In this chapter:

"John knew it was pathetic to feel robbed, but there was no other word for it. He was sure he would have let something slip out of his mouth if his throat hadn't been clogged by the amount of wrongness that was washing over him."

CHAPTER 7

John got off the tube feeling bold. It was the adrenaline rush that had always driven him when dealing with all things Sherlock. He would just walk in and tell the detective that no, he did not have any one else and he did not want any other person to be his best man. It was the simple truth.

Yes, that was good, that would work.

John had been repeating this mantra the whole way to Baker Street. He wasn't the kind of guy to come up with some sort of scheme to get what he wanted. He had thought about tricking Sherlock into being his best man, and it had been amusing, but it wouldn't be possible. He was the boring John Watson, the one who simply asked for things and talked about them.

At least some times.

Rare times. Times like this one when what was at stake was too precious for him to let go.

John would've preferred if Sherlock had just gone with it at the dinner party and had accepted to be his best man without further comment. 'Obviously I have been John's best friend all along. Of course I am going to be the best man,' he could have said. But he hadn't, and had run down the stairs without glancing back.

As he walked down the street, John's calm wavered. He squeezed the familiar coat and scarf more tightly. That had been a pathetic excuse, but he actually had to return Sherlock's belongings to him.

He was feeling quite better that day, and had gone to work at the clinic like any normal day. He was so happy for getting out of the house that he didn't mind Mrs. Starkey's ear infection nor little Henry's swallowed nicker. At least it gave him some resemblance of normalcy. Sherlock would probably laugh at his tediousness, but the fact was that John actually liked being there for the community, for real people.

Being Sherlock's doctor had always given John a taste of the exceptional. Sherlock was this kind of extraordinarily designed human being that would never have boring food poisoning like John. He barely ate, but had more energy than any other person John had ever known. He had the craziest sleeping pattern, but would always be perfectly groomed and put together when the fancy struck him.

Well, at least he had been like that. For all John knew, Sherlock might be in a eating spree or be a trained high cuisine chef now. John snorted, approaching the familiar door. What he did know, though, was that Sherlock would never just have food poisoning or a cold. He would have acid burns, or a broken limb caused by international criminals or the like.

John sighed at himself. He had tried to forget about that, but it seemed impossible. If he still felt bold after asking Sherlock to be his best man, he would use his Captain Watson tone and talk the detective into telling him the truth. If Sherlock was even capable of doing that – John had his doubts.

Getting in front of 221, John stopped dead on his tracks. He thought he would have to ring the bell – and it had baffled him – but apparently he needn't have bothered with that. The door was open and coming out of it was a figure John hoped he had missed.

Mycroft Holmes and his umbrella.

The British Government looked at him as if John was an amazing piece of a child's puzzle. John had not missed him at all.

"Ah, John," Mycroft said, like he hadn't send Sherlock to his fake death and broken John's heart in the process.

"You know, if you could only suspect how much I'd like to run you over with your own damn car, you wouldn't be standing in my way right now," John said, surprising himself. Sherlock was responsible for his own acts, but John now had some idea of where he had get his cold heart from.

Mycroft had the guts to laugh. A humourless laugh – or at least John thought so. He suspected that he wouldn't know when it came to Mycroft.

"I see the civilian life hasn't done your anger problem any good," Mycroft said, looking casually at the tip of his umbrella. "But you have always been such a special goldfish, haven't you, Doctor Watson?"

He then looked straight into John's eyes and for a moment John was disconcerted by it. He couldn't tell what it meant, but those eyes weren't the same eyes John was used to face when dealing with the Holmes elder brother.

John narrowed his eyes at him and had the feeling he was being insulted. He decided it wasn't worth to dwell on it.

"I'll just make my way upstairs, then, shall I?" John said, getting past Mycroft and heading to the stairs.

"Of course. Enjoy the couch, John," Mycroft said, enigmatically, walking to the black car waiting for him.

John didn't know what that was about and discarded it as unimportant. He climbed up the stairs listening to the little noises coming from 221B.

John could hear the small clinks of glass – probably microscope slides being handled, or petri dishes being rearranged in the fridge.

All the noises suddenly stopped and John knew that Sherlock was aware that someone was coming. He asked himself if he knew it was him.

