Mycroft
Sherlock goes missing halfway through the ceremony. Mycroft, from his post, is the only one who notices. He catches Mrs. Hudson's eye and gestures subtly; she immediately gets up and joins him.
"He left," Mycroft says in an undertone.
"Is he alright?"
"No."
She wrings her hands. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I need you to find out where he is what he's up to. If he's out there smoking please inform him that I will kick him where it counts."
"He doesn't know how lucky he is to have a brother who cares like you do," she says, patting his cheek fondly.
"Don't touch me, please, Hudson," says Mycroft disdainfully. "Off you go."
She has been gone only ninety seconds when Sherlock reappears. How he managed to slip off in the first place without anyone seeing remains a mystery.
Mycroft watches his baby brother shift awkwardly, shuffle his feet, assume a resolute, somewhat murderous expression. It is the most pitifully obvious internal struggle that the older man has ever been forced to witness. Only when the tall chap in front of him moves slightly is it that he can see Sherlock's lips moving.
It takes a moment to figure it out. Mycroft is not an emotional person, but this. Fucking this.
Sherlock is repeating all of Mary's wedding vows under his breath.
Oh, Sherlock.
He's jiggling his left leg up and down, a small movement nobody else would notice. One of Sherlock's tells. He stood like that in the center of the sitting room, scowling and jiggling his left leg, the day they told him Redbeard had died.
Mycroft has to remind himself of the whole not-an-emotional-person business.
"Oh, he's back." Mrs. Hudson appears at his elbow. Then, in utter shock, "Are you...?"
"I'm not crying," Mycroft insists defensively. "I'm trying to hear the vicar."
"Isn't there someone special in your life?"
"I'd very much appreciate it if you returned to your seat," says Mycroft firmly.
She nods sagely. "That means yes. What's their name?"
"Your seat, Mrs. Hudson, please."
"I'll get it out of you," she says, beaming.
Mycroft rolls his eyes and redirects his attention.
"...Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
Mycroft turns his line of sight sharply to his brother, and watches as Sherlock's lower lip trembles, as his gaze darkens. Well, shit.
The audience waits in characteristic tension, because even though someone rarely ever says anything, there's the bald fact that someone out there is probably thinking it.
Mycroft knows who that particular someone is.
And as the vicar opens his mouth to pronounce them husband and wife, he watches that someone's face crumple ever so slightly, watches that someone leave. And this time Mycroft does not send anybody out to find them, because he knows exactly where they will be, and that he will, indeed, kick the angst-ridden goddamn feeling detective where it counts.
–––––
John
He doesn't see Sherlock for the next three weeks, the longest twenty-one days of his life. After disappearing from the wedding, no explanation is given. Mycroft reads and does not respond to his increasingly frantic texts. Except one, when he desperately asks,
Is he dead?!
To which Mycroft responds with a condescending,
Please.
And that is the quantity of information he has to work with.
Mary asks after the detective a great deal, of course. "You two are best mates, don't let me come between you," she says worriedly one night. "Are you avoiding him?"
"No. He's not talking to me." He sounds a bit like a petulant tyke, and does not have a shit to give.
"Oh, darling." Mary takes his hands in hers and says firmly, "Go visit him."
"I don't know if..." His mind wanders, as it tends to recently.
John has dreams about Sherlock every night. Their kiss(es). Sherlock's face, the intensity, so blinding he wanted to look away, but couldn't. The warmth of Sherlock's knuckles resting lightly against his chest.
He, John Watson, kissed effing Sherlock Holmes. And it was perfect and real and right and totally wrong.
"Sweetheart?"
"If that's a good idea," he finishes hastily. "Sorry, zoned out a bit."
She gives him a concerned peck on the cheek. "Please don't... don't give up this friendship on my behalf."
"It isn't your fault."
"Hm. Alright." She isn't entirely convinced. Neither is he.
–––––
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Sherlock
"John," Sherlock says, paling. It's two o'clock in the morning and his old partner is standing in the doorway.
