Chapter Text
One
The best man’s suit was brought by Mary.
It was raining in London that day, the November rain, fine and cold, like a wound the city would never stop nursing.
She came through the door with the garment bag entering the room before her body did — a large, dark‑grey cocoon sealed with plastic and a zip.
Mrs Hudson was shouting something about tea from behind her, her voice thinned by the rain, only a few syllables bouncing up the staircase.
"Best man’s suit." Mary placed the bag on the back of the sofa, zip facing up, like a fish waiting to be gutted.
"I had it made to your measurements. Same as John's suit, of course — except the size."
She smiled.
There was something in that smile that Sherlock could not read.
Something closer to a forgiveness that already knew everything but chose not to say it.
He hated that smile.
He hated all expressions that said I know and you don’t — Mycroft was good at that, Moriarty too.
But Mary’s smile was different.
There was no malice in it. That made it even harder to defend against.
Sherlock sat in his chair, holding a monograph about eighteenth‑century papermaking techniques.
He did not look up.
His eyes stayed on a line about the different degradation rates of linen and cotton fibres in an acidic environment.
He was not reading. He was waiting.
Waiting for her to say the next thing, waiting for her to leave, waiting for this garment bag to disappear from his field of vision.
"Try it on," Mary said, taking off her damp‑sleeved coat and hanging it on the coat rack by the door.
Her movements were natural, as if she were already part of this flat — no, as if she were becoming part of it, slowly, irreversibly, like water seeping into a wall.
"If it doesn’t fit we can have it altered. The tailor is a friend of my mother’s — good hands. John’s suit is from him too."
John. That suit.
Sherlock turned a page. The paper rustled. He did not speak.
Mary glanced at him.
That expression appeared again: knowing, but saying nothing.
"I’ll hang it in your wardrobe," she said, picking up the bag and walking towards the door at the end of the hall. "You don’t have to try it on. But you’ll have to wear it on the day. You can’t exactly show up at the church in your dressing gown, can you?"
She pushed the door open. Sherlock’s wardrobe.
His shirts, suits, coats, the dark‑blue scarf, and the jumpers that Mrs Hudson had forcibly added over the years — the ones he never admitted he needed.
Mary hung the bag inside, zipped it shut, stepped back and closed the door.
"All done." She clapped her hands lightly. "Is the tea ready?"
Mrs Hudson called from downstairs: "Coming, coming —"
Mary went down. Her footsteps faded on the stairs.
Sherlock put down his book.
He looked at the wardrobe.
The door was closed.
But he knew that something new was behind it. Something that did not belong to him.
Something that had been forced into his life, his space, his wardrobe.
Like a foreign object implanted in a chest — the body would reject it, inflame around it, use all its strength to push it out.
He stood up. Walked to the wardrobe. Put his hand on the handle.
He did not open it.
He stood there. For a long time.
Long enough for the tea downstairs to go cold.
He went back to his chair. Picked up the book. Turned back to the page he’d been on.
Linen fibres. Cotton fibres. Acidic environment. Degradation rates.
He was not reading.
He was thinking of how John would look in that suit.
Two
The first time he saw John try it on was three weeks before the wedding.
Not that he had gone willingly. Mary had called.
"You have to come," she said, her voice through the receiver carrying that soft but unmistakable refusal she had perfected. "You’re the best man. You need to give your opinion."
Sherlock said, "I have no opinion on clothing."
Mary said, "You have opinions on John."
She hung up.
Sherlock looked at his phone screen.
Call ended. 0 minutes, 47 seconds.
In 47 seconds he had lost a game he hadn’t even known he was playing.
The tailor’s shop was in a narrow alley in Soho. The storefront was small; two faceless mannequins in the window wore dark three‑piece suits, like corpses waiting to be claimed.
When Sherlock arrived, Mary was already inside, sitting on a velvet‑covered chair, holding a copy of an old Tatler that she wasn’t reading.
She was looking towards the fitting room.
"He went in," Mary said without looking up. "Ten minutes ago."
"Putting on a suit doesn’t take ten minutes."
"He isn’t you."
Sherlock sat down opposite Mary.
The room smelled of new fabric, steam irons, and a hint of the men’s cologne Mary used — citrus, cloyingly sweet.
The tailor was a white‑haired old man with a measuring tape around his neck and pins between his lips. He paced outside the fitting room like a hen about to lay an egg.
The fitting room door opened.
John stepped out.
Dark grey, three‑piece.
The jacket buttons were undone. The last button of the waistcoat was open. The top button of his shirt was open too, showing a sliver of collarbone.