The two doors were open, but the kitchen was apparently empty. John stepped into the living room when Sherlock was just coming over to the door.

"John?" He asked, and the sound reached John's ears even before they had made eye contact. The thought that his footsteps were still known to Sherlock made John smile a little.

Sherlock was dressed in one of his sulking outfits. Pyjamas and dressing gown – John felt glad about it. It soothed him somehow. Sherlock was frowning at him. "What?" John ask.

"You are better," Sherlock said, simply. He didn't say that John looked better, and he absolutely did not ask, because he certainly knew just by looking at John how his stomach was.

John cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you for asking," he said, giving Sherlock a look. Sherlock smirked and shrugged, and his eyes had mirth on them. "How did you know that, by the way?" John asked, trusting Sherlock to understand he was talking about his getting sick in the first place.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and huffed. "Caper, John, it has never agreed with you."

John looked at him as if he were mad. John had never in his damn life had any reaction to caper. He wasn't that stupid, for Christ's sake, and he was a bloody doctor.

Sherlock sighed as if John were being difficult. "It has never agreed with you, you just always blamed on something else. The wine, the desert," he stated, motioning his broken hand vaguely. "It's not something you are used to eating, but whenever you did, it always made you feel queasy. You probably had too much of it that night, so... There," he finished, lamely, which struck John as strange.

He looked up at Sherlock and could swear he seemed surprised by his own deduction. John filed the thought together with others that didn't make any sense.

"Well, don't you think you should have told me about it?" John asked. He forced his memory and remembered one time or another when he had felt funny after eating caper sauce at dinner. He had always blamed the drinks or the amount of food. Of course Sherlock would be right about that.

Now Sherlock was the one looking at him as if John was mad. "I told you about it," he said simply, frowning.

"I mean before. What if I had some stronger reaction to it?" John asked, because it could have been allergies.

Sherlock snorted, arrogantly. "I would have noticed."

"Well, you haven't always been around, have you?" John said without thinking it through first and regretted it the moment the words came out of his mouth.

He was right, he knew that. Sherlock hadn't been there for two years, but John hadn't come here for this. He had come to ask him something and to return Sherlock's clothes. John thought about how years before they would have joked about returning Sherlock's clothes like this. People will definitely talk, one would say. They already do little else, the other would agree, and they would smirk and life would go on.

John got a hold of himself and offered Sherlock the coat and the scarf. The gloves were in the coat's pockets.

Sherlock took them gingerly, not looking at John's eyes, which made John feel hollow.

"Well, I was there the other night," Sherlock said, with hints of sulking in his tone and it made John feel a tone lighter.

And yes, he had been. When John had needed it, Sherlock had been there.

"Yes, thank you," John said, sincerely. Sherlock just gave him a curt nod.

They were still standing close to the door, which John only stopped to notice when Sherlock walked over to hang his coat and scarf. He was surprised when the other man stopped and sniffled them, smoothing the fabrics with a small smile on his face. John asked himself if Sherlock would know he had tried to deduce his whereabouts by them, but he decided not even Sherlock could be that smart. And John had made sure not to leave any marks on them. He knew his friend well enough not to risk it.

When Sherlock walked back and stepped more fully into the living room, John's eyes followed him and his breath got caught in his throat.

He suddenly knew what Mycroft had meant by 'Enjoy the couch'.

There, right in front of the fireplace, there was an armchair. Sherlock's armchair.

And only that.

John knew it was pathetic to feel robbed, but there was no other word for it. He was sure he would have let something slip out of his mouth if his throat hadn't been clogged by the amount of wrongness that was washing over him.

Since the first day he had stepped into 221B there had always been two armchairs there. John had never known why, and he had never bothered to ask. After the first month, it had been obvious that that chair could have only been there for him. He had felt comfortable in it from the very first time, Sherlock knew, he had said that much.

It was John's chair, perfect for him.

Not anymore, apparently.

When receiving a client, Sherlock would sit in his armchair and the client would sit right in front of him, in a random chair. John didn't have a place to be there anymore.

"John?" Sherlock asked, probably not for the first time.

John looked at him without acknowledging it. His eyes flew back to the empty spot.