"Why haven't you told me about new cases?" John snaps accusingly. "I know you've got them –"
"I don't know –"
"Of course you know." John babbles when he gets flustered. Unfortunate habit. "What, have you got a new sidekick? Better than me?"
"No, and no. I don't believe there is anybody in existence who could be a better 'sidekick' than one John Watson," Sherlock answers quietly.
John seems marginally pacified at this pronouncement. At any rate, he comes off his soapbox and stands inside, looking lost. "My chair's gone," he says.
"Yes. It was blocking my view to the kitchen."
John processes this. Sherlock is trembling, wondering, still rather shocked. He may need to breathe into a paper bag soon. "Sherlock, can we talk?"
Instinct. "No."
"Oh."
The images rise to the surface, unbidden, unwanted. John coming nearer. His lips, soft and pliant, on Sherlock's. With one touch, he lifted away all the hardness and coldness and defenses that had been so ridiculously essential in Sherlock's life for the past three decades.
"Well, um."
"Please leave." Sherlock can't take this.
"What?"
"I believe you said it yourself," Sherlock reminds him. "You said 'I can't,' and I agreed."
"That was – I'm not here to –"
"I can't, John." Sherlock feels himself slowly coming undone.
"I can't do... I can't that, but can we... friends?"
That's it? That's all Sherlock gets. After everything. He isn't surprised. It is human nature to be selfish and cold and rejection is a powerful tool, a tool which he has never fully accepted as a method of destruction before. He does now.
"Sherlock?"
Too many feelings. Heartbeat thrumming. John in boxers and a cotton t shirt. Wet hair. So many mornings. Cups of tea, loaves and loaves worth of toast. Dry toast, sometimes, or marmalade. Heads bent over a body in the alleyway. John's diagnoses, each one so beautiful and breathtaking, spoken in his smooth, reassuring voice.
"I'm sorry," John whispers.
"Myself as well," Sherlock finds himself saying stiffly.
"Is this... space."
"You're not making sense."
"I bloody well am not!" He spins round and kicks the air, as if he's a bull in a ring rearing at a red flag. Frustration. Easy diagnosis. "You're – god, Sherlock."
"Alright." Deep, even breaths. There you go.
"Space is good, yeah?" John looks slightly maniacal. "You know, because I can't, and you can't, and even if I could, you wouldn't, and let's have space!" He twirls his hands wildly, sarcastically, as if "space" is something to celebrate. Sherlock is fairly certain it is not.
"Fine," says Sherlock. "If you really want that."
"Yep," says John. He has a decidedly deranged look in his eyes. Not good. "It's just what I want. Fine proposition, eh, Sherlock?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
They cross their arms, defiant stare-off. Sherlock wins. He's got that going for him, at least. One final shred of dignity.
John's mobile buzzes. "I've got to get home," he mutters. A flush creeps up his neck. He must be realizing his behavior, or lack thereof. Good. He ought to feel embarrassed. Sherlock is embarrassed for him. Tantrums like the one John just threw are precisely why Sherlock refuses to embrace emotion. "Goodbye."
He's halfway to the landing when Sherlock calls, "John."
John stops so fast he nearly falls over. Why? What does he expect Sherlock to do now? People are exhausting. "Yes."
"I'll tell Lestrade to unblock your number. I see no reason why you shouldn't be allowed back on the playing field, so to speak."
"You blocked my number? Jesus Christ."
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"What?"
"Triple homicide. Fascinating material."
"You're fucking mental."
Sherlock considers this. "Yes," he concedes. John's looking up at him bleakly. Kiss me, touch me, hold me.
Feelings are an abominable and unacceptable disrespect to the human mind.
"Goodbye, John."
–––––
Sunday, November 17, 2013
John
"Why is Anderson here?" Sherlock asks. "I'm afraid lowering the IQ of this corpse would be deemed somewhat impolite. Although the victim was picking fights in a dark alleyway with an established enemy, so it's plausible that his IQ was already –"
"I'm done," Anderson says, and stalks off to the patrol car.
Lestrade suppresses a groan. "Skipping over the fact that you're casually criticizing a dead man's IQ, I presume you've solved it?"