The tie hung around his neck, limp as a half‑dead snake.
He was looking down at his trouser hem, muttering something about whether it was too long or too short — Sherlock didn’t catch it.
Because his attention had been seized by something else.
John’s neck.
That curve from behind the ear down to the collarbone, faintly glowing against the dark fabric.
A secret conversation between skin and cloth, visible only in certain light.
Sherlock had seen John’s neck countless times — at crime scenes, in the back of taxis, when John bent his head to drink tea, when he stooped to pick up keys he had dropped.
But those times, the neck was hidden by sweater collars, wrapped in scarves, blocked by shirt buttons.
Not now.
Now it was there. Whole. Unprotected.
Like an unopened territory he had never been allowed to touch.
"So?" John looked up.
His face was a little red. Too hot in the fitting room, or he was nervous.
Sherlock knew when John was nervous. He had seen that flush countless times — in moments facing down murderers, staring into gun barrels, every time the thought John might die flashed through his head.
That was not a shy blush. That was adrenaline. Fight or flight.
But today was not a fight. Today was not a flight. Today was trying on a suit.
Why was his face red?
"So?" John asked again.
He was looking at Sherlock. Mary was looking at Sherlock. The tailor was looking at Sherlock.
"Your tie is crooked," Sherlock said.
He reached out.
Not on purpose. His hand moved on its own.
His fingertips touched John’s collar. The fabric was cool; the skin beneath was warm.
The temperature difference travelled up his fingers, a faint electric current.
Less than half a second. He pulled back.
"Here," he said, pointing at the knot. "It should sit one centimetre to the left."
John glanced down. "Does it?" He adjusted it. It became even more crooked.
Mary laughed. "Let him help you," she said.
John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John.
Neither of them moved.
The tailor came over and, with his calloused, skilled hands, re‑tied the knot neatly.
"Sir," he said to John, "please stand still. I need to measure the sleeve length."
John raised his arms. Like a surrender. Like a crucifixion.
Sherlock looked at his armpits.
The fabric pulled tight, outlining his ribs. He looked away.
"What do you think?" Mary asked him.
Sherlock said, "It’s acceptable."
"Acceptable?" Mary repeated, a tone in her voice he did not want to interpret. "Just 'acceptable'?"
"Nobody will be paying attention at the wedding."
"You’re the best man, aren’t you?" Mary laughed. "I thought you’d be here to sabotage the whole thing."
John laughed too. A low laugh, rising from his chest, vibrating through the waistcoat that didn’t quite fit yet.
Sherlock did not laugh.
He was thinking: I just touched John’s neck.
Less than half a second.
But his hand remembered the temperature of the skin beneath.
Three
The best man’s suit hung in the wardrobe.
Day one: Sherlock opened the wardrobe to get a shirt. His gaze brushed over it. Dark grey. Wool‑blend. Same as John’s suit. He took the shirt and closed the door.
Day two: He opened it for a scarf. His gaze lingered for less than a second — he noticed the hanger was wooden now, not metal. Mary had even changed the hanger. He took the scarf and closed the door.
Day three: He opened it for his coat. His gaze rested longer. He looked at the suit. It hung there like a sentence he had never spoken, framed and displayed in the most visible place for his daily contemplation. He raised a hand. His fingertips stopped three centimetres from the fabric.
He did not touch.
He took his coat and closed the door.
Day four: 2 a.m. He stood before the wardrobe.
He did not turn on the light.
Moonlight leaked through the gap in the curtains, turning the best man’s suit into a pale, ghost‑grey thing.
He pulled the door open. It was there. Dark grey. Silent.
Like a sleeping body waiting to be woken.
Sherlock spoke.
"You complained about the fitting again today," he said. "You said forty minutes. Last time it was thirty. You were exaggerating."
His voice was very low. Low enough that only he and the suit could hear.
"But when you complain, the corners of your mouth turn up. You’re not really complaining. You just need a reason to let people know you’re doing something important."
Silence. The suit did not answer.
"You’re nervous," Sherlock said. "Not because of the wedding. Because you’re thinking about how many people will be looking at you that day. You’re not used to being looked at. You’re used to looking at other people. You’re used to standing next to me and being the 'normal' one."
A longer silence. The moonlight shifted a centimetre, maybe two.
"So am I," Sherlock said. "Nervous."
It was the first time he admitted it.
He closed the door. Went back to bed.
His mind needed something to do — something other than thinking about the empty suit in the next room.
Day five: 3 a.m. He did not go to the wardrobe. He sat on the bed, facing the wardrobe door. It was closed. But he knew what was behind it.
