of fear, he must confess), the type of feelings he has for John are far more relevant. Platonic. Romantic. Something more. Who knows.
He knows, but he will not admit.
John is watching him. He has probably deduced that Sherlock is not taking in or processing a single word he's uttered in the past five minutes, and to his credit, he simply falls silent, far too accustomed to his friend's habits to be insulted.
Sherlock stands up. They haven't had much to drink; the last thing he needs is alcohol, which encourages reckless confessions. His beer rests untouched: John's only a little less than half full. Subconsciously, both men are aware of this fact, and have subtly disciplined themselves from the start of the outing, holding back from something. What? These lines are blurred, the rules unclear, thoughts and feelings muddled together. Passage of time, to Sherlock's chagrin, now composes of drawn-out, tension-heavy silences and poorly-suppressed impulses. Long gone are predictable clock faces, seconds ticking by without fail.
"Where to?" asks John. Sherlock slaps a few bills down on the table and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, striding outside with the expectation that his partner will follow. He does.
"It's early still, and unusually cold. Fancy a sweet? There's a cafe nearby. That was plan B, but based on reviews and my extensive research on your taste in coffee –"
John grips Sherlock's arm. Sherlock goes limp at the touch, allowing his hand to slide slowly down John's stomach. "It's fine, Sherlock," John whispers. They make eye contact; the light turns green; cars begin moving and honking. Danger. Detective and doctor jump apart.
"Right, then," Sherlock says, clearing his throat. "This way."
A tinkling bell announces their arrival. Couples are spread comfortably across couches, sharing scones from white ceramic plates that clink against glass coffee tables. The men have their arms around their girlfriends, a possessive act Sherlock has never fathomed. He is aware that men are generally territorial; why, though, must they flaunt their partners like prizes belonging to them alone?
Then again, the notion of having his arms around John is not an unpleasant one. Any physical contact at this point is enough to make his heart race – maybe he is allergic to John's soap, which always smells so clean and alluring – and imagining John's head on his chest, hair tickling his chin, upturned face, legs perhaps curled across his own, lips for the taking...
"Sherlock!"
"What?" Sherlock snaps defensively.
John looks more exasperated than hurt. "What do you want?"
"From you? You. What? Me. Can – sorry." Sherlock is disoriented. Losing control. Why had John had to touch him just then, grab his arm, pull him in? Breathe. Speak. Words. He has never come undone like this.
John eyes him in concern. "No... what do you want from the – from the menu. Are you alright?"
"Yes, fine," Sherlock says. He orders a cappuccino, which he knows he will barely touch. The only seat available is a wide armchair, not quite large enough to qualify as a love seat, as there is only one cushion and absolutely no way to fit into it without a substantial amount of bodily contact.
"Um, do you want to sit...?" John's question tilts up at the end, as questions often do, but there is a mix of hesitation and tentative eagerness catching in his throat.
Sherlock focuses on the wall, ceiling, anything but his friend. He mutters, "That's the only place. Logically, we could finish our drinks outside, or get a cab to take us elsewhere, but that seems tedious and unnecessarily unpleasant, given the lowering temperature. It is, however, your stag night, so I leave the decision up to you." He waits with bated breath, index fingers pressed together against his mouth.
"I don't mind," says John, tentatively moving towards the chair.
"Me too," murmurs Sherlock.
John occupies the majority of the seat, with Sherlock awkwardly shifting before him, unsure as to what the appropriate next move is – that is, until John looks up expectantly and asks, "Aren't you going to sit down?"
"Oh. Er. Certainly." He lowers himself down, hypersensitive to the sensation of his thigh rubbing against John's, and forces a relaxed smile. John's face, so close, is warm and welcoming and open as always, and he casually rubs a hand across Sherlock's knee.
"Thanks for this."
Sherlock seriously considers bolting. The heat of John's breath on his neck, the closeness, the intimacy of their position, is too much to handle.
"I'm not joking, though. Thank you. It means a lot. I love Mary, but god..."
Sherlock waits with bated breath. But god... But god what? God, I love you. God, I hate her. God, I can't marry someone I'm not smitten with. God, you're perfect.
All possibilities. All highly unlikely.
John is still silent, until Sherlock feels compelled to say, "I can only assume that your sentence has petered out and it would be rich of me to require a follow-up. Therefore, I am agreeable to changing the subject, if you are so inclined."
"No. I – I don't want to."
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. John's hand is still on his knee. Their legs rub together, worn denim tickling his skin. "Don't want to what?"
"Change the subject. I mean, I want to talk."
"Are we not talking?"
"No, no, Sherlock, I –" John shuts his eyes, shakes his head, stutters, sighs. "Never mind."
Careful. Gaze ahead. Don't let it show. Tighten shoulders, clench fists. Unfeeling. Cynical. Dickhead. "Alright," Sherlock says evenly.
"Alright," John repeats softly. He's close, too close, lips slightly parted. Sherlock shivers involuntarily, which is odd, given the stuffiness of the room.
"So," says Sherlock, drawing out the syllable as he struggles to think of something appropriately mundane to bring up. Weather? Too obvious. News? They always read and watch it together, leaving nothing to discuss now. Politics? Potentially controversial. Sports? He knows nothing of them, aside from the fact that they are apparently a big deal and incite men gathering at bars to holler at each other and slosh beer all over the place. Still, it's worth a shot. Sherlock musters up a smile, the sort that he fakes half-heartedly at interviews and press conferences. "Have you been keeping up with football this year?"