"Is that even a question?" To John's surprise, Sherlock does not go into theatre mode as he usually does; there is no dramatic pacing or finger-steepling or scathing verbal attacks when Lestrade asks a less-than-genius question. Instead, he simply clarifies, "They killed him, panicked, and dragged the body to the nearest unlocked flat, which unfortunately happened to be for sale. Probably turned the prospective buyers off a bit, walking into an open house and seeing a bleeding carcass on the carpet. Too bad. I'm still working out the details of the precise motive."
"Right."
Sherlock hums to himself, turning his attention back on the puzzle at hand. Conversation over.
Lestrade takes this opportunity to approach John and mutter, "John, a word?"
Sherlock's so beautiful like this, all skill and dexterity, snapping on a pair of gloves, extracting his investigative kit, brow furrowed in concentration. He hasn't spoken to John the entire time. It hurts. God, it hurts. John's reduced to overanalyzing even the simplest "good morning" or "rainy outside, isn't it," trying desperately to find some hidden meaning. But the detective doesn't operate like that. There are no shades of gray, no subtext, with Sherlock.
Lestrade's watching him, rather more keenly than John is comfortable with. "John?"
"What? Oh, of course." He follows the detective inspector to a covert corner and stands, feet spread slightly apart, one wrist looped through the other hand behind his back. "What's up?"
Greg coughs and jerks his head towards Sherlock, who is squinting at a hair sample extracted from the victim's fleece. "I'm concerned about him."
Surprised, John asks the obvious question. "Why?"
"He seems closed off."
"He's always closed off." Even to John. Sherlock is there for you. Completely, uninhibitedly. You. Wouldn't be the first time Molly was wrong.
"No, more so than usual." Both men are silent, silently scrutinizing their co worker. "Listen." Lestrade grits his teeth, rolls his shoulders as if he's prepared to go into battle. "I care about – about Sherlock."
John raises an eyebrow. "Yes. I think we all do."
"Don't forget, I'm the one who sent a fucking helicopter to the flat when Sherlock needed help writing his best man speech. Clearly, I –"
"Wait, what?"
"Hm? Oh, he didn't tell you. I was about to close a case, the case of a sodding lifetime, really, when Sherlock sent several frantic texts begging for help. All caps, made it sound urgent. I thought the bloke must be dying or something. Naturally, I dispatched an entire bloody squad to 221b, called for maximum back-up, and walked in to find Sherlock with a book entitled 'How to Write an Unforgettable Best Man Speech.' Told me, and I quote, 'This is really hard, hardest thing I've ever had to do' – well, anyway. Point is, I care about him." He pauses. "Has he said anything to you?"
The fact that Sherlock, with whom he has spent very limited time in the past year, asked Greg Lestrade for help on his best man speech, makes John feel very, very guilty. "No," he says, with more than a twinge of guilt, "we haven't really, er, been... talking, exactly."
"Ah."
"So..."
Lestrade shuts his eyes, gathering his thoughts. He is acting quite odd about this whole thing. John can see why Sherlock gets so impatient with him. Finally he blurts out, "Is he taking drugs again?"
"What? Bloody hell, Lestrade, where did that come from?"
"I – I'm sorry. I saw – I suspected – I think I saw a nicotine patch. Thought maybe he's gotten addicted again."
"When?"
Greg grimaces. "A couple times, last few cases we were on. When he was putting his gloves on, and once he started to roll up his sleeves, then stopped and rolled them back down with a look around as if to ensure no one saw him."
Sherlock. Sherlock on drugs. Sherlock taking drugs. Sherlock addicted. Nicotine patches. All John's fault. He is a horrible friend, a horrible man, a horrible –
"Goodbye," Sherlock says crisply from across the room, and moves to leave. He will not look John's way.
"Wait!" calls Lestrade. "Are you going to tell us how you solved it?"
Sherlock's gaze flickers to John, then back again. He stiffens. "I shall email you the results."
"But you did solve it. Completely."