"I observed your interaction with Mary today," he said, even softer than yesterday. "When she speaks, your eyes move left. That’s a micro‑expression of remembering. You’re not remembering her words — you’re remembering some detail about her when she speaks. A hairpin, an earring, the lipstick shade she’s wearing today. You’re confirming that she’s the person you know. You’re not listening to what she says. You’re checking that she’s still there."
A pause.
"You’re afraid of losing her."
A longer pause.
"Do you know how I know? Because the first thing I do every morning, when I wake up, is check that you’re still here."
He lay down and pulled the duvet over his head.
The walls of 221B were thin.
He knew John’s room upstairs was empty — John was spending the night at Mary’s flat.
But he still heard breathing. His own.
Day six: 4 a.m. He stood at the wardrobe, reached out, and touched the sleeve of the best man’s suit.
The fabric was soft. Wool‑blend. Dark grey.
Same style as John’s suit. But the size — one size larger.
What did one size larger mean?
It meant this suit had been tailored to his body. Not John’s. His.
This suit would lie against his skin — along his shoulders, his chest, his waist, his arms — like a second skin.
And John’s suit would lie against John’s skin.
Two suits. Same style. Different sizes. Parallel lines. Never touching.
"This suit," Sherlock said, "you’ll never wear. At least not at the wedding. At the wedding he’ll wear the other one — the more expensive one, the bespoke one, the one Mary spent two weeks choosing. This one is just a backup. This one is for 'what if something goes wrong with the other one'."
His fingers stopped at the cufflink position.
Empty. Mary hadn’t provided cufflinks.
Maybe she forgot. Maybe she assumed Sherlock had his own.
Maybe she didn’t want him wearing anything connected to John — no, this suit itself was already something connected to John.
"Do you know what 'backup' means?" he asked the suit.
The suit did not answer.
"It means you matter, but you’re not the most important. It means you’re there, but you’re not seen. It means you exist, but you can be replaced."
His voice was very soft.
"I know. Because I’m the backup."
He didn’t close the wardrobe door.
He went back to bed, facing the wardrobe, watching that patch of dark grey until dawn.
Four
Day seven. Sherlock took the best man’s suit out of the wardrobe for the first time.
Not wore it — just took it. He lifted the hanger from the rail and held it up in front of him.
The fabric fell, blocking his vision.
Through the weave he could see blurred shapes opposite him — the window, the moonlight, his own outline.
He walked to the window and held the suit up to the moonlight.
The dark grey wool‑blend turned into something almost transparent, silver‑white.
Like fog. Like the fog that rose from the Thames at four in the morning, the fog that swallowed the whole city.
He lowered the suit and hung it back.
Then he took it down again.
This time, he put it on.
Not the whole thing. Just the jacket.
He slid his arms into the sleeves. The fabric moved over his forearms, his elbows, his shoulders. Very light. Lighter than he expected. Wool‑blend, with a slippery lining like water.
He did up the buttons. One. Two. He stood in front of the mirror.
The man in the mirror wore a dark grey formal jacket.
Underneath — pyjamas. Collar open, showing a strip of pale skin that had never been properly touched by sunlight.
He did not look like a best man.
He looked like a man who, at four in the morning, had put on a formal jacket over his pyjamas — an insomniac.
He looked at the mirror. The man in the mirror looked back.
Then the man in the mirror began to change.
Shoulders a little broader. Height a little shorter.
Hair from dark to light.
Face from lean to softer, rounder, as if touched by sun.
The man in the mirror became John.
Wearing that formal jacket. Dark grey.
John stood inside the mirror, looking at him.
"What are you doing?" asked mirror‑John.
Sherlock said, "Trying on a suit."
"Is this your suit?" John asked.
Sherlock said, "Yes."
"This is my suit," John said.
"Same style. Different sizes," Sherlock said.
"Same style," John repeated. "Different sizes."
He smiled. That smile.
The smile Sherlock had seen on countless mornings, countless evenings, countless taxi back seats, countless crime scenes.
Gentle. Careful. As if saying I know what you’re thinking, but I won’t ask.
"You look good in that suit," John said. "You should wear it more often."
Sherlock said, "It’s not my suit."
"You just said same style."
John tilted his head slightly.
His tie—he was wearing the formal jacket, and underneath, a shirt, the tie nicely knotted—no, it was crooked again. Crooked.
"Your tie is crooked," Sherlock said.
"Then fix it for me."
Sherlock reached out.
This time, his hand did not stop halfway.
He touched John’s collar.
The fabric was cool. Beneath it was warm. That collarbone. That neck.
John lifted his chin, showing more skin.
