John
Well, this is it. John stands before the mirror, exhales deeply. A sense of relief, soon to be replaced by foreboding, had settled over him the moment entered an empty flat. The memory of last night burns fresh in his mind: Sherlock's breath snaking around his lips, so close yet so far, so unattainable, always will be, he reckons. Unavailable. Distant.
His hands tremble slightly, adjusting his tie, but it only looks more lopsided. How does Sherlock make it appear so bloody easy? Swearing under his breath for no good reason, he checks his watch. The clock front reflects his face, distorted and large.
Harry's car honks from the curb. She and her girlfriend, Jill, have agreed to drive him to the church. John grabs his jacket, wallet, and mobile, nearly tripping over the rug as he runs out to meet them.
"Today's the big day," says Harry, peering at him in the rearview mirror.
"You're telling me," he mutters.
"Don't be rude, Johnny," she says disapprovingly.
"I'm a bit nervous here," he retorts, by way of an excuse.
"Hey." She turns around, stretches her arm awkwardly at an angle to pat his knee. "She's a lucky woman."
"Thanks." He gazes out the window. Buildings rush by, black smudges against a dull gray backdrop.
They arrive at the church, John making his way blindly to a side room in which he is instructed to wait. Mary is out and about, getting primped by professional curling iron wielders and speaking with her bridesmaids, all of whom John met and none of whom he remembers. Because of the whole don't-see-the-bride-before-the-wedding business, he is fairly quarantined.
He doesn't know how long it's been – increments of time seem insignificant; his brain races with alternating blankness and thoughts of Sherlock – when there is a tentative knock on his door. Heart pounding, he opens it, and is both surprised and disappointed to see Molly.
"Hi," she says. "Er... alright if I come in?"
"Yeah, sure," he says, nonplussed. "You look nice."
"Thanks. Um, first of all, congratulations."
He inclines his head politely. "Thank you."
"Are you very anxious?"
He gives a shaky chuckle. "Little bit, yeah. I've been waiting for this, wanting this for so long, but now that it's here I feel... well." Molly's looking at him, earnest and open. "I don't feel as happy as I think I should."
"That's the thing," she says, biting her lip and faltering, "I – I thought you might be feeling that way."
"You did?"
"I just noticed how you were looking. Tired. Thin. Worse for wear. No offense," she amends hastily. "And the way you've been around Sherlock."
A sharp, involuntary intake of breath at the mere mention. "Please don't bring him up," he finds himself saying. His voice sounds strained even to his own ears.
She's practically wringing her hands; he does not need to be a genius to detect that she's got something important to say.
"What?" he asks impatiently.
"It's just that... John, do you love Mary?"
"Yes," he says automatically.
"You mean, romantically?"
"Yes. Of course." He has to move before he goes mad (though that's a bit of a foregone conclusion at this point), so he walks to the window, staring back at the sunlight streaming in.
"Oh."
"Is that all?"
"No." She joins him, jaw set, shoulders squared, fingers pressed against the sill. "John, I think you should know. Sherlock is miserable."
Fuck. Why? Why now? Why today? Is this really very necessary? John shuts his eyes, clamps them tight, as though he's five again and when he opens them again the scary clown will have disappeared round the corner. "No."
"Yes," she says emphatically. "He's been manic about this wedding, do you know that? He's hidden it from you. He's planned almost all of it, let everyone think Mary has, but he's done, I just caught him on the phone with an agency and he has his own little caterer network, a dozen professionals to make sure this goes off without a hitch... anyway. Too much information." She takes a deep breath. "He's devastated. I've never seen him do this before, not with a single case, and we both know he gets obsessed."
"No," says John loudly.
"He looks sad when he thinks you can't see him."
Is she trying to make his life difficult, nigh impossible? If so, she's succeeding. Brilliant job, Molly sodding Hooper. "No."
"He does. I've told him. He didn't deny it."
"What's your point?" he asks sharply, and she flinches slightly at the uncharacteristic edginess.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to impose –"
"Molly. I am getting married in less than two hours. I don't have time to psychoanalyze my friend."
"Is that it, then?"
"Is what it?"
"You and Sherlock. Friends. Is he just that – a friend? Only a friend?"
John can't formulate sentences. He grips the windowsill, watching in mild interest as color rapidly seeps out of his knuckles.
"John?"
"Go." His hip aches, and he's certain that the moment he tries to walk, his limp will have returned.
"John..."
"I know. Thank you for the good wishes. Goodbye, Molly." He's literally pushing her out of the room now.
"Wait!"
He slackens his grip at the shrillness of her cry. "What?"
She stands in the doorway, brow furrowed. "You know I fell in love with Sherlock."
"I am aware of this fact, yes." He has no idea where this is going, and is rather scared to find out.
"I know how easy it is to."
