Hey, there, you guys!
I'm really sorry for having skipped last week, real life got in the way.
As an apology of sorts, I have posted a little heartbreaking fic I wrote weeks ago. See the end of this chapter for the link and the summary of this fic.

In this chapter:

"John noticed he and Sherlock were staring at each other, seeming equally frightened and lost, which was kind of ridiculous, since they'd known one another for quite a long time, and it was, indeed, a friendly gathering. Never mind John hadn't actually invited any one of his friends. Never mind he hadn't invited Sherlock."

CHAPTER 5

John looked around their living room and felt glad, even if a bit overwhelmed.

Mary had wanted to have a dinner party so John could finally meet her dearest friends. From what John had understood, some of them had gone to school with her, and some others had met her in some literature group or other. He didn't recollect all the names and credentials, but they were all nice, warm people.

Mary was sparkling with happiness. She had taken care of everything, picked the bottles of wine and put together a nice little buffet to please even the most fastidious guest they'd eventually have. Everybody was pleased and seemed satisfied.

But Mary... Mary was the the most beautiful creature in their living room at that moment. She was probably the most beautiful creature in the whole London, John would bet money on it. Her black dress was breath taking and made John ask himself what he had done to deserve her.

His nightmares had become part of their sleeping ritual. John was tired of having to wake up and sleep on the sofa so many times, but Mary was always there in the morning to give him a kiss and accept him without any pity in her eyes, making love to him without any melancholy or regrets.

She had caught up quickly and hadn't asked more about his troubled sleep. She still tried to talk him into therapy, but he guessed he couldn't really blame her for that. He would probably do the same thing were their roles reversed. John knew what it meant to worry about someone that seemed stuck.

But he was getting better, he told himself. At least he wanted to. Not that he knew what to do to make it happen.

It had been two weeks since he had last seen Sherlock. The detective had tried to drag John on some cases, but John had held himself back. A week later, John had tried to contact him to know what he had been up to, but Sherlock hadn't answered any of his texts. Mrs Hudson had said he was out of the country.

It was all fine, John thought. Again.

That was how they were supposed to be now, nothing wrong with it. He had a proper job, a wedding to plan, his life to work on. Sherlock had his own mad things to do. Neither one of them needed the other to get in their way.

John took a gulp of the white wine and closed his eyes to appreciate its flavour. In truth, he wasn't a wine person, but he couldn't deny it had been a great choice. The fish that had been served for dinner had been perfect with it. Now people were scattered all around the flat, chatting and laughing. John was going to rejoin them soon enough, he was just taking some time to himself. He straightened up his tie and felt a bit ridiculous in those clothes. He was sure it had been too much. They were in their own bloody living room, for Christ's sake.

Mary was talking to some of her girlfriends; her high pitched laughter drew John's attention and he smiled, not for the first time that night, admiring her from afar. She really was gorgeous.

He was getting ready to walk over to her when the doorbell rang. He asked himself who could possibly be, that late. They had already eaten dinner. The late arrival would have to make do with coffee and the mini chocolate bars.

Mary looked at him and motioned him to answer the door for her 'please, please, please'. He could just make the exact tone she would use in his mind. He smiled and sighed exasperated but fond.

He opened the door and his brain went white.

He stared.

Standing there, looking extremely uncomfortable and out of place was Sherlock in his usual attire. He was holding a bottle of the same wine Mary had picked up because of course he had deduced it.

But when had that happened...? How...?

John and Mary had some serious talking to do.

John noticed he and Sherlock were staring at each other, seeming equally frightened and lost, which was kind of ridiculous, since they'd known one another for quite a long time, and it was, indeed, a friendly gathering. Never mind John hadn't actually invited any one of his friends. Never mind he hadn't invited Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was offering the bottle of wine to John with his left hand because his right one was in a cast.

"Hi, John," he said, and sounded perfectly normal and bored. Damn him. "I'm sorry, but Mary wouldn't accept no for an answer." The right corner of his mouth turned up.

John decided not to say that Sherlock had never given a rat's ass about what anyone would accept as an answer or not. He seriously had other preoccupations.