Sherlock’s fingers lingered on the knot for too long.
So long that he wasn’t sure whether he was fixing the tie or caressing it.
"Done?" John asked.
"Not yet."
"You’re shaking."
"I’m not."
"Your hand is shaking."
Sherlock looked down.
His hand was shaking. Not because he was cold. Because—
He blinked.
The mirror returned to normal.
Only himself in the mirror.
Wearing the formal jacket. Pyjamas underneath. Collar open.
His hand suspended in the air, fingertips less than a centimetre from his own neck.
He did not touch his own neck. He lowered his hand.
Took off the jacket. Hung it back in the wardrobe. Closed the door.
Went back to bed. The ceiling. A new crack.
It hadn’t been there before. In the corner, near the window side.
Walls aged. Buildings settled.
Everything was slowly, irreversibly collapsing.
Including him.
Five
Two weeks before the wedding.
John tried on the suit one last time at 221B — no, not the last time, Mary said the sleeve length still needed one more alteration. But it was the last time at 221B.
Sherlock was in the kitchen making tea. The kettle screamed.
He heard John coming up the stairs, heavier footsteps than usual — he was carrying the garment bag.
Then the sounds of fabric rustling in the sitting room. Zipper. Swish of cloth. John was changing.
"Do you want to see?" John called.
Sherlock did not turn around. He looked at the kettle. The water boiled. Steam fogged the window.
"No," he said.
But he heard. Those sounds.
Jacket. Waistcoat. Shirt cuffs. The tie wasn’t done yet — because whenever John did his own tie he muttered a curse, and Sherlock hadn’t heard a curse.
He carried two cups of tea into the sitting room.
John stood in the middle of the room.
Wearing that dark grey formal suit.
The tie hung around his neck, not knotted.
The top button of his shirt was open — he always forgot that button.
The waistcoat was open too.
He looked like a half‑finished present just taken out of its box, not yet arranged.
"Alright?" John asked.
His face was a little red. Not the adrenaline red.
Another kind. The kind that said I changed clothes in front of you.
Sherlock put the tea on the low table.
He looked at John. The suit. That collar. That neck. The unknotted tie.
"Your tie is still crooked," he said.
John looked down and laughed. "Bloody hell, you’re right."
He fumbled with the tie. His fingers weren’t cooperating — three attempts and it still wasn’t right.
Sherlock watched him. The tea in his hand slowly cooled.
"Do you want me to help?" he heard himself say.
John looked up. That expression. Did you just say what I think you said?
"No," John said, "I can—"
His fingers slipped again.
Sherlock put down his cup. Walked over. Stood in front of John.
Less than thirty centimetres between them.
He could smell John — not cologne, but laundry detergent. The kind Mrs Hudson used. Lavender. Faint, like some forgotten spring afternoon.
He reached out. Touched the tie. His fingers worked around the knot, pulled it tight, adjusted the angle.
His knuckles brushed John’s chin. Stubble. Very short, just beginning to show after a recent shave.
Prickly. Ticklish.
"There," Sherlock said. He stepped back.
John looked down. "Thanks," he said.
His voice was lower than usual. Slower.
Sherlock went back to his chair. Picked up his tea. Took a sip. Cold.
That night, John did not go back to Mary’s flat.
Too late, he said. He’d leave in the morning. Sherlock said fine.
2 a.m. Sherlock heard John upstairs. Footsteps from the bed to the door, from the door to the window, from the window back to the bed.
Then silence.
Sherlock sat in his chair, facing the wardrobe.
The best man’s suit hung inside. He was in his pyjamas, wrapped in a blanket, not going to bed.
He was thinking: Earlier, when I helped with the tie, my knuckles touched John’s chin.
Stubble. Very short. Prickly. Ticklish.
His fingers remembered that sensation.
His brain was filing it away.
Not in the irrelevant information folder.
Into a drawer that had no label, one he had never allowed himself to open.
He opened it.
The drawer held many things.
John’s laughter. John’s footsteps.
The strip of skin at the back of John’s neck when he crouched at a crime scene.
The rhythm of John’s breathing when he fell asleep with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder in the back of a taxi.
The angle of John’s mouth when he said "Bloody hell, you’re right".
And tonight’s addition. Stubble. Prickly. Ticklish.
He closed the drawer.
He did not lock it.
He knew he would open it again.
Six
Ten days before the wedding. Sherlock started dreaming.
Not ordinary dreams.
The kind where, after waking, he needed several seconds to tell whether it had been real or not.
In the dream, he pulled open the wardrobe.
The best man’s suit hung inside.
