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She was beautiful; all creamy skin and flawless curves, warm green eyes set off by short blonde hair. The dress she was wearing accented her petite figure, flowing green silk and white lace and pearls. A pine green mask sat delicately on her cheeks, obscuring most of her upper features but she was recognizable still. It was old fashioned, yes, but no one noticed in the crowded room. Almost every other girl was dressed the same, after all, though none fit so well into the Victorian style dresses she pulled off so well. There was no denying it: Mary Morstan was a goddess among maids. Sharp grey eyes followed her every move as she twirled and spun across the dance floor, watching as ruby lips formed a loving smile made only for the man whose arms she rested in. They were clearly in love, happy and content in each other’s arms, smiling and laughing and dancing the night away.
It was hateful.
Sherlock stood in the shadows as Mary and John continued the lover’s waltz until the music stopped, turning to a more upbeat song. Scowling, the detective slunk back against the wall and gripped his plastic cup—horrendously shaped like a golden goblet—tightly in his clenched hands, despising the sludge these people called punch but drinking it anyway as something to do. The New Scotland Yard Dance was the most tedious, boring, dull, insufferable creation known to mankind since deerstalkers—well, maybe the death Frisbee came first on that list. There was no point to it anyways. As a bit of fun and a night off, the Yarders off duty for the night and friends they invited dressed up in the theme for the year, brought their significant other (or sat at home and pondered their lonely existence, as ordinary people were so wont to do) and danced to themed music surrounded by detestable decorations from the supply shop the next block over. As far as he was concerned, “Masquerade Ball” was the most ridiculous and vile theme anyone could ever think of. It had been Donovan’s ticket in the lot that had held the idea for the theme randomly drawn from a hat, so the hateful atmosphere was justified, in Sherlock’s opinion.
John, however, had found the idea to be fantastic, and had subsequently invited Mary to the miserable affair, insisting Sherlock come as well. Donovan and Anderson had found that to be quite hilarious, pestering the consulting detective for ages about his “date”—oops, sorry, forgot freaks don’t have dates—and joking about his less than social habits—probably spiked the punch with poison to experiment on us with—until finally his patience had snapped and Sherlock had told them that yes, he would be coming with a date and no, he wouldn’t use run of the mill poison, he’d use a mix of acid anhydride and hydrogenated corn syrup. And so the great Sherlock Holmes stormed over to Bart’s morgue, snapped an invitation to the ball at Molly and made a brief comment on what to wear and to catch a cab to NSY at six and to please try not to be boring.
Now, at almost twenty to ten, having exhausted the supply of people within the vicinity to use his deduction skills on, Sherlock was nearly ready stab himself with a plastic fork. Molly had been swept away by her boyfriend Tim (Tim?) nearly an hour ago, and Sherlock had yet to see her puffy candy-floss-coloured dress yet. All there was left to do was sulk in the shadow of the ridiculous inflatable pumpkin-turned-carriage and observe John and his girlfriend have entirely too much fun without him. The two of them should be out on a case now, by all means, not twirling like idiots with nearly the entirety of Scotland Yard. Sherlock could think of at least one hundred and thirty five other activities he’d rather be participating in other than dance with morons or get hopelessly drunk.
As he watched, the new, slow waltz slowly came to an end, the man in charge of keeping the rest of the ordinary people from being bored (while his mind strategically tore itself apart) announcing that there would be a small break in festivities. Sherlock’s chest ached suddenly when John pressed a breathless kiss to Mary’s luscious pout, looking away at the tender adoration his friend gave the woman. Sentiment.
Things had been tense between the Baker Street boys lately. Returning from the death did that to people. As did announcing said return in a rather insensitive way, and then later pretending one and one’s best friend who still hadn’t forgiven him were about to die in a last-ditch attempt to make him forgive him. Though the last one worked well enough.
It had only been a few days since the near terrorist bombing. John still needed time to adjust to his best friend being not dead, and Sherlock still needed time adjusting to the fact that while he was away, seemingly everything in London had changed. John had moved on, and Mary was a seemingly permanent fixture in their lives that he resented even though he rather enjoyed her company. Even Molly had changed, the meek girl Sherlock used to charm for favors outright refusing to lend him body parts now. He had come back to stand on unstable ground with no idea of where he stood, and it made him uncomfortable to say the least.
