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"Do you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take John Hamish Watson..."
Sherlock cries. For the first time since promising Mycroft he wouldn't, he cries.
He'd known it was coming. Of course he had. He'd known from the get-go that someday, some horrible, terrible day, John would leave him for the domesticity, comfort, and stability of having a wife. A loving, caring, normal wife. He'd known John would leave him because this stability was something Sherlock couldn't give him, no matter how desperately he tried.
He wishes he could be everything that John needs.
"...To be your lawfully wedded husband..."
The thing Sherlock hadn't quite anticipated is the pain. For a horrifying moment he thinks he's having a heart attack. His lips form the word "John" the way they've always done when he means to say "help" instead, and he cries out to the man who is no longer there to catch him. He clutches at his chest, fights back the stubborn tears threatening to spill, and ignores Mrs Hudson when she runs into the flat. The flat that, he reminds himself, is no longer theirs. Only his. Sherlock also ignores the pitying, knowing look on her face, and doesn't reply to her uttered, "I'll make you a cuppa, dear, it'll help." He ignores it, and doesn't say that tea will only remind him of John. What he also doesn't say is, "No cup of tea will fix it because it hurts this is it he's leaving and he doesn't even know because I was too bloody scared to tell him and now it's too late I hate myself I hate this I don't know what to do with myself and no amount of tea will fix that." But from the look on Mrs Hudson's face, it's clear she knows anyway. She pats his arm, smiles sadly, and knows.
They all know, it seems.
"... Do you vow, before these witnesses..."
He goes on pretending nothing's happened.
He pretends John will always be here to tell him "Amazing!" "Brilliant!" or "That's fantastic!" when he's been exceptionally clever.
He pretends John will always be there to half-haul him to bed when he's forgotten to sleep again, or make him tea and toast he'll hardly ever eat.
He pretends John will always be there to smile at him, or brush the stray curls from his forehead when he's fallen onto their sofa in a fake sulking fit.
He pretends John will always be there to tell him "Be careful," because there's finally someone to be careful for.
He pretends John will always be there to run soothing fingers over the scars on his skin where he's been too careless with himself over the years of self-destruction.
He pretends John will always be there to wait for him.
He pretends John will always be there to just be John.
His John.
"... To love and care for him..."
Sherlock spends his days in his flat, trying to delete all recollection of the man who is no longer there. He tries to wash out the memory of John sitting in his chair, sipping at his tea with his morning newspaper. He tries to wipe away the remnants of domesticity, the kettle boiling in the kitchen, the milk and beans in the fridge. He tries to forget the image of John making him breakfast and then watching with fond exasperation as he forces a few bites down his throat simply because it's John who's asking.
He wishes he could destroy the thought of John loving him.
“…As long as you both shall live…”
He physically forces himself awake from dreams with John in them, now. They hurt more than they ever have, and much more than Sherlock would prefer. John kisses him, sometimes. Soft, languid, gentle, mostly. Occasionally hard and urgent. Other times he just smiles, fondly, and brushes a curl from Sherlock's forehead. There are dreams where they hold hands, go to crime scenes, and giggle inappropriately. They always giggle, and they're too high on each other to care. After crime scenes they go to the flat, their flat, and lose themselves in each other. Sherlock sleeps wrapped up in John.
In these dreams, John loves him back.
"... To have and to hold..."
John fell ill once. He was shivery and sweaty and coughed way too much, and Sherlock took care of him. He made him tea with no eyeballs and toast with no mould. John smiled at him, and Sherlock felt invincible. He wiped the sweat from John's forehead and watched as John grinned blearily up at him. That felt like a reward of sorts, one he'd happily spend the rest of his life chasing. He tucked John to bed, too, when John was too drowsy with fever to do it properly himself. Sherlock put his arm around John's waist, pretended not to be affected by John's warmth bleeding into him, and led him to his bed.
It took every ounce of willpower for Sherlock not to climb into bed with him.