But the suit was not empty.
John was wearing it, hanging inside.
Not standing. Hanging. Like a piece of clothing on a hanger.
The hanger passed through his collar, propping up his shoulders.
His arms hung at his sides, fingers slightly curled.
His head was lowered, chin against his chest, eyes closed.
He was asleep. Or dead. Or somewhere in between.
Sherlock stood in front of the wardrobe, looking at him.
He knew it was a dream.
But did the Sherlock in the dream know it was a dream? No.
The only thing he knew was: John was here.
Inside his wardrobe. Among his clothes.
Wearing that dark grey suit — the same style as the groom’s, just one size larger.
"John," he called.
John did not move.
"John," he called again, louder.
Slowly, John raised his head. His eyes opened.
Not a dead man’s eyes. A living man’s.
The familiar, gentle, slightly helpless eyes.
"You’re here," John said. His voice was very light, as if from far away.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked.
"I ran away," John said.
Before the wedding started. I didn’t want to get married. I wanted to go with you.
Sherlock looked at him.
He knew this was a dream.
He knew there was only that suit in the wardrobe.
He knew John would not run away.
He knew John would never say "I wanted to go with you".
But he still reached out and touched "John’s" face.
The skin was cool. Not a dead person’s cool.
The cool of having been in an air‑conditioned room too long.
The cool of having hung inside a wardrobe too long.
"You’re shaking," Sherlock said.
"I’m scared," John said. "I’m scared you’ll turn me away."
Sherlock said, "I wouldn’t turn you away."
John smiled. "You have before."
Sherlock said, "That wasn’t turning you away. That was me not knowing how to accept."
John stepped out of the wardrobe. Barefoot.
The hem of the suit dragged on the floor.
He walked to Sherlock, raised a hand, and touched Sherlock’s face.
"What about now?" he asked. "Do you know now?"
Sherlock said, "Yes."
Then he woke up.
He was lying in bed.
He turned his head towards the wardrobe. The door was closed.
He sat up. Got out of bed. Walked to the wardrobe. Pulled it open.
The best man’s suit hung inside. Dark grey. Silent. Empty.
He reached out and touched the sleeve.
Cool. Wool‑blend. Same style as John’s suit. One size larger.
He closed the door. Went back to bed.
He did not sleep again.
Seven
— John’s Interlude: He Didn’t Knock —
I didn’t sleep that night either.
Because of Mary. She sent me a long text — wedding details, seating arrangements, the age of the flower girl, the flavour of the cake.
I replied "OK". Then I couldn’t sleep.
I went downstairs for water.
The stairs were dark. I didn’t turn on the light — I didn’t want to wake Mrs Hudson.
When I got to the landing, I saw the sitting room door was open a crack.
Light was leaking out. The firelight.
He wasn’t asleep.
I stood on the stairs. Hesitated.
Then I heard his voice.
He was talking. Very quietly. I couldn’t make out the words.
But his tone — a tone I had never heard from him before.
Gentle. Careful. As if he were touching something breakable.
I didn’t go in.
I stood on the stairs and listened for a while. Then I turned and went back upstairs.
I never got my water.
The next morning I asked him, "Who were you talking to last night?"
He said, "No one."
I said, "I heard you."
He said, "You were dreaming."
I didn’t ask again.
But I noticed.
There were shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t slept. Maybe the whole night.
He was talking to the wardrobe.
The walls of 221B are thin.
I knew that bedroom had only a bed, a wardrobe, one chair.
No second person.
He was talking to a piece of clothing.
That best man’s suit.
I didn’t know what to think.
Eight
One week before the wedding. Sherlock started counting.
Not on purpose.
His brain had started some program he hadn’t known existed, like a computer infected with a virus, running a process he couldn’t shut down.
He counted how many days were left. Seven. Six. Five.
He counted John’s personal items still at 221B.
Toothbrush — one, blue, bristles already split.
Razor — one, silver, on the bathroom shelf next to a fake flower Mrs Hudson had put there.
Shoes — two pairs, one brown leather, one black trainers, never on the shoe rack, always kicked by the doormat.
He counted the cases they had solved together.
Not all of them. Just the ones where John had nearly died.
Bombs. Snipers.
He remembered the feeling in those moments. Not fear. Not anger.
It was: if he dies, I die too.
Not romantic. Not heroic.
It was a simple, brutal piece of logic:
a world without John Watson was not a world worth living in.
He had never told John that.
He counted the cups of tea they had drunk together. From 2010 to now.
Average two a day. 730 a year. Over three years, 2,190.
Plus the period after Mary appeared, after John moved out — fewer, but still five a week on average.