John had absolutely no right to feel bad about it. That wasn't his house anymore, he had his own house with his fiancée. That empty spot shouldn't make him feel so lost, but it was paralysing him.

It didn't matter. It was just a chair. He could sit on the couch and have tea with Sherlock, or help him, if he wanted.

But then again he would have kept John's chair if he still wanted that. Surely.

John felt completely stupid by the thought that he wanted a best man, but didn't even have his chair anymore. He decided to get it over with. If Sherlock didn't accept, then John would have some replanning to do about the wedding – or maybe about moving to Anguilla with Mary and pretending London had never happened.

"John?" Sherlock asked again and snapped his fingers in front of John's face. The bastard.

John torn his eyes away from the not his armchair's spot.

Sherlock was looking uncomfortable, his eyes alternating between John's and his own armchair. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

"Can we talk?" John asked to put them both out of that misery. He now just wanted to be done with it. He would ask and he would accept the answer and life would go on.

Sherlock closed his mouth and nodded, pointing to the couch. It just made Mycroft's words echo louder in John's head. John would not enjoy the couch, that wasn't the place to have this kind of conversation. John wanted to be face to face with Sherlock. He wanted to sit in his damn armchair, that was the truth. He felt suddenly near of throwing a tantrum. Sherlock had probably rubbed off on him.

Neither one of them sat. John looked for any other place they could sit in front of each other, but there simply wasn't any. The desk which had also always been his wasn't there either. It was a bachelor flat, through and through.

Not that Sherlock hadn't been a bachelor before, of course.

John's brain was short-circuiting. It was almost as if Sherlock had erased his presence altogether. John asked himself if new clients even knew John existed at all. He also asked himself what right he had to be angry about it.

But of course he had, for fuck's sake. It had been his life too. He had dedicated himself wholeheartedly to it. Sherlock couldn't just erase him from it. He couldn't do that.

They were just things, though. They weren't John's things, they had come with the flat. John had just used them for a while.

They were just things. Things Sherlock didn't want anymore, that were useless. And they weren't any kind of deeper metaphor.

"Kitchen?" Sherlock asked, without bothering to look at John. They both entered the kitchen and sat at the table, in their usual spots.

John wasn't soothed by the fact that Sherlock had kept that chair. It made him question why he had bothered at all. Maybe it was being used. John knew Molly came over frequently. If Sherlock had kept that chair, there in the middle of his experiments, it surely didn't have anything to do with John.

He was being petty, he knew. He just couldn't be bothered to control his own thoughts. They were his own, he could think them as much as he damn well pleased.

John forced himself to stop rambling internally and looked straight at Sherlock. He would ask and get the hell away from there. The half empty flat was suffocating him.

Sherlock was looking at him intently, expecting John to get the fuck on with it, probably. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"John," he started awkwardly, "About the chair..."

Hell no, John wasn't having this conversation. Not here, not ever.

"It's your flat, none of my business," John said and it sounded strained even on his own ears. He was suddenly aware of how long he had been silent, just taking everything in. Sherlock was certainly aware of everything John was thinking. Pathetic.

"Yes," Sherlock snorted, but he looked angry.

"Right," John said, not wanting to know why. Sherlock's redecorating really wasn't of his concern. "So," he continued, not leaving room for Sherlock to say anything else. He would just ask. "It's okay if you don't want to be my best man, but, you know, I have to know for sure," he said.

Shit.

That wasn't what he meant to say. John told himself to get a fucking grip. He wasn't there to tell Sherlock that it was okay if Sherlock didn't want to be there, he was there to tell him exactly the opposite. It wasn't okay. It wouldn't be okay, no. He had to tell him the truth, John owed himself that much.

Sherlock had been staring at him for almost half a minute and John was getting creeped out.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes slowly focused on John's again. He opened and closed his mouth twice after finally say anything.

"You don't want me to be your best man," he said and it wasn't a question.

John wanted to throttle him because how could anyone be so smart and stupid at the same time was beyond John.

"No," John said, trying to stay calm. "That isn't what I said. I said if you don't want to be the best man, it's okay."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

John sighed. There simply wasn't the possibility of winning.

He looked from his hands to Sherlock's eyes. "No," he admitted.

"Is it not?" Sherlock asked surprised. He frowned at John and for once John couldn't blame him, he wasn't really making any sense. "I don't understand," the detective said.

