Prompt 36: Torture
Yes. Anything for you John. Of course he'd said yes, for what else could he have said? "I can't come to your wedding and I can't be your best man because it makes every cell of my being wither to think of you not being mine?" That would have been unfair on John, and Sherlock, for all the depth of his emotions towards the unassuming doctor, just wanted him to be happy. He deserved so much more than Sherlock could give. All he could offer was everything he was, and that, he knew, could never be enough. For anyone. Mary, well she was wonderful, perfect, exactly the type of woman he'd had nightmares about for a long time when thinking of how he could lose John, and the nightmares had manifested perfectly in her. She was funny and of above average intelligence, and to top it off she liked Sherlock. She was exactly what John wanted, and Sherlock couldn't fault him for that.
He couldn't sleep, couldn't even think about eating, even lying on the couch was a dagger to the throat, so much so that Sherlock had actually had to move John's armchair just so he wouldn't have to look at it, think of it, him, them. At night his brain presented him with vivid imaginings of exactly what John was doing, sometimes it was something so simple, like reading the paper, and other times it was much more destructive, like John getting ready for bed and wrapping himself around Mary. He'd loved John for so long, he'd forgotten what life was like without him in it and it hurt. It hurt more than anything he'd experienced, just breathing in and knowing that John's scent was fading away, that every moment Sherlock spent thinking of John was probably not even a concern to him... he could taste it in his mouth, burning his throat. It'd been a month. One month without so much as a text and he knew, he did, just how pathetic that made him seem, but God every single time that phone buzzed he hoped with every cell of his body that it was John on the line. It never was.
He'd called Lestrade that first day under the pretence of needing help to write a speech. What he really needed was a reason, any reason at all not to pick up a needle again, and a witness was as good as any. John would have been disappointed if he had relapsed, but the void he had left in his wake was vast and all consuming, and anything that could numb everything for just a second would be a mercy. Could his feelings really have been hidden so well from John, or did he truly just not care at all for Sherlock? The way he felt, that he had allowed himself to feel, had meant going back on decades of conditioning and while a big part of him regretted that decision, he was so grateful for how it had made him appreciate every nuance of John, and finally shown him that love, while a dark and twisted vicious motivator that was slowly killing him, could also be a quiet light in the window of the flat at 3am, or a cup of tea gently nudged into his hand with a smile, a shared blanket while watching a movie, the comfortable points of contact between their thighs on the taxi journey home. He hadn't known that love could be a warm thing, a smile on his face as he went to bed each night and still there when he woke. He loved with as much focus and diligence as he worked, and he would love John until his wasted heart shriveled away, unwanted and unused in his own hand, waiting for John to look back and see it being given to him. Yes John, anything for you.
The day of the wedding crept up on Sherlock like a vine until it was noosed around his neck and the car was pulling up to the drive of the church. John hadn't told him where they were to meet, but he assumed the altar was the place, and strode straight through the church to stand there, still as any statue you could see, waiting for John (Always, always waiting for John). The doctor arrived next to him with a massive smile on his face, and an excited flush spreading across his cheeks. "Sherlock! I feel like I haven't seen you in an age." You haven't. "You've been busy." Sherlock turned away from the blue eyes that he'd so missed and looked at the gathered congregation. "So have you, Greg told me about all those cases you're solving just from the photos. God I'm starting to shake a bit now, it's almost time. How do I look?" Sherlock looked the man he would die for up and down and smiled a cracked smile "Like a man about to live the happiest moment of his life." He did, he did. The organ started to play a song that sounded like a death march to Sherlock and Mary began her procession. It hurts, when they say I do.
The reception begins and he is jittery, the speech he'd written was borderline, it had taken so long to find the right words to say everything without giving himself away, and the fine line had been carefully crossed to have the least effect, still when he stood to begin with everyone staring up at him, he was scared. Scared that they'd see through him, scared that John would reject it all quietly with a dismissive "Oh Sherlock" laugh. When he got to the final paragraph he wondered if John could hear him. "Know that you are sitting between the two people who love you most in all the world, and we have a lifetime to prove that to you." People were dabbing their eyes and he frowned, not quite the reaction he'd expected. "Did I do it wrong?" he asked himself aloud, but to his utter surprise John replied "You did it exactly right" and stood up, wrapping Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock froze, taking in everything from the familiar scent of his hair that he'd missed to the feel of having their bodies together finally. It was over too soon. For John, Sherlock put on his happiest face, and interacted with everyone as if he was happy for the newlyweds.
Molly though, sweet, intelligent little Molly knew better. "I wore yellow for luck, apparently it's nice for weddings because of that but I wore it for you because... because you look sad when he can't see you and you're thinner now than I've ever seen you, and I know heart ache when I see it. You can do this Sherlock Holmes." For her, just because she knew him almost as well as John (not really, there was no comparison) he dropped the façade, showing how tired he was, the bags under his eyes, his gaunt cheeks, his dead eyes. "Does it go away? This... I don't think I can live like this." he asked, staring at John's retreating back as the tables began to be cleared away. She gave him a weak smile. "Usually? Yes. For you... I don't know Sherlock but I get the feeling it's going to be a while..." Sherlock nodded, grateful for the absence of platitudes. "I composed a piece to perform for hi-them. I don't think he'll even hear it. Look" Sherlock pointed to John, standing with Mary's hand in his "See how he looks at her, like she's all he wants to see for the rest of his life. He won't hear a note, not anymore." Molly's hand slipped into his and she gave a watery smile. "If nothing else, I'll hear. I'll hear every word you play for him." He squeezed the soft hand in his and walked up to take his spot behind the music stand. The floor cleared until it was only the Watson's standing in each others embrace, waiting for him to start.
Every second of silence was torture, another coin in his fountain of melancholy, and then he began to play, squeezing those first notes out, weaving the story of himself, alone and unsure of what his life would be, and then changing as a second set of notes came along and changed the pace, not quite on the same page at first, but suddenly they were and the music swelled, sweet and warm and hopeful, flowing to passionate and full, finally he'd seen everything his future could be with John by his side, and it was beautiful, but a note of discord slithered into the music and it became darker, and two suddenly became one, lonely and aching and raw, desperate for the other half of the tune to return, but knowing it wouldn't. The final note rang through the hall and the crowd that had watched a young couple's first dance applauded and smiled and laughed.
Had he looked, Sherlock would have seen the shaking hand Molly held over her mouth as tears ran down her face, and the pitying look Mrs Hudson was shooting his way, but he had eyes for only one, and that one had heard nothing, for every note was an I love you, and every rest a call to come home.
Sherlock sealed the melody into an envelope and left it on the stand, a gift, a goodbye. Leaving, he spared John one last look, drinking him in. Yes, anything for you John, anything at all.