He stopped calculating. The numbers were too big. Too big for him to bear.
He counted the number of times John had smiled at him.
That one he couldn’t finish. Because John was always smiling.
At him. At Mrs Hudson. At Lestrade.
But at him — the smile was different. When John smiled at him, his eyes narrowed, fine lines appeared at the corners, and his mouth was asymmetrical — the left side a little higher than the right.
He had counted. On those afternoons when he wasn’t reading, only pretending to read.
He could never keep the number. Not because his memory failed.
Because while he was counting, he would lose focus.
He would stare at that smile. Forget what he was doing.
Five days before the wedding. Mycroft called.
"Are you ready?"Mycroft asked.
Sherlock said,
"For what?"
Silence. Mycroft breathed on the other end of the line.
Softly. Slowly. As if waiting for something.
"Let go."Mycroft said.
Sherlock hung up.
He looked at the screen.
Call ended. 0 minutes, 12 seconds.
In 12 seconds he had lost a game where he didn’t even know who the opponent was.
He put his phone on the table. The screen went dark.
The best man’s suit was in the wardrobe. He knew — he didn’t need to look.
It was there. Dark grey. Silent. Like a foreign object implanted in a chest, the body pushing against it with all its strength.
But he did not take it out. He did not throw it away.
He did not call Mary to say "I won’t do it".
He just let it hang there.
Just as he had let John move out. Just as he had let John get married.
Just as he had let John go from "my flatmate" to "someone I occasionally have tea with" to "a man I will stand beside at his wedding and watch walk towards someone else".
He let these things happen.
Like letting rain fall. Like letting the London fog rise.
Like letting walls age, buildings settle, cracks slowly spread across the ceiling.
He didn’t stop them. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask.
He just counted.
Nine
Three days before the wedding. Mrs Hudson noticed he had lost weight.
Not the polite "you’ve lost weight". She cornered him in the kitchen, one hand on his shoulder, the other squeezing his arm.
Her fingers were strong. She was always stronger than she looked.
"You’re not eating,"Mrs Hudson said.
"I’m not hungry," Sherlock said.
"You’re sad."
"I’m not."
"You’re lying."
"I’m a high‑functioning sociopath. I don’t get sad."
Mrs Hudson looked at him. That expression.
The one that said I know what you’re saying, but I don’t believe you.
She had seen too much. Forty years in this flat, people coming and going.
She had watched Sherlock go from a thin, neurotic young man who locked himself in his room for three days at a time, to the thin, neurotic, but at least outside adult he was now.
"You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met," Mrs Hudson said. "Because you can’t even be bothered to pretend."
She turned and took eggs, butter, flour out of the fridge.
She started making his favourite dish — not because he had told her, but because over three years she had observed which dish made him eat an extra few spoonfuls.
That evening she brought it to him.
Shepherd’s pie. The mashed potatoes baked to a golden brown, the edges just slightly blackened.
He ate three bites.
Mrs Hudson didn’t say "see, you were hungry". She just cleared the plate, washed up, and on her way upstairs patted his shoulder.
"Go to bed early," she said.
Sherlock sat in his chair. The fire was burning. It was raining outside.
He remembered that John was at Mary’s flat tonight. Tomorrow too. The last night before the wedding that John would spend at 221B was the day after tomorrow.
He stood up. Walked to the wardrobe. Pulled it open.
The best man’s suit hung there.
He reached out and touched the fabric on the shoulder. Soft. Cool.
He pressed his forehead against the suit’s shoulder.
The fabric absorbed the warmth of his breath. Gave nothing back.
He stood there. For a very long time.
Long enough for the fire to sink three inches. Long enough for the rain outside to stop and start again. Long enough for his knees to begin to ache.
He did not move.
He was thinking: The day after tomorrow, this suit will be worn.
He would put it on. He would stand by the altar. He would watch John — wearing the other suit, same style, a size smaller — walk towards Mary.
He would smile. He would say "I will" — not as the groom, but as the best man. As the friend. As the backup.
Then he would take this suit off and hang it back in the wardrobe.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would throw it away. Maybe he would burn it.
Maybe he would pack it in a box and shove it under the bed and never open it again.
But he knew. He knew he would not throw it away. He would not burn it.
He would hang it back in the wardrobe, close the door, and every morning when he opened it for a shirt, his gaze would brush over it.
Day after day. Year after year.
Until it became just an ordinary suit.
Until it was no longer "the best man’s suit", no longer "the same style as John’s formal suit", no longer "the thing Mary brought".
Until it was just a dark grey, wool‑blend jacket that he sometimes wore.