“Sherlock?” He turned at the sound of his name, wincing. Greg Lestrade stood next to him, staring. “Didn’t think I’d see you here, mate. What, did John force you out? Or is this some case of your brother’s?”
“John. Obviously.”
“Right then,” Lestrade said, nodding. He took a small sip of his pint in the awkward silence. “Having fun?”
The DI didn’t get a response. Sherlock’s eyes were still glued to the couple making their way over to the snack-laden table pressed against the far wall. Greg followed his gaze to John and Mary, then back to the younger man. It was hard enough to read someone’s expression without the powers of deduction possessed by the other man, let alone trying to read Sherlock’s expression. But he managed anyway.
Comprehension dawned on Greg as he studied Sherlock’s stiff posture—was that jealousy in his eyes? No, he had to be mistaken; Sherlock wouldn’t…he didn’t…
“How does it feel?” Sherlock broke the silence, eyes never leaving the other side of the room, “When you see her with someone else?”
It was with unspoken understanding that Greg knew he was referring to his wife—ex-wife, now. “Same way as when you see John with Mary,” he said quietly.
Sherlock showed no sign he heard him, fingers tightening around the tacky goblet until the plastic was about to crack under the pressure. If the DI’s words had reached him, then Sherlock made no attempt to deny his feelings. It was obvious, either way. John had been the first person to see through his sociopathic persona he wore as a shield, the first to call his deductions ‘brilliant’ instead of disturbing, the first to really try and make friends with the mad detective besides Lestrade, who had only done so to keep his help with cases. Sherlock had eventually become an actual friend to the DI, no less, but the originals intentions spoiled that somewhat. John had done so on his own accord, simply because he felt like getting closer to the strange man who’d known everything about him within seconds of meeting him. John defended him when others called him a freak, John chased after him on ludicrous runs through London to apprehend criminals, John never remained angry with him for ruining dates (save ones with Mary), John had killed and would willingly be killed for him. The doctor was so different than others, in the sense that he was confusing yet so easy to read, so simple and yet so brilliant at the same time, so…interesting. It had only been a matter of time before Sherlock felt something akin to romantic feelings for him.
“So you’ve finally deduced it, then?”
Lestrade smiled sadly. “I’m not that thick, mate.” Thinking for a moment, he added, “Besides, the Yarders have been keeping a bet going about when you two’d get together for ages,” trying to lighten the mood, with no success. If anything, the detective’s eyes darkened to a simmering rage.
“Well I hope you don’t have too many pounds invested, because that bet will be over in a few more months,” Sherlock replied, almost sorrowfully. If the Detective Inspector hadn’t known the other man so well, he would have thought there was a low, mournful hint of pining in his voice.
“I don’t follow.” Greg braced himself for the biting remark on how he never did follow anyway, the scathing sneer of Because you, like everyone else in this room, are an idiot.
It never came.
Sherlock, still watching the blatantly happy couple resume their dancing with a mildly intoxicated air, kissing and laughing and holding tight to one another, finally turned to Lestrade.
“He’s going to propose,” he said hollowly, and if his eyes were a bit wet, Lestrade had the decency not to notice, “Tonight, I presume, judging by the small box he slipped into his pocket earlier. He never really got the chance the first time around. His laptop’s browser history was filled with romantic getaway websites—so far I’d put a wager on either the Caribbean or Italy—and there was a jewelers receipt on the table. White gold, five carat diamond set between two smaller, semi-flawed ones. Her birthstone. Three months’ salary, at least. She’ll say yes, of course; it was already established that they were going to be married anyway, John just wanted to ask properly. They’ll be married in the spring, early summer—May, maybe June. She wants at least two—no, never mind—three children, and he’ll have to get a full time job at the surgery to compensate, possibly even at Bart’s, and any remaining free time will be spent together. Of course, we can meet for lunch every month or so, he’ll insist—that is until he becomes too overwhelmed and the best I’ll get is the occasional Christmas card from the Watsons. No, scratch that—the only time he’ll remember me is if any of the cases I solve get on the telly. If everything turns out well, whichever of us lives longer will possibly make it to the other’s funeral.” The last part was said with a bitter, mocking tone, as if even that depressing thought was a longshot anyway. By now, the detective’s nails had gone straight through the plastic—fortunately empty—cup. His steely verdigris eyes were glistening, though he only noticed when a silent Lestrade good-naturedly handed him a handkerchief. It was subsequently refused, but the gesture was appreciated, still.
