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John takes a deep breath of the cool night air, chest still vibrating from the energy of the reception and thumping loud music that could be felt even from outside. The ceremony was beautiful, of course. John had every confidence it would be, despite Stammo’s constant worries leading up to and on the day. Nadia was the picture of the perfect bride, her wide smile making even John’s cheeks hurt, as she walked down the aisle to an already-crying Stammo. And there wasn’t a dry eye in the room when they reached the end of their vows, and John, standing right up there as Stammo’s best man, couldn’t deny the tears that fell down his face as the two announced they would be together till death did them part.
But watching Stammo and Nadia have their first dance as husband and wife tightened something in his chest. The reception was all a blur, in fact. He doesn’t even remember what he said during his best man speech. And while he had always liked partying and being surrounded by other people, at some point the music had gotten too loud, air too stifling, and John just needed to get out of there. So he did.
Which brings us to now, up against a tree where John's eyes slip shut, ready to fall asleep right then and there.
“What are you doing out here?”
John doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who's talking to him. “Just got a bit overwhelmed. You know how it is.”
“Hm, quite. But they’ve opened the dance floor to everyone now. I thought dancing would be your thing.”
John snorts. “Yeah– no. It really isn’t. Let alone at a wedding of all places. I’m just going to embarrass myself.”
“Stamford would want you out there.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
“Nadia?”
“Hardly.”
“...Mariana?”
John pauses. “Okay, yeah, maybe her. But too bad for her, because I’m chilling out here instead. Just me and my thoughts.”
“...And me.”
John swallows. “...And you,” he says quietly. “Look, I just… I don’t have the energy to deal with all of that right now. I’m happy for Stammo and Nadia, of course. But they don’t need me ruining their,” he waves his hand vaguely, “wedding vibes.”
“...Is it because you don’t know how to dance?”
“Wh–” John splutters in surprise. “Of course I know how to dance! I just don’t want to.”
“There’s no shame in not knowing things, Watson. I could teach you.”
John barks out a laugh this time. “No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can! I’ve told you I took dance lessons as a kid. Mycroft tried her best at keeping up those dancing habits with me even as I grew up, but really, I was getting too old for that–”
“Sherlock,” John cuts him off, because the image of a gangly teenage Sherlock grumpily dancing with his older sister makes him giggle breathlessly, “if I let you teach me how to dance, will you shut up?”
Even without looking at him, John could imagine the smirk that stretched across Sherlock’s face. John feels his heart stop. “Anything for you, my dear Watson.”
Sherlock takes John’s hands and brings him up to his feet, before guiding his hands to his shoulders. Once they’ve settled loosely around his neck, his hands slide down to John’s waist. John wills his blush to go away. It doesn’t work.
“This feels awfully intimate for a dance lesson,” John mumbles, even as he lets Sherlock take the lead in a simple box step.
“We’re simply doing what Stamford and Nadia did.”
“That doesn’t sound like shutting up.”
“Do you want me to?”
“…No. Not at all.”
John stumbles over his feet, but Sherlock catches him – yet again, he was there for John exactly when he needed him.
“Do you know what I was thinking, John? Throughout this wedding?”
“What, Sherls?”
“I was thinking that could be us someday.”
John gulps. He doesn’t need to clarify what he means. His voice shakes as he simply whispers, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re imagining it now too, aren’t you?”
Of course he is. The image hasn’t left his mind since he saw Stammo and Nadia take the floor, or even back when he first saw them join hands at the altar. He could picture it so clearly: him and Sherlock, in their best suits, perhaps one of them in white. John, probably – Sherlock always did look better in black. And it would be springtime with flowers scattered around the venue, because Sherlock loved bees, and John loved seeing Sherlock happy. Carol would walk him down the aisle, or Mycroft would walk Sherlock down – John’s not particularly fussed either way, as long as they meet each other by the end of it. Mariana would be their maid of honour, of course, and Stammo their best man, Gwen as a bridesmaid, and maybe even Wiggins as a groomsman if Sherlock actually talked to the man outside of just seeking intel. Maybe Nadia could sing for them as they take to the floor and share their first dance as husbands, in a dance not unlike the one they’re currently doing.