No. He wouldn’t wear it. He would just let it hang there.
Like a door he would never push open, but also never close.
He straightened up. Closed the wardrobe.
Went back to bed.
The walls aged. The building settled. The crack spread.
He was thinking: The day after tomorrow, I will stand there too. Wearing that suit. Standing beside John. Then John will walk away. Walk towards someone else.
And he would stay where he was.
He closed his eyes.
In the darkness he saw John’s face.
Smiling. Eyes narrowed. Fine lines at the corners. The left corner of his mouth higher than the right.
He fell asleep inside that smile.
Ten
The night before the wedding.
John came back.
With the excuse of "one last night".
"I want to sleep here," John said.
He stood in the sitting room doorway, holding an overnight bag, wearing an old jumper with a collar that had gone loose, showing a sliver of collarbone.
Sherlock sat in his chair. The fire was lit.
He was holding a book — something about tobacco fermentation — that he had started three days ago and was still on chapter one.
"You have to get up early tomorrow," Sherlock said without looking up. "You should go back."
"I can get up early tomorrow too," John said. "From here."
He didn’t wait for an answer. He went upstairs. Footsteps. A door opening. A door closing.
Sherlock put down the book.
He looked at the fire. The flames jumped. Wood crackled. The room was warm. But his fingers were cold.
He stood up. Walked to the wardrobe.
He didn’t open it. Just placed his hand on the handle.
Metal. Cold.
He heard John moving around upstairs.
From the bed to the door. From the door to the window. From the window back to the bed.
Then silence.
He opened the wardrobe.
The best man’s suit hung there. Dark grey. Silent.
Same style as John’s suit. One size larger.
He reached out and touched the chest of the suit.
A boutonnière was supposed to go there. White. Small. Inconspicuous.
He thought of that fantasy.
A boutonnière made of a heart. Still beating.
One beat. Two beats. Three beats.
Each beat saying: He’s alive. He’s still here. He hasn’t left yet.
But he would leave. Tomorrow.
Dressed in that other suit — same style, different size — he would walk towards someone else.
Then he would take that suit off. Put on another.
Something more everyday, more his own, a jumper that didn’t need ironing.
Then he would move away.
Not a flatmate moving away. A husband moving away. A father moving away. An I’m no longer only yours moving away.
Sherlock closed the wardrobe.
He went into the sitting room. John hadn’t come down. No sound from upstairs. Maybe he was asleep.
Sherlock sat in his chair. The fire had sunk. He didn’t add more wood.
He sat there. Looking towards the wardrobe.
The door was closed. But the best man’s suit was inside.
He closed his eyes.
In the darkness he heard John’s breathing.
Not really — the walls of 221B weren’t that thin.
But he had memorised the rhythm. Fourteen breaths a minute. Resting state. John was asleep.
Sherlock opened his eyes.
He stood up. Walked upstairs.
Stood outside John’s door.
The door was closed. No light came through the crack.
He stood there. Did not knock.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. Maybe minutes. Maybe an hour.
Then he turned. Went downstairs. Back to his chair.
The remains of the fire glowed. Dark red.
Like a heart that hadn’t quite died.
He watched those embers until they turned to ash.
Outside, the sky began to lighten.
Eleven
— John’s Interlude: The Last Night —
I didn’t fall asleep.
I lay in bed, listening to the sounds downstairs.
He came upstairs. Stopped outside my door. Didn’t knock. Stayed for a long time. Then he went back down.
I knew it was him.
Not Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson’s steps are lighter.
His steps are heavier. And he pauses.
At the stair landing, he always pauses.
I don’t know why.
Maybe he’s looking at that watercolour painting. Maybe he’s listening — listening to see if I’m still awake.
I was awake.
I’m always awake.
I wanted to open the door.
I wanted to say: Come in. I know you’re standing there.
But I didn’t.
Because I was afraid.
Afraid that if he came in, I would say something I shouldn’t.
Afraid that he would say something I couldn’t bear.
Afraid that the paper‑thin membrane between us — the translucent thing we had both been so carefully maintaining for three years — would rip on this last night.
Tomorrow is my wedding.
Tomorrow I’ll put on that suit.
I’ll stand at the altar.
I’ll watch Mary walk towards me.
I’ll say "I will".
I’ll become someone else’s husband.
And he’ll stand beside me. Wearing that best man’s suit. Same style. Different size.
Parallel lines. Never meeting.
I turned over and buried my face in the pillow.
The pillow smelled of him. His laundry detergent. The lavender kind Mrs Hudson buys.
I’ve always lived here.