For some reason unbeknownst to him, Greg felt a sudden, burning anger on Sherlock’s behalf rise up in him. It wasn’t directed at John, though he would have liked it to be even if falling in love hadn’t exactly been John’s fault. It was for whatever damn God or deity or fate or—whatever!—kept fucking things up for the two friends. John had only met Mary because of Sherlock’s death; Sherlock only pretended to be dead to protect John. The vicious circle that had no happy end just seemed to get more tangled and hateful as the days went on.
Lestrade offered his best at comfort, placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and softly whispering his named. “You know John couldn’t forget you even if he tried. You’re too damned demanding to be forgotten,” he teased. His gentle ribbing seemed to have the opposite effect.
“Of course I’m too demanding!” Sherlock growled, stepping away from Lestrade’s offered hand, “Just add it to the list of reasons why John is never coming back to Baker Street.”
“Sherlock—“
It seemed the emotions the detective had been hiding beneath his indifferent mask for quite a while had finally broken loose. Sherlock laughed hollowly. “No, it’s all right, I never thought our relationship would be anything past friendship. John was going to leave someday, anyway. He’s not gay, and I’m…well, a freak.” Why would John want freakish, sociopathic Sherlock when he could have Mary—lovely, perfect Mary, everything he could ever ask for in a partner and more, all wrapped up in sweet smiles and shiny ribbon? Sherlock could never compete with the very image of John Watson’s romantic “type”. He was arrogant and rude and obnoxious, getting on every last nerve and often ignoring John in favor of something more interesting. Mary was kind and gentle, listening with great care to everything her boyfriend said and never had a limit on warm smiles and loving touches. She was everything Sherlock wasn’t; of course John would choose Mary.
That’s all I am. An unlovable freak. No wonder everyone hates me so.
Five years working with Sherlock Holmes could never have prepared him for an outburst of this magnitude. The detective was always so reserved, so composed. Hurt didn’t look right on his normally stoic features; his sharp eyes looked horrific with unshed tears welling inside. Even so, he had to get over John. Clearly, the man had no intentions of ever leaving Mary, so Lestrade steeled his nerve and fortified his friend’s decision to propose.
“Now you listen hear, Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade whispered firmly, “You are not a freak. You can be a bit…strange, yeah, but get past that and you’re perfectly sane. I’m sorry I ever called you otherwise and I’ll make sure Donovan and Anderson never bother you about that again, but John is your friend. He’s only ever going to be your friend, and he thinks you’re anything but a freak.”
Sherlock’s self-loathing expression lessened to a more wounded look. “You are perhaps correct,” he acceded quietly, “But that still doesn’t—“
The detective inspector interrupted him. “I’m not finished,” Lestrade muttered, “I get that you’re hurting, but you’re the one who left for three years. I know, I know, you did it for us—which I am very thankful for, by the way—but you still left him alone to grieve, and you came back with no warning whatsoever. And in the time between, he moved on and met someone else. John loves this woman, she loves him, and you are not going to do a thing to ruin this relationship for him. You are going to stand there next to your goddamned best friend and smile when he says his vows, because you. Left. Him. First. Do I make myself clear?”
Sherlock’s eyes were questioning, as if he hadn’t at all been expecting that response from the normally calm Lestrade. Finally, he nodded and morosely replied, “Very clear.”
“Good.”
“As long as I do not have to say a speech on how brilliantly happy I am for the lucky couple.”
“I’ll personally request you don’t.” Lestrade grinned, pleased and relieved that his complaining consulting detective was back. Still, the events of the night niggled at the back of his mind, especially when John and Mary disappeared outside to one of the quiet balconies together. Through the frosted glass and white shades, Lestrade could barely make out the image of a man on one knee from the balcony. A look to the man at his right confirmed Sherlock saw it too.
“Cheer up, mate. It won’t be that bad; you’ll get over him, and besides, as the saying goes: there’s plenty of fish in the sea.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched, though his expression remained despondent. “Approximately 230,000 different species.”
Grinning, Lestrade gave the younger man a friendly pat on the shoulder. Their thoughts ran parallel to each other; maybe he could get over John. Maybe he could be happy for him and Mary. Maybe, eventually, if they were very, very lucky, someone would come along and unlock the barriers around his heart.
But they both knew those thoughts weren’t quite true to begin with.