"How did you break your hand?"

"Oh, hello!" Mary interrupted them. She hugged Sherlock with an ease that made John's jaw clench. Sherlock and hugging was something John had never been comfortable with, because he knew Sherlock was not really a hug person, Mrs Hudson being the one and only exception.

"We're so glad you could make it," she said squeezing Sherlock left hand and expressing sympathy over the broken one. The speed of her gestures was making John a bit sick. He hadn't seen Sherlock for weeks, he wasn't ready to interact with him like this, there, in a normal people's event. Sherlock would hate it. John had absolutely no idea of what the detective was doing there. Suddenly, he wasn't sure what was he doing there either.

And why had Mary set them up like this? It didn't make any sense. John hated her choice of pronoun, as if 'we' was a sort of entity that soon-to-be-married people used to behave as one. He didn't confirm nor deny that he was glad for Sherlock being there. In fact, he had no idea if he was glad.

And at the same time he couldn't stop from worrying over the bloody broken hand, about how thin Sherlock looked and how strange it felt to not know how he had been injured and why he wasn't eating. It was something that John simply wasn't able to do, to stop wanting to know. Just as he wasn't able to tell himself that he hadn't missed that big idiot with his overly dramatic coat.

"Ah, what about Martha?" Mary asked.

Mrs Hudson? Had Mary invited her too? Well, now that was more likely.

"Evening soothers, you know how she is," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John snorted despite himself. He knew bloody well how Mrs Hudson was with her soothers. They could shoot a suspect in 221B's living room and she wouldn't wake up. John would know, it had happened before.

Sherlock was smiling at him knowingly. He seemed to have the perfect comment to make, but Mary interrupted them once more. It was like they were constantly forgetting that there were other people in the universe.

"There's someone I want you to meet," Mary said, while dragging Sherlock by his coat sleeve over to a friend of hers. John knew her somewhat well. She had been around frequently, as she was Mary's best friend.

Janine, his brain provided him uselessly. Yes, he knew her name. What good that would do? Apparently, she wasn't there for Mary's sake.

Sherlock wasn't there for his either.

John had absolutely no idea of what do to with that sudden realization. It was too surreal for him to contemplate. He wanted to call the whole reunion out.

Janine was alone in a corner. John was pretty sure she had been chatting with her other friends before, so they had all deserted her on purpose. What the hell was that? Was Mary going matchmaker on Sherlock? The thought made John's insides turn over themselves.

But he would ignore it and go on; it wasn't his business. And it would surely go disastrously. It probably said much about him that he was already planning to choose a seat and watch the whole thing. Maybe he would make some popcorn, and have it with beer.

"Janine," Mary called, purposelessly. Janine was well aware of their entourage, she seemed to be expecting it anxiously. "Here is someone I know you've been dying to meet," Mary said, dragging Sherlock until he was almost toe to toe with her friend.

Sherlock looked at John with a look of pure terror. John had to admit all that was going great. He looked aside to hide his smirk. Sherlock frowned at him and seemed to recollect his acting skills.

"Yes, hi... Janine?" He asked, charmingly. He took her hand and kissed it.

John rolled his eyes. Prat.

"Oh," Janine said, seeming out of breath. "The papers haven't done you any justice."

"You have no idea of how true that is," John's mouth said, without his consent. He didn't remember giving it permission to open in the first place. But it was true. John was the one who had suffered through all of it, all the lies, all the filth the press had fed itself with before all had been cleared out.

Mary giggled. "Oh, John, I don't think Janine is talking about the same thing as you."

John startled and looked at Janine.

No, indeed. He had to agree with Mary. She looked hungrily at Sherlock.

"Yes, I know all about that," Janine said, "...but those press photos haven't done your face any justice either," she said.

And wow, all right.

John was not talking about that. Definitely.

And what the hell was wrong with Sherlock's face anyway? Or not wrong, for that matter. Apparently completely right, in Janine's not-so-secret opinion.

Sherlock was looking at Janine searchingly. She sure thought was a seduction technique. Poor her.