Even after I moved out, I’ve always lived here.
My toothbrush is still downstairs. My shoes are still by the doormat. My heart —
I stopped thinking.
I closed my eyes.
In the darkness I saw his face.
In the tailor’s shop. His fingertips touched my collar. Less than half a second.
But he didn’t pull back. I stepped back first.
I always step back first.
Because I’m afraid.
Afraid he won’t step back. Afraid he’ll step forward. Afraid he’ll do something that neither of us can undo.
After tomorrow, I won’t have to be afraid.
After tomorrow, he’ll step back even further.
And so will I. We’ll become the kind of — occasional tea, occasional text, occasional crime‑scene encounter — old friends.
Old friends.
The words tasted like a rotten tooth in my mouth. Sour. Rough. Painful.
But I didn’t pull it out.
I kept it.
Just as he keeps that best man’s suit.
Hanging in the wardrobe. Dark grey. Silent. Like a door that will never be pushed open.
Twelve
Wedding day. Dawn. 6:10 a.m.
Sherlock hadn’t slept. He sat in his chair, facing the window.
The curtains were open. The London sky was grey‑blue, like an old piece of cloth washed too many times.
The rain had stopped. The cloud ceiling was low, pressing down on the city like a blanket too heavy.
He stood up. Walked to the wardrobe.
Pulled the door open.
The best man’s suit hung there. Dark grey. Same style as John’s suit. One size larger.
He took it down.
The hanger slid off the rail with a faint creak.
He laid the suit on the bed.
Shirt. Waistcoat. Jacket. Trousers. Tie.
And a belt — he hadn’t noticed a belt before.
Mary’s thoughtfulness. Or the tailor’s. It didn’t matter.
He began to dress.
Shirt. First button. Second. Third.
His fingers trembled. Not from cold.
Because he knew that once this suit was on, he would go to the church.
He would stand by the altar.
He would watch John — in the other suit, same style, a size smaller — walk towards someone else.
Waistcoat. He tightened the strap at the back. Too tight. He loosened it a little.
Jacket. He put it on. The fabric slid over his arms, his shoulders, his chest. Fitted his body. Like a second skin.
He stood before the mirror.
The man in the mirror wore a dark grey formal suit.
The tie was knotted — he had done it himself. Very tight, tight enough to choke.
He adjusted it. Loosened it a little.
He looked down and fixed his cuffs. No cufflinks.
Mary’s gift — a pair of dark blue cufflinks — lay in his drawer. He hadn’t worn them.
He didn’t want to wear anything from Mary.
He wore his own. Silver. Old. John had once said, "Those look good."
When had he said it? Sherlock couldn’t remember.
But he remembered the tone. Casual. Offhand.
As if saying "nice weather" or "the tea’s gone cold".
But Sherlock remembered.
He had stored that sentence in the drawer with no label — alongside the stubble, the laughter, the skin at the back of John’s neck.
He raised his head. Looked at the mirror.
The man in the mirror looked back.
Then the man in the mirror began to change.
Shoulders broader. Height shorter. Hair lighter. Face rounder.
The man in the mirror became John.
Wearing the groom’s formal suit. Tie crooked.
"What are you doing?" John asked.
Sherlock said, "Getting dressed."
"You’re ready," John said.
"Yes."
"Then let’s go."
"Go."
"What are you afraid of?"
Sherlock looked at John in the mirror.
That smile. That tenderness. That careful, fragile expression — like stroking something breakable.
"That you won’t be there," Sherlock said.
John laughed. "I’m always there."
"Where?"
"Next to you."
Sherlock blinked.
The mirror returned to normal.
Only himself. Wearing the best man’s suit. Tie knotted very tight. Cufflinks silver. Old.
He took a deep breath.
Then he heard Mrs Hudson shout from downstairs: "The car is here!"
He turned. Left the bedroom. Went down the stairs.
Past the watercolour painting. Past the wall clock. Past Mrs Hudson’s red‑rimmed eyes.
He walked out the door.
The London air was damp.
The rain had stopped. A crack in the clouds let through a ray of sunlight, falling on the wet pavement like a golden road to the church.
He got into the car. The car moved.
He looked out the window. The streets slid backwards. The bakery. The chemist.
The Chinese restaurant they had gone to once.
The Italian restaurant John had said was "too bad, never again".
He thought: This suit. I’m wearing it. I’m wearing it to John’s wedding.
I’m the best man.
I’m the one who stands beside the altar and watches John walk towards someone else.
The car stopped. The church was there.
He got out. Straightened his tie.
Then he walked inside.
— End of Upper Part —