"I know. Just listen, will you listen without getting lost inside your head?"

Sherlock huffed. "Honestly, I can hold to a conversation when I want to."

John was skeptical. "Okay, and do you want to?" He retorted.

"Yes," Sherlock said, sounding stubborn. John would never admit, but he liked the sound of it.

"I want you to be my best man. I would be actually really happy if you accepted to be. Are you following?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded. John smiled at him because Sherlock actually seemed like he was paying attention.

"Although I have to accept if you don't want to be my best man, I have no other person to ask this–"

"I'm sure Gary would be–"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said, simply. "His name is Greg. And no, he wouldn't because I don't want him to be. I'm asking you. You are my best friend," John stopped, searching for something else to say. It was bloody difficult to say things like that and still keep his barriers up. "It'll be you, or it won't be anyone."

Sherlock was looking at him searchingly. John let himself be read because he knew it was Sherlock's way of trying to make sense of what John had said. People understood words by the feelings in them, Sherlock deduced the feelings on people's faces.

"So... I'm still...," Sherlock trailed off, unarticulated. He taped his cast with his left hand. "I'm still your best... friend?" He asked, and the last word sounded as if Sherlock believed the very idea of it was absurd. John asked himself if he should feel insulted by it.

"What is that supposed to mean? You thought it had changed in four days?" John had already told Sherlock that, it shouldn't be a surprise.

"I didn't think you had meant it," Sherlock shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

John felt mostly sad, because even though Sherlock was trying to act as if he didn't mind, John knew he did. It had to matter to him. John had been around this man since the day they had met, he had tried to keep him safe in all ways he could. Sherlock must have seen it, he must have.

"I've always been here," John said, simply.

That was suddenly too much, he didn't think he should try to convince Sherlock of anything. If he hadn't get the message in all those months they had lived and worked together and were around each other every day, John didn't know what else he could say or do to show it. "I was always here," John repeated. And no, he couldn't say anything else. Sherlock had to understand, but John couldn't explain.

"I know. But you always take care of everyone, you save lives, it's what you do," Sherlock said dismissively.

"No, I took care of you," John said, stubbornly. "I was always here, I took care of you, I saved your life," he swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Look... It's my wedding, one of the most important days of my life and I want to be there with the two most important people for me. Mary and you. Do you accept?"

Sherlock looked stricken. The light reflected in his pale face and his eyes looked almost ghostly. John was hit by what it would mean to him if Sherlock just said no. It would break the heart he still hadn't had the time to amend.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and his voice was steady and strong. He sounded like he meant it and it made John bask in a relief that must have shown on his face. "Of course I do... It will be my honour, John."

John smiled truly for the first time since he had stepped out of the clinic that day. He felt giddy with. "Good, that's good," he said, letting out a nervous giggle. He cleared his throat. "I have the feeling you will understand more about this wedding stuff than me," he snorted. "I've never seen so many pinks in my life. I'm sure they're all the same."

"It's salmon, John," Sherlock said, and the word rolled on his tongue as if he had invented it. "But there can also be salmon pink, coral, and coral pink. Pale pink, baby pink, spanish pink, medium light pink. These seem to be the tones Mary would favour. Depending on the fabric, the tones can vary. The incidence of light on the fabric can also be a factor, of course," he rambled.

John was struck dumber than ever. What the hell?

"How do you even know that?"

"...Mary would probably go with salmon or light salmon pink, the bridesmaid would complement the white of her dress without obfuscating it..."

John snorted. Of course Sherlock had deduced Mary's preference for pink. John rubbed his face. He couldn't help the loud laughter that was bubbling inside him. "Not even one word about the pastries? You're getting slow there, Hat Detective."

"Meringue over chocolate," Sherlock said, proudly.

John laughed harder, drying small tears that appeared in the corner of his eyes. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he had laughed like that. He was so glad for it.

Sherlock's eyes were smiling at him, John was sure of it. They were staring at each other and for a moment John swore everything would be fine with them – with all of them.

"Woo hoo!"

John listened to the familiar voice and felt a burst of warmth in his chest. He looked at the kitchen door just in time to see Mrs Hudson open a big smile at the two of them.