John grimaced looking at Sherlock's face. It suddenly wasn't that funny anymore. John didn't want Sherlock to break Mary's best friend's heart. He had been there when Sherlock had crumpled Molly's and it wasn't a very nice memory.

John wasn't saying anything about the state of his own heart after Sherlock had jumped because they were just mates. It was different. But Sherlock didn't know how to deal with anyone. So John needed to get Janine out of there sooner rather than later.

Before he could interrupt the new couple, Mary grabbed him by the hand and took him aside.

"Don't be a spoilsport, leave them be," she said, as if it was all a big joke.

John fidgeted with his tie. The damn thing was suddenly driving him crazy.

"Leave them be? Do you want your best friend to run away crying? Because that's what is going to happen in ten minutes," John answered, itching all over. What the hell was happening that his bloody clothes were ganging up on him now? He rubbed his neck, loosening the tie to give his skin a break.

"I doubt it. Janine is not that easy to break," Mary said, dismissing John's worry and coming over to him. She batted his hands away from his tie and undid the knot, taking it out of him. John loved her for it.

"I think you've got a rash," she said, looking at his neck.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Did you invite him over for this?" John asked, still rubbing his skin, despite the fact that he was a bloody doctor and knew he shouldn't.

"She is a big fan of Sherlock Holmes," Mary said, and she emphasized his name as she meant to say they were all very cute and endearing for solving crimes and blogging about it and being friends. John was glad Mary thought it was nice. He himself wasn't sure he would ever be able to face it all so lightly.

"She was really dying to meet him. She's got a crush on him or something," Mary said.

Yes, well, John had figured out that much by himself.

"Doesn't she work in the press?" John asked, starting to get suspicious. He wasn't used to people liking Sherlock. He had met three kinds of people: the ones who knew Sherlock and hated him; the fans who got absolutely no clue of who the Hat Detective really was and loved him – probably exactly because of this – and the ones who knew Sherlock and loved him. The third group consisted of Mrs Hudson. And probably of Sherlock's parents, whom John hadn't been given the pleasure to meet.

As for John himself... Well, he was too tired identifying the groups to categorize himself. He was always floating between loving and hating Sherlock.

Mary had answered him and he had not listened. "What?" He asked, inelegantly. That damn rash was driving him mad.

Mary rolled her eyes, but looked at him as if he was being amusing. "Honestly, John... And besides, Janine and Sherlock have to get used to each other."

John frowned and stared at Mary as if she were mad. "Why would they have to do anything?"

That didn't make any sense. But Mary just laughed and looked at him as if he was the one being nonsensical. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and left him there.

John shook his head and told himself to get a grip. Sherlock was an adult, he knew how to take care of himself. He didn't need John to worry over his fans. He could probably manage them.

Maybe he would do it better than he managed his friends, he thought while scratching his neck absent-mindedly.

John tried to mingle a bit, but his eyes didn't leave Sherlock and Janine for more than five minutes. He knew he was being ridiculous, Sherlock was not his responsibility in any capacity, and he didn't need John to protect him from social gatherings or beautiful women.

He hadn't even needed John to invite him. Honestly, Sherlock didn't need him to do anything.

It was obvious by how comfortable he seemed. His shoulders were relaxed, his smiles were small, not affected. He didn't look like someone who was faking his charm, he looked genuinely charming, as John knew he was. Sherlock looked perfect. He and Janine even laughed now and then.

Why was Sherlock being so civilized all of a sudden? Why here, why now?

John surprised himself realizing that he preferred to suspect Sherlock's motivations than to consider the possibility that that was just Sherlock being himself.

John was a terrible human being. He didn't want to let himself be friends with Sherlock again, but he didn't want Sherlock to have another friends. Another John...

For God's sake, how old am I?

John decided to go to the bathroom and wash his face. His neck was all red and he was feeling hot all over. He didn't know what the hell was going on with him. He had never been allergic to anything, and he was too old to have developed any sudden condition out of the blue.

