Work Text:
Sherlock reclined against the beech, a cigarette burning between his fingers, watching stars slowly emerge above the wedding lights. Music drifted across the lawn, followed by distant laughter.
He had stood at another wedding years before. Mary luminous in ivory, John beside her, gazing at her as Sherlock had spent years teaching himself never to hope John might gaze at him.
Sherlock had left early and alone while John danced with Mary beneath chandeliers, using borrowed steps from stolen afternoons.
Those were moments of bittersweet happiness: John’s palm against his, his other hand uncertain on Sherlock’s shoulder, their bodies negotiating distance until music invited closeness. Sherlock cherished every stumble that brought John back into his arms.
Smoke curled from his mouth into the dark.
John loved him openly now, speaking his name in darkness as though it meant something eternal. Still, Sherlock sometimes stood at the window of his own life, unable to trust the fire after surviving so long on an imagined warmth.
The sea between them tonight felt enormous.
His fingers were trembling, or the cigarette was.
Nathaniel Hawthorne once wrote, I feel myself unworthy of your love. But if I am worthy of it you will always love me; and if there be anything good and pure in me, it will be proved by my always loving you.