"Oh, hello, John!" She said, coming over to him, not before stopping to pat Sherlock's head. John was sure she was going to ask him if he had behaved.

John stood up and gave Mrs Hudson a proper hug. It felt like hugging the life he had had there, like hugging all of it. Sherlock must've noticed because he was observing the scene and he had a rare look in his eyes. John wanted to keep the image in is mind.

Mrs Hudson seemed a bit stricken by John's sudden hug, but she patted his cheek anyway. "It's so good to have you here. Are you boys solving any murders?"

John smiled at Mrs Hudson's question. Trust her to be used to crimes being around Sherlock that much. "No, Mrs Hudson," John asked, lightly. "I came here today to ask him to be my best man."

"Oh," Mrs Hudson said, simply. She smiled at John, but looked quickly at Sherlock. "Have you accepted?" She asked directly to the detective and she didn't sound as joyful as she did a second before. John frowned at it.

"Of course, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, standing up and heading to the living room, with Mrs Hudson right on his heels.

John felt as if his happy bubble had burst and he had no idea why. He walked to the living room too, as if treading dangerous waters.

It was unbelievable how he could be in a room and still feel absent of it. He was right there, but the half furniture seemed to call his name in a distant voice, as if John were being sucked out of the room. The single armchair taunted him. The single desk laughed at him. He would go out of the door and it would be as if he had never been there.

Would it? He asked himself. They were just things. They didn't matter.

John paid attention to the talk Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were having.

"I can't believe I leave for two days and you redecorate your flat," she was saying, while looking around.

Two days. So the change had happened after the dinner.

John wished he could understand. He had told Sherlock he was his best friend and Sherlock had mostly erased any memory of John as far as his eyes could see.

No, it didn't make any sense to John. He tried to dismiss the thoughts, told himself he would adjust to it. Even if everything around insisted on reminding him that there should be home. Those two figures standing in front of him would always mean home in some sort of way. John would readjust.

"So, John, I'm sure you're aware of what it is next week," Mrs Hudson said, pretending she wasn't fishing for his answer.

John looked directly to Sherlock, who mouthed the word 'birthday' to him.

"Of course," John answered. "How could I ever forget your birthday, Mrs Hudson?" He walked over to her and she enveloped him in a hug. John wasn't fooled for a second that she had believed him, but he accepted the hug anyway, and thanked Sherlock, who was smirking at him, the bastard.

Mrs Hudson was straightening the lapel of his coat. "I'm sure Sherlock has told you about my birthday dinner already," she said, looking sternly at Sherlock.

"I have not," the detective said. "I thought you would have given up this ludicrous idea. I can take you out to dinner and be done with it," he said.

Mrs Hudson tutted at him and John smiled at Sherlock offering himself to take her to dinner. It was actually sweet of him.

"Are you trying to monopolize our landlady?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled at him. John didn't know why, but he was being presented with one of those blinding smiles. "What?" He asked, smiling back.

"Our landlady?" Sherlock asked and it didn't stop his smile for a second. John asked himself if he should feel awkward by his mistake, which he didn't.

Home, he thought.

"No need to fuss, you too," Mrs Hudson interrupted. "And you, Sherlock, can save your money to pay someone to clean this rubbish instead."

Sherlock frowned. "I have you for that."

"She's not your housekeeper, you know," John said, and laughed. Sherlock was scowling, which made everything funnier.

"Ah, John, thank you. I wish you had remembered that while you still lived here, though, some hoovering wouldn't have hurt."

And Sherlock laughed right back at him.

John took the cushion from the couch and flung it at his head.

"See?" Mrs Hudson said. "Look at the mess you two make."

Just like that, John could pretend everything was fine.

He purposefully ignored how the empty spot in front of the fireplace threatened to swallow him whole.

Thank you for following and for your reviews! I hope you have liked this one too.

Also, I am a BIG FAN of meta posts about this show. I'm not gonna tell you how to read the story, but this meta (Leavin' the Back Door Open 'Til You Come Back - it's on tumblr, you should totally look it up) was totally on my mind when I wrote this chapter. It's one of my favourite metas of all time and it draws a parallel between 221B flat and Sherlock Holmes.

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. You should check out her Teenlock, by the way.

If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr. (It's on my profile page)