"To what, fall in love with him?"
She nods. "And I couldn't... he wasn't all there."
"He'll never be."
"No." She shakes her head. "That's where you're wrong. He's there, just not for me. Not for anyone, really."
"Your point being...?"
"John, Sherlock is there for you. Completely, uninhibitedly. You."
He feels faint. "What are you saying?"
"He's... you really don't know, do you? You can't tell?" She looks at him incredulously. "Sherlock loves y –"
"That's enough," John says in a panic, and slams the door in her face, sinking to the floor, arms around his knees. "Shit fuck god damn," he hisses, overcome with emotion. "Okay, okay." He grunts, getting to his feet, and stands in the middle of the room, collecting himself. "You love Mary," he says firmly. "Sherlock is a friend."
It doesn't sound remotely convincing.
Sherlock. That old bastard. Such an oddball. Such a miracle. Infuriatingly gorgeous, too. All black curls and cheekbones so sculpted it should be illegal. Intense, penetrating gaze, verdigris with a touch of chrysolite. Gaze that can read him, always could, always will.
A short and portly man suddenly barges unannounced into the room, red-faced and panting from the exertion.
"Um," says John.
"That man" – he gesticulates wildly – "is a menace."
"Who?" He has an inkling.
"That bloody... curly... haired... bloke." He wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. "Your best man. You could not have made a poorer choice, sir."
Another fellow enters, younger and extremely frazzled. "I apologize," he says to John. "My father got a little carried away."
"What's going on...?"
"Well, your best man's a little intimidating, and I think he rather got to Dad, didn't he?" The older man can only nod. "We were hired for the wedding, didn't really get specific instructions aside from a hefty check and mysterious message. Told us to stay on the down low, that our participation was essential, and we were to make absolute certain that nothing got in the way of your special day."
This makes John's chest throb, as well as confirming Molly's claim regarding Sherlock's hidden involvement. Damn.
"Dad said he didn't see why we were really needed, said everything seemed to be going alright, then your best man started spouting all this stuff about how it was his fault you may be in danger – kind of lost it, if you ask me – and then said a bunch of stuff about my mum cheating on my dad five years ago and how it's reduced him to..." He licks his lips, eyes darting nervously about the room. "He didn't use the kindest words."
"I'm sorry, I want to make this good for you, I do," his father puts in. "I just... that man..."
"Is the best man I have ever had the good fortune to meet," John says tightly. The two men blink back at him. He sighs. "Look, I know he has a peculiar habit – more than one – and it can be unnerving. I don't know what he's got planned for today. I don't know anything about him, really, not now. However, I am the groom and it is my wish that you listen to Sherlock."
The younger chap's shoulders sag slightly. "Alright," he says. "It's your choice. Dad?"
"Fine," says his father, adjusting his collar and turning his back on John. "But I am not apologizing. Crazy boffin."
John would be amused under any other circumstances, would laugh and give Sherlock grief about it later. These are not other circumstances, though. This is his wedding, and Sherlock has gone to immense care to ensure that nothing bad happens, that John is happy, because somehow, miraculously, that seems to be a priority of his.
It was his fault you may be in danger.
Well, isn't he always? He's not an idiot; he knows that being associated with one of the most hated, feared, and envied men in the world is not the most secure of positions. But, frankly, he doesn't give a fuck. Because being associated with Sherlock, in any capacity, is more than he could ask for, and he's a proper lucky bastard to get so much as a genuine smile, a sarcastic remark, a freshly removed appendix on his kitchen counter.
Sherlock loves y –
Yeah, he's not going to think about that now.
Sherlock loves y –
Sometimes it's a liver, occasionally a kidney. Once it was a heart. Molly'd been livid.
Sherlock loves y –
A proper lucky bastard.
–––––
Sherlock
He steps outside to take a breather, adjusting his nicotine patch ever so subtly. John hasn't noticed. It will be quite some time until he does, if ever. Sherlock's got it under control. As long as he doesn't reach for the pack stowed away in his pocket, he'll be fine.
Besides, today is hardly about him and his unhappy addiction. He has many of those, come to that. John being one of them.
He's not daft. He knows the signs of... well, of this. Of whatever he's felt for the past four years. The symptoms are there. After a brief, hopeful research session, he was forced to conclude that his illness is not a physical one. No, it's a disease of the mind. A dreadful, all-encompassing infection. Not that he'd say anything, of course.
Footsteps approach from behind him. A swish of material gives it away. "Hello, Molly."
"I heard you had a bit of an altercation."
"Yes. Only because he insisted on using wheat and rye bread and I know for a fact that John's disliked the flavor of rye –"
"I know."
"You know? That can't be possible, you've spent very minimal time with –"
"No, I don't know. I mean, I know that you know."