He had probably had too much wine. It didn't explain the rash, but explained why all of a sudden he couldn't take his eyes off his friend who was chatting up a beautiful woman – had come here just for that, apparently.

John refused to ask himself why he was bothered by it. The fact was that Janine was a stranger and Sherlock had to be careful. They knew well enough what stalkers could do to the object of their affection.

Dear God, John told himself, shut up.

He didn't.

He remembered Kitty Riley and her obnoxious relationship with Moriarty. After Sherlock's death, he had had to invest all the energy he still had not to kill that woman. It didn't matter to John that she had been tricked by Moriarty – that did not explain her lack of sympathy in approaching John everywhere he went. Even at Tesco, she had cornered John, asking for an exclusive with 'confirmed widower John Watson'. The thought made bile rise in John's throat again now just as it had done then.

He straightened his clothes and took a deep breath. He was going mad. Sherlock was perfectly fine. He was perfectly fine with Janine.

The fact was confirmed for him when he re-entered the living room. The nice little pair seemed to be completely engrossed in each other and John was mesmerized by it. He could understand Janine, of course. Sherlock was mesmerizing, it made sense that she had been drawn to him. But what could Janine possibly have to draw the attention of the most demanding human being on planet Earth and probably all galaxies?

That was the question. The question he had no right to ask, but was asking himself anyway.

Janine wasn't The Woman. Even John could tell Irene had been something special. She had matched Sherlock in mind and even in body in a way that had caught John off guard.

He had had enough time to think about her after Sherlock's death. He kept asking himself if things would have gone differently if she had lived and stayed there with Sherlock. She liked misbehaving and would have probably thrown Sherlock to the wolves at the first opportunity, but then again John was considered a caretaker and he hadn't done Sherlock any good.

That thought almost brought John to his knees. It was like entering a room with a body in the middle of it. It was the thing he didn't want to address but was always there. He suspected it would always be. Rationally, he knew it hadn't been his fault, but he felt he had been given something special and hadn't been able to keep it safe.

Stupid. Why the hell was he thinking about this? It didn't matter. It had never mattered. Sherlock wasn't dead. He was incredibly alive, had laughed those two years off as if they had never happened.

Lucky him. Fucking lucky.

If Irene had been alive, he would have flown to meet her while he was 'dead'. They could have founded a club or something. The Not Actually Dead Group.

If Irene had been alive, would Sherlock have come back? He did love London, but they would have found trouble elsewhere. Would that have been better?

John felt sick. God, he was feeling feverish.

And Sherlock was staring straight at him, frowning. John didn't mind, he was used to being on the receiving end of Sherlock's scrutiny. At least he had taken his eyes off Janine for ten bloody seconds. John rubbed at his neck and downed the rest of the wine of his glass.

He should engage with the other guests, but his legs had their own plan. He was getting sick of his body having its own will. He walked straight to Sherlock and Janine, putting his best smile on his face. That would be fun.

Sherlock was still frowning at him. Sod him, John thought.

"Oh, hi, Janine, how is it going?" He asked, feeling foolish but not giving a damn. "And you," he turned to Sherlock, "How did you break your hand again?"

Janine gave John a warm smile, but looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked John, without bothering to answer the damn question because that was just like him.

"Peachy," John answered. "How did you break your hand?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped his own glass of wine. He did it pompously, it was infuriating. "It's nothing, John."

"How?" John asked, and he knew it was his army doctor voice. The only voice that worked on Sherlock Holmes because he was a git.

Janine was looking at them amused. Well, John was glad she was being entertained.

Sherlock stared at him, searchingly. "Some ultra secret job or another," he said. "How much of the caper sauce did you have?"

"Caper... Never mind," John answered, promising himself that Sherlock would not run away from the question. "Doesn't your brother have minions to do his legwork for him?" John said, taking Sherlock's broken hand is his and examining the cast. John thought about the violin. He would probably have some physiotherapy to do.

Sherlock took his arm away from John's grasp, but gave John a small smile. "Yes, doctor, I know. And Mycroft is a rubbish brother."