The world around them fades into nothing. The music muffles, the lights dim, and all he can think of is Sherlock, dancing with him under a tree under the stars, and dancing with him across a marbled floor surrounded by friends and loved ones. The night breeze doesn’t even touch him with the other man’s warmth surrounding him in a comforting, familiar cocoon. John leans into him and squeezes his eyes tight, as if to commit this moment to memory.
“John?”
And then John’s eyes open. It takes considerable effort to do so, like he was being dragged out of a dream he wanted to remain in forever. He shifts, and all he can feel is the wet grass beneath him and the hard tree against his back. All too suddenly, the music is louder, his heart is hammering out of his chest, and he is colder than he has ever been.
“Sherlock?” John murmurs, eyes squinting as they adjust to the bright fairy lights scattered around the back of the venue. But when his vision clears, it’s only Mark Stamford, man of the hour, who looks back at him with a frown and concerned eyes. A face that worried shouldn’t be on the groom at his own wedding, and yet here it is.
“Nope, mate. Just me.” His eyes flicker down. “Really taking advantage of that open bar, huh?” Stammo laughs. It sounds stilted. Nervous.
John vaguely feels another hand (Mariana’s, a voice in his head that still eerily sounds like his supplies, and christ, when did she get here?) gently grasping his own to slide something out his grip. Utterly exhausted, John lets her.
“I think you’ve had enough drinks for tonight, John,” Mariana says kindly. Perhaps too kindly; her eyes are flat, her smile is too tight, and her fingers are shaking where she’s holding the two (two? When did he have two?) empty bottles of beer. “Maybe it’s time for us to call an Uber. It’s been so lovely, Stammo, and congrats again–”
“What?” John says, attempting to sit up. “No, no, no. I can’t leave now. That’d make me, uh… y’know. A shit friend.” His vision may be blurry but he can still see Stammo frown as he and Mariana exchange a look. He can’t pin down exactly what that look means, but he knows he doesn’t like it.
“Look, mate,” Stammo says carefully like he’s trying to tame a wild animal, and wow, this can’t be good. “I really do appreciate you coming out for this. Nadia and I both do. But you know I didn’t want to force you to come if you weren’t feeling up to it. And if you need to leave now– well, I understand. Truly.”
John’s eyes narrow. “And why’s that?”
He knows he’s taunting him. For no real reason. But his head is still reeling from when the world was just starting to make sense, before it once again came crashing down on him and reminded him of his cold reality. And fuck it, he is mad.
“John, please,” Stammo says, his eyes pleading. “I understand your pain. But you don't need to be here. If... he were here, he would want you to take care of yourself."
And suddenly, like a freight train crashing into him, John remembers his best man speech. Or, what should’ve been his speech.
His emotions had been running high, as they had been for the past few weeks, and so he had downed champagne glass after champagne glass to settle his nerves. Of course, it only served to worsen them. As he stood to give his speech, he looked to Stammo and Nadia and his heart instantly clenched at the way they looked at each other. Like the other had hung the moon and stars. And all John could think about was how the one person in the world he could look at in that same way wasn’t there. He wasn’t whispering in his ear the occupations of everyone in the room, wasn’t there to complain about the too-bright lights, wasn’t there to giggle at the people making a fool of themselves on the dance floor. He wasn’t up there at the altar as another groomsman, wasn’t there to lock eyes with as John made silent vows of his own, wasn’t there to squeeze his hand as Stammo and Nadia sealed their union with a kiss.
And he just… couldn’t do it. Couldn’t make a sound. Mariana was his saving grace as she took the mic off him to smoothly fill in the crushing silence. But only he could see how her hands shook as she rested one on his shoulder to stabilise herself, gripping the mic with the other.
John is once again brought back to the present as he realises both Stamford and Mariana are now murmuring amongst themselves, looking down at him occasionally. And something in John snaps. Finally sends him hurtling off the cliff – or a waterfall, perhaps.
“You understand?” He scrambles up to his feet. Perhaps too fast, as he sways and is caught just in time by Mariana, who wraps an arm around him to hold him up. He barks out a bitter laugh. “That’s bloody rich coming from you.”
Stammo blinks in surprise and confusion. From beside him, John hears Mariana suck in a sharp breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“John–” Mariana tries to interrupt, but it’s a futile attempt.
“I mean, Stammo, that I don't think you do understand at all, because this is all your fucking fault," John spits. “It’s your fault that I’m– that he’s– if we had never...” He shuts his eyes so tight he sees stars, his body shaking from how heavily he’s breathing. He can barely get the words out, and his voice is back, pleading for him to stop. But John has never been the best listener.
Stammo, though, looks like he finally understands. “John,” he starts, but he doesn’t want to hear it.
“You did this to me! You introduced us to each other, you got us to live together, you brought him into my life!” His voice cracks by the end, and Mariana is possibly pleading for him to stop, but he can barely hear anything over his rage and sorrow and grief finally toppling over the edge. “If he hadn’t met me, he would’ve just gone about his days doing god knows what. Instead he decided to let me record all his crazy adventures and ended up getting targets on our backs because of course we fucking did, we hunted down criminals for christ’s sake! And if he hadn’t met me, he wouldn’t have had to run from murderous professors and jump off fucking waterfalls! But that’s all because I met him. Because you put us in each other’s lives.”
At some point, John had gotten right up to Stammo’s face, despite Mariana’s attempts at holding him back, and stabs a finger into his chest. Stammo, for all his evident nerves, stands his ground, even as his eyes continuously flicker across John’s face.
“John.” Stammo’s voice cracks. What the hell is he sad for? “That’s not fair.”
“You wanna know what's not fair?” John grits out. “What's not fair is that my dad, the woman I loved, and now the man I–” he chokes, but forces the words out, “the man I love have all fucking died. Why is it that everyone I love leaves me, huh? Does that sound fair? Is this all some cruel fucking cosmic joke?!” He throws his hands up to the air, looking at the sky like it held the answers for why the universe kept punishing him. “I could’ve gone the rest of my life not knowing a damn thing about this man, but now everything in my life is intrinsically tied to him. I can’t walk around our flat without thinking about him. Archie still scratches at his door, his fucking mouse curls up on his armchair and refuses to leave, and I never thought I’d bloody say this, but I miss hearing the violin at three in the fucking morning!
“And don’t even get me started on the goddamn podcast. People keep asking where he is, where we are, when we’re uploading the next episode and I don’t know what to fucking say. So I come to this wedding to get my mind off things, but wouldn't you fucking know it, this big celebration of love only serves to constantly remind me that the man I love is gone. That he's never coming back. I spend all my life looking for the right person, and when he finally shows up, he's taken from me just as quickly? That isn’t fair."
He’s crying at this point, and he thinks he can feel Mariana’s tears seeping into his shoulder from where her face is pressed against it, her body also shaking. And while he can't see well through his tears, he deduces Stammo's eyes aren't quite dry either. He barrels on.
"I had nothing, you know? Nothing in my life before I met him. Before the podcast. But then you introduced him, and suddenly, he became everything to me. But now he’s fucking gone. And I don’t– I don’t know what to do. I don't know who I am.”
Is there even a John Watson without Sherlock Holmes? is what he often thinks at night, curled up in a bed that had long ago stopped smelling like him. Sometimes he even voices the question aloud. Nobody responds.
“You’re right, Stamford. I shouldn’t have come here. Because while I am grateful, in a way, that I got to meet him; that we shared even a brief moment of our lives together,” John takes a deep, shuddering breath, “sometimes I really, really fucking resent you for introducing me to Sherlock Holmes."
That painfully familiar voice speaks in the back of John’s head again, telling him Stamford doesn’t deserve this, that this was unfair. But before he can let the voice take over, or even let Stamford say anything else, he turns around and walks away from it all. Mariana has finally let go of him, presumably to say something else to Stamford, maybe even apologise on his behalf. Doesn’t matter, really. Nothing does.
And as John’s eyes slip shut once more, he just about manages to convince himself that the stolen scarf and too-large coat is Sherlock's warmth enveloping him in another slow dance, as he walks off into the cold, cold night. Alone.