The detective shoots Greg a withering glance. "Of course I did, you daft moron." He reaches to pull his jacket off the hook, and John sees it.
A strip of tan band-aid material, sharp contrast across pale skin.
Sherlock.
He should have known. Should have known that distance wasn't good, wasn't the right choice, would never be, with them. Should have told Sherlock full-out how he feels – well, no, that's not right. Never will be. He can't entertain the very idea.
Sherlock.
He feels his pulse racing, everything moving in slow motion as the detective wraps himself in his coat, evens out the sleeves, takes his wool scarf and passes it fluidly over his shoulder. Nods curtly at a distressed Lestrade, stony silence reaching out like something tangible and throttling John.
Sherlock.
The door shuts behind him. Greg makes a helpless noise and goes to pack up.
Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock.
Mary's calling him. Numb, he shuts off his phone, has half a mind to chuck it out the window. His appearance in Sherlock's life put an end to the addiction; logically, his disappearance must have had the opposite effect.
Sherlock.
A surge of adrenaline, of fury at himself and at Mary and at Lestrade and at Sherlock and at the whole sodding world, pumps through his veins. He sprints out of the apartment, feet pounding, and yells, "Sherlock!"
He's on the street now. The man couldn't have gone far. There he is, a painfully familiar curly head bobbing above the crowds. He fights his way past crying babies and dog-walkers.
"Sherlock!"
Slowly, hesitantly – he's positive that the bastard heard him from the instant he started running, and simply chose not to respond (but why would he? John abandoned him, John chose Mary) – Sherlock stops. Turns around. Says, as John draws near, "You saw."
"Yes," John pants.
"I see." He stares at the ground. "I assume you've jumped to conclusions already."
"Take it off."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The patch, the patch. Take it off." He's making wild orders, tall orders, as if he has any right to dictate the detective's actions at this point.
Comprehension dawns on Sherlock's face. Pulling his arm protectively to his chest, he shakes his head. "Ah. I'm afraid you're mistaken."
"Mistaken? Lestrade noticed it, you prat! Why wouldn't you say anything to me?"
He blanches a little, but his voice remains steady. "John, your anger is irrational. You're defensive, and this emotion, when experienced by you, almost always manifests itself in hostility."
"I don't bloody care! I don't care!" shouts John. Passersby are veering away from them, and he still doesn't care.
"Why should I have told you about this?" Sherlock inquires.
"I – I –"
"I was under the impression that 'space' was best for us."
"Not for us, for you."
"You are a selfish man, John Watson. You cannot force decisions and opinions upon other people, only to go back on said decisions and proceed to denigrate the victim."
"Victim? You're victimizing yourself, Sherlock? Really?"
"Yes," Sherlock replies, color rapidly draining from his face. "I am. I accept that you are with Mary. However, it was never my intention to lose your companionship, and I will admit that I was... injured by your proposition. As much as I was involved in the decision and consented to going our separate ways, I cannot say that I previously imagined it transpiring as it has. Particularly considering the events before the wedding. I guess I had hoped... I don't know. But your coldness has –"
"I couldn't handle it!" John explodes. "I couldn't handle us. Our friendship. Being with – with you, and with Mary – it didn't work – it wouldn't work. You don't understand."
"No. I do not. I don't suppose I ever will. You are irrational, in addition to selfish."
If John is a zero-to-sixty type of person, he is at about 110 right now. "Don't you dare call me selfish, you daft old sod!"
"It is merely the truth." Sherlock's voice is shaking now, too, and John is to blame.
"Just show me," he says, lowering his tone to a barely-controlled rumble. Sherlock looks at him, says nothing. He seizes the man's shoulders and gives him a proper shake, bellowing, "Show me!"
"Fine!" barks Sherlock, an outburst that stuns John into momentary silence. He has never heard Sherlock yell, not like that. "What do you want?"
"Take the damn thing off," John says through gritted teeth.
"Fine," Sherlock repeats, this time much quieter, resigned. He unbuttons his cuff and slowly peels back the bandage. John peers at his wrist, feels his heart break.
Sherlock.