Janine took Sherlock's arm. "No need to worry, doctor. I'm going to take care of him," she said and winked.

John and Sherlock wore identical looks. They were both staring at Janine's grasp of Sherlock's hand.

John frowned and shook his head. "Sorry, what?"

"His hand will be perfect for the wedding."

John asked himself how much of the wine Janine had had.

At the mention of the wedding, Sherlock took his hand away from her and straightened his back. For John, it was like watching an actor getting on stage.

He wanted to punch Sherlock in the face for it.

Janine looked between both of them confused. "Mary said he's the best man. Is he not?"

Sherlock laughed, but sounded strained. "I'm sure our soldier friend would go with some historic hero whom I probably deleted...-"

"Wedding, Sherlock. She's talking about the wedding," John said, automatically, because that was his part in Sherlock's life, to translate normal human life and social conventions to him. John took a deep breath, because he too had been caught by surprise. "My best man, for my wedding," he repeated for his own sake.

Sherlock stared at him, blinking.

John needed a best man. And how come Mary knew Sherlock was going to be his best man when he himself didn't? And how had he not known? Bloody hell.

Of course it had to be him, of course it had to. John didn't have anyone else. He couldn't even think about doing that with a random rugby friend or even an old army mate. After everything, it had to be Sherlock.

But how? They hadn't exactly been around each other lately. They had lost too much, they couldn't just pretend it hadn't happened. John couldn't do that with him.

John couldn't do it without him.

Janine was talking. John hadn't been listening, so he tried to tune her on again. "... this charming detective and I have a certain tradition to fulfil."

Sherlock seemed completely lost, but not because of Janine's plainspoken seduction. He was staring at John as if he was trying to find something to say. He cleared his throat and focused his eyes on Janine again. His smile was big and fake.

"I'm sure John has better options," he laughed, and John hated the sound of it. "Honestly, even a potted plant would be–"

"No, I don't," John said, firmly, taking control over the situation. It was the truth, he didn't have any other options. He didn't want to. He scratched his pulse and fidgeted, feeling the weight of Sherlock's stare. John could practically see Sherlock's brain short-circuiting.

Janine gave them a knowing look and walked away. John was glad for it.

"Well, you're my best friend," John said, matter of factly, lifting his face to meet blue grey eyes that were pouring directly into his.

"Me?" Sherlock asked, so low that John wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been so close.

"Of course you," John said, and he wanted to cry out of resentment. How could Sherlock not know that?

"I..."

"Yes?" John asked, because Sherlock was never that unarticulated, and John was getting worried. His own skin was stinging in sympathy for Sherlock's discomfort, it seemed.

"I have to go," Sherlock said, turning and walking to the door.

John walked after him, frowning. What the fucking hell had just happened?

"You haven't got your coat, or your scarf or your gloves, you nutter. It's bloody freezing out there," John said at the door. Sherlock was opening it himself, because niceties were always damned with him.

"Sherlock!" John said, trying to take Sherlock out of his reverie, whatever that was about. Apparently all the best man problem had already been deleted as unimportant. John took Sherlock's arm.

The detective looked at John again. He seemed jittery. He shook his head and focused his eyes on John's again, examining his face.

John frowned because he had no clue of what was going on. He wished he could say he wasn't used to it. "What?" He asked, when Sherlock rubbed his pulse with his left thumb. It was a light movement, a soothing gesture. John fought back the need to hold Sherlock's hand and tell him to stay there.

He heard Sherlock's breath get caught in his throat. The mad bastard turned again and ran down the stairs.

"You have food poisoning, John. Take care of it."

What?

"Oh," John sighed.

Damn it.

Hello again.

The little fic I'll be posting will be a rewriting of the goodbye scene. It **won't** be a fix fic in anyway, it is actually absolutely heartbreaking and worse than canon. That scene just breaks my heart and I wanted to pour my feelings into something that showed it. So, you have been warned. It'll be +/- 1800 words. I hope you find in yourself to read it once I have posted and not hate me for it.
I'll probably be posting it in the next days.

(:

I have to thank Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this.

If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr . com