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Sherlock’s not coming back.
That’s all that was running through John’s mind as he saw his fiancée walking down the aisle in her wedding dress.
Stop thinking about him at your wedding. It's not helping.
Mary had helped him try and get over it, of course. Helped him sleep, comforted him when the shock got too bad.
But a broken heart couldn’t be fully healed with kind words and smiles.
Sherlock would’ve fixed it with an awkwardly placed deduction or with a case.
He would’ve. But she wasn’t him.
I thought nothing could kill Sherlock— but nobody’s immortal. He’s dead; it’s time to move on.
“I know he’s not here.” Mary was in front of him now, taking his hands, whispering. “But wherever he is, he’s happy for you.”
John just nodded, smiling at her, though anyone who was paying attention— Sherlock would be paying attention— would know it was forced. He didn’t have the energy to smile.
Where is he…?
“Welcome, friends, family, and loved ones. We are gathered together today in the sight of God and of each other as witnesses to celebrate the marriage of John and Mary. We hold John and Mary up to each other as a family, and a community of loved ones, to christen this step on their journey toward what we pray will be a long, happy, and healthy life together.”
The ceremony had started, but John couldn’t focus. The priest’s voice droned on, words about love and commitment that should have meant everything but felt hollow. He tried to anchor himself in the moment—the flowers, the music, the warmth of Mary’s hand— but his mind kept drifting to a flat on Baker Street that had grown cold and empty. A flat that was missing the personality that had been there before.
The personality that Sherlock had given it, with his string wall and violin. Those clients that he’d bring in, solve their case without blinking and dismiss them. The tea Mrs. Hudson would bring them while Sherlock was working, and John would sit there and listen, trying to understand.
The same place he had avoided going to because of the memories.
A thought kept repeating in his mind: Sherlock should be here. He shouldn’t be dead.
Most of the ceremony had been tuned out, John’s thoughts tunneling.
Lestrade had been his best man; he was an obvious pick, given that Major Sholto straight up denied and that Sherlock was missing.
Dead. Not missing. He’s dead.
Scanning the crowd that had shown up, he could see Mrs. Hudson wiping tears from her eyes, Lestrade standing beside him, but no Sherlock.
He’s dead. Why would he show up?
Because I asked him not to be dead.
And he hasn’t shown up in three years. He’s dead, there’s no other explanation.
But it’s Sherlock. He had a backup plan for the backup backup backup plan.
Mary squeezed his hands, dragging John out of his thoughts as the priest turned to him. “John Hamish Watson, do you take Mary Elizabeth Morstan to be your lawfully wedded wife from this day forward— to have and to hold, in good times and bad, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health; will you love, honor, and cherish her for as long as you both shall live?”
He’s not coming. It’s time to move on.
“I do.”
“And Mary Elizabeth Morstan, do you take John Hamish Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband from this day forward— to have and to hold, in good times and bad, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health; will you love, honor, and cherish him for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.” Mary smiled.
You’re getting married to her. Stop thinking about the past and focus on the now.
The priest nodded before speaking to the crowd. “If these two shall not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Nobody spoke up, and the priest was about to continue.
Buzzt.
Buzzt.
Buzzt.
Everyone's phone in the room went off.
Some just muted their phones, not knowing how it went off in the first place or deleted the notification without reading it. Others opened it, and John could hear Mrs. Hudson gasp. Lestrade froze behind him, and when he glanced out, even Molly was staring at her phone.
John’s phone hadn’t gone off, so he turned around and took Lestrade’s phone so he could stare at the message everyone else was seeing.
Those empty texts he had sent over the three years, silent pleas that he thought went unseen, had actually been going to someone.
The same person who had been lying to him.
I object.
-SH
He was alive.
Mary’s phone went off, and she pulled it out— John hadn’t even realized there were pockets in her dress. When she held a hand over her mouth, John looked over.
Thanks for looking after John for me.
-SH
His vision was blurry, people were talking loudly, and everything was muffled. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears, drowning out the confused chatter of the guests, the priest’s uncertain voice asking what was happening. Three years of grief, of forcing himself to move forward, of pretending he was okay—all of it crashed over him at once. The only thing that processed to him:
Sherlock’s alive.
The urge to find him— to punch him— coursed through John, which just fueled him to step away from the altar.
Then, as if on cue, his phone buzzed.
Fearing that it was a joke, he hesitated before pulling it out, but curiosity got the best of him, and he opened the message.
It was him.
Dinner?
-SH
John could’ve cried.
Mary was next to him all of a sudden, same with Lestrade, both of them looking at the message he had gotten.
Lestrade nudged him forward. “Go to him.”
John immediately shook his head. “But the wedding-”
"The wedding can wait.” Mary interrupted, something sparkling in her eyes. “He’s back. Go get Sherlock.”
“See if you can get him to remember my name’s Greg.”
John laughed, taking another step to leave, and another and another, because holy shit, he never died.
He was going to punch this man.
(And cry a lot probably.)
He ran out of the building, his shoes clicking in a hurry against the cobblestone as he threw open the ridiculously large doors. He didn’t bother to change, only stopping to wave down a cab and getting in, sending a text before he could even process what he was doing.
Starving.
Because only one thing mattered.
Sherlock was alive.
And you best believe John was never letting him leave again.