"You're not making very much sense, I'm afraid." Sherlock pauses, takes mercy. "How's..." He searches his mind palace. Nada. The silence stretches on; she's twisting her mouth a bit mirthfully, waiting. Shit.
Think, think. Tall, objectively handsome, well turned-out, open face... ah.
"Tom...?"
"There it is. He's good. We're having quite a lot of sex."
His eyebrows fly involuntarily into his hairline. "That's... lovely. It's... nice that your coital endeavors are satisfactory."
"I don't know why I said that," she says, sounding appalled. Rightfully so. "Sorry."
"Might I suggest that you leave now."
"No, I –"
They are interrupted by a belligerent florist, who spots Sherlock and opens his mouth furiously. Before he can utter a thing, the detective looks at him squarely and says, "Soap."
The man flushes red, shoots him a loathing glare, and storms off without a word.
"You were saying?" he asks Molly mildly.
"Er... soap?"
"Oh, just a little blackmail. Pity, too. His girlfriend seems lovely, despite her anxiety issues and low IQ, and his grandmother was quite bright until the tumor became malignant. Poor soul."
"I don't want to know."
"Mm." He rocks back and forth on his heels slightly, gazing into the distance.
"So. John."
He stiffens and snaps sharply, "What?"
"You love him."
"What of it?"
"You don't deny it."
"I can't. I am not a liar."
"Then why haven't you told him?"
"He has not asked, and I..." He falters. Feelings are terribly incapacitating, this much is for certain. A knot grows in his throat. Anaphylactic shock would be infinitely simpler to manage, so much simpler than this... emotion. He hates it. "I... I have never been given reason to believe that he should feel the same."
"Right," Molly whispers, as though speaking louder might break him. It might.
"This is his wedding," Sherlock continues blindly. "He is happy with Mary, and I am happy if he is."
"That's cliche, and also not true."
"What part?"
"All of the above. You aren't happy if he's happy with Mary. You're happy if he's happy with you."
"Happiness is not an emotion with which I am closely acquainted."
"Except when you're with John."
He thinks of John's smile, John laughing at his jokes, and allows, "You could say that."
"He's also definitely not happy."
"What?"
"He's having a bit of a nervous breakdown, in fact, I've just been to see him."
"Nerves. That's all."
"He started to lose it when I mentioned you."
"Why on earth would you feel compelled to reference someone as insignificant as myself on his wedding day?"
"Because you're entirely significant."
The knot is growing. He does not have time for this. The college students he hired to oversee the third floor were only in it for the money, which they will inevitably exchange for copious amounts of illegal substances. To each his own.
"Sherlock."
"Yes," he says hoarsely. "I really must dash."
"Are you going to be okay? Watching everything. The vows."
"I'm familiar with the way a wedding works, Molly, and yes. I am fine."
"Really?"
He does not deign to respond – why in the world do people always need reassurance? They ask you a question, you answer, and roughly twenty-seven percent of the time follow it up with a "really?" or "honestly?" or otherwise maddeningly unnecessary sign of distrust – and pulls his sleeve securely down over his wrist. "I have business to attend to."
"Don't you always." Molly sighs.
"Please don't look at me with such concern. It's very unsettling."
"I can't help it. They're called feelings, Sherlock. I, unlike you, let them show."
"You, unlike me, wear your heart on your sleeve. So does John."
"So do you."
He scoffs. "Nonsense. It is one of my particularly infuriating qualities. Nobody can read me."
"I can."
"You don't count."
She flinches at this, as if he's just thrown a dart at her. A marginal amount of guilt edges its way into his chest. Doesn't matter.
"Now, I have –"
"You little bitch," says Molly.
"I –"
"Go attend to your business. You can apologize later."
"I've got nothing to apologize for."
"How dare you?"
"I'm sorry. I don't understand –"
"You never do, do you? You just stalk around, taking everything for granted, disregarding how many people actually give a flying fuck about you –"
"I really would revise your vernacular, if I were you. It can come across as quite uneducated."
"I'm so sorry I ever tried to help you," she says, making incensed hand motions.
"Apology unfounded, but accepted."
"That was sarcasm, Sherlock."
"Oh. Nevertheless." He checks his watch. "I'll see you inside."
She's crossing her arms. Defensive. Hurt. He'll put together some sort of "I'm sorry" bollocks later. Right now his mind is reeling with free-floating equations and worst-case scenarios and John.
He stops just shy of the threshold, turns. "Molly?"
"Yes?" she asks breathlessly. What, does she think he's about to pour his heart out, that something might have changed in the last thirteen seconds?
"That's quite a nice dress, given the bargain price and the minimal wear, as indicated by –"
"Get lost."
He pauses. She looks rather angry at this point, and to say that angry girls are not his area would be a massive understatement. "Right." Sherlock shuts the door behind him and leans against the wall, feeling weak. "Right."