"...For better or worse..."
When Sherlock got stabbed, long ago - a shallow wound, pathetic, really - and was forced to stay in hospital, John didn't leave his side once. He used his "Doctor John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers" voice when the nurses complained, which made Sherlock smile into his pillow, and they left him alone to do as he pleased. Sherlock was half-asleep that evening, bleary, but his heart twisted painfully, gloriously in his chest when there was the unmistakable sensation of soft fingers wrapping around his. He relished in it, and pretended his heart wasn't breaking from the fact that this was the only time they'd ever be able to have this rare moment of intimacy. When Sherlock woke up, they didn't talk about it, and Sherlock pretended the warmth of John's fingers wasn't permanently seared onto his skin.
In another life, perhaps, John will love him back.
"... For richer or poorer..."
Molly tries to help. So does Lestrade. They whisper meaningless sympathies and reassurances to him, but they don't realise it makes no difference. None of it does, because Sherlock is drained, completely, utterly wrecked, and they don't get it. They don't understand how John's smiles work, how these small, private smiles, for Sherlock's eyes only, make everything that's wrong fall back into place. They don't understand how Sherlock counts his days by those smiles. They don't know how heavenly Sherlock feels when John yells at him about that toe in the sink or the eyeball in his tea. He feels heavenly because for the first time in his life, he feels loved. They've never said the l word out loud, and Sherlock doesn't think they ever will, because that's not how they are, but it doesn't matter, because in those moments, those rare moments of perfect happiness, Sherlock almost feels whole, and he feels loved by John Watson. It's better than a drug, that feeling.
John Watson is his own kind of narcotic, and Sherlock is addicted for life.
"... In sickness and health..."
The next time they see each other, right before the wedding, Sherlock folds himself tightly into John. He tries not to think of all the ways they went wrong or all the ways they could’ve gone right. John lets out a startled 'oof' at the unexpected collision, but his arms come up to Sherlock's shoulders anyway, and Sherlock feels safe again. John listens to all the words Sherlock isn't saying, and just holds on. Sherlock breathes in his smell; John smells like jumpers and tea and home and Sherlock's brain screams "Not yours not yours not yours not yours not yours not yours".
And Sherlock finally stops pretending it isn't true.
"... To love and to cherish..."
He pulls away from the hug and looks down. He cannot bring himself to face John now. Not when all of the words he's been too scared to say are written so plainly on his face that they’re easy for even John to read. So instead, he gathers up the remainder of his dignity, darts out the door, pretends he can't hear John calling his name, and doesn't stop until he's back in 221b, finally alone. He glares at John's chair as if it has personally wronged him, - and in a way, it has - glares at the John-shaped hole in the flat, and hates every single bit of it. He falls onto the sofa, breathes in the lingering smell of the man who's long gone by now, and clutches his hair with his fists.
It’s the one time he lets himself fall apart completely.
"... From this day forward..."
Sherlock relapses after the day John takes Mary to meet him. John smiles, but the smile is no longer directed at him, and Sherlock forces down the urge to cry, to scream, to break something. In the end, long after John and Mary have left, oblivious to his downfall, he breaks himself. For the first time since meeting John, Sherlock gets high.
He feels gloriously numb.
"...Till death do you part?"
On the day of the wedding, Sherlock covers his skin with nicotine patches, fills his pockets with drugs, stands behind John at the altar, the way a best man is supposed to, and says the vows in time with Mary, the way a best man isn't really supposed to. He says them in his head, like a promise, and pretends he can’t see Myroft’s pitying look in his direction. He looks at John's immaculate suit, the soft curl of hair at the nape of his neck, and pushes down the urge to run his fingers through it. He does not look at Mary. He doesn't want to see the woman John chose over him, the woman John will love and grow old with. He keeps his eyes fixed on John and pretends he’s the one facing John instead.
That he’s the one John chose, in the end.
"I do."