A Night Like This

Sherlock's face hurt. He'd never thought it could be so painful to smile, but it had been worth it. The wedding had been good, great indeed, he had held his best man-speech without making a complete fool of himself; his gift, the waltz, had been well received and apparently John's dancing had been bearable. Not to forget that he'd been able to solve two of their old cases and he had caught a murderer. (And they had saved a man's life, ok.)

Despite the warm summer night Sherlock shivered and turned his collar up and he was glad he brought the Belstaff with him.

Sherlock straightened his back and strode towards the gate; he tried to concentrate on his task, getting back to London. He couldn't stay at the hotel, couldn't watch them any longer. They were all so happy, so cheerful; he would only disturb the good mood.

Too many people, the music too loud, the lights too bright - he needed to get away, his hands and legs were itching nervously, he needed to move, now!

He couldn't shake off Mycroft's nagging about a "new era" and Mrs. Hudson's babble about how much the marriage will change everything.

He knew it, of course he knew. John had found a new companion, a better one. John loved Mary and she loved John, so everything was fine. Sherlock was fine, too; of course he was. He was happy that John had found such a good and clever woman, and it was a bonus that Mary even liked him. None of John's previous girlfriends had ever liked him, so, this was exceptionally. Sherlock sighed while he walked towards the little station to find out if there would be a train anytime soon.

During the journey back to London Sherlock clung to this thought. Mary liked him; she would not try to keep John away from him. After all, they had planned the wedding almost completely at Baker Street and he had been allowed to help. And he had been able to solve some cases during the last months together with John. Not too much, but he would take whatever he could get.

Sherlock opened the door to (their) his flat and was struck by the silence. The living room was dark and cold in spite of the season and when he looked at John's empty armchair he couldn't bear it any longer. He had repressed it successfully all day but now he collapsed in despair. Wrapped in his coat he curled up in John's chair - and then he cried, let go the tears, just for a moment he couldn't help; then Sherlock went very still, eventually he straightened up and headed to his bedroom.

Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage. John had Mary now; soon they would have a baby, a proper family. It would be too dangerous for a family man, a father, to dash with him through the streets of London, chasing criminals, and a bleary-eyed John wouldn't be helpful at all. He had to be realistic. Gradually John's visits would become increasingly rare, Mary would withdraw more and more when the pregnancy progresses, and eventually they would stop entirely. Every now and then an email, a text message, that would be all what would remain to him. Better he got used to it right now. He had always been alone before John, he could do it again. No big deal. Alone is what I have, alone protects me.

Sherlock was lying in his bed. He had stared at the ceiling for more than four hours now. His head was spinning around and he tried to process all the feelings but somehow it won't work.

He had always known that John would leave him some day. Everybody had left him finally.

During the two years when he'd been 'dead' he had told himself again and again that he would return to John, that John would wait for him. Stupid! He'd been so stupid! John hadn't known that he'd been alive, so of course he hadn't waited – for what? He had moved on, as Mycroft called it. And it was fine, John deserved to be happy. And Mary was really good for John – oh god, his mind was swirling. 'Round and round the garden - like a teddy bear.'

Sherlock smiled wearily at that thought, then his mind leaped back to last night. John had hugged him during his speech; he remembered the warmth of John, his smell. Sherlock had been so overwhelmed, he hadn't d been able to return the hug, but he still could feel it. It had been the first time John had hugged him, and probably the last time, so Sherlock tried to lock away the feeling in his mindpalace. He knew he wouldn't be able to delete it, but if he could lock it away safely it wouldn't hurt so much.

For a short period of time he'd managed to be John's best friend and it had been the best time of his life, but these days were over and now it was his turn to move on. He could do that, he had to.

Sherlock tried to draw his thoughts on something else.

Tea. Oh, no tea today, Mrs. Hudson had stayed at the hotel for the night. He could get up and make some tea on his own. No, boring.

Cigarettes! Sherlock was almost at the bedroom-door when he stopped dead. The cigarettes were in the living room, beneath the sofa, in the Persian slipper. He would have to cross the living room, passing John's armchair. Sherlock wasn't sure how to deal with that at the moment made a turn back.

After a stop at the bathroom Sherlock returned to his bedroom with no intentions to ever leave it again. Thankfully he had his mobile and his laptop. He turned on the phone, five new messages, four from John and the last one was from Mary. Sherlock frowned and opened the text messages.

- Where are you? JW –

- You ok? JW –

- Would you please answer your phone? JW –

- SHERLOCK, what happened? ANSWER YOUR BLOODY PHONE! JW –

- Sherlock, are you all right? John is so worried, please call him back. MW –

Sherlock's frown deepened. John and Mary were supposed to be on their honeymoon - disgusting - right now and not to text him. The last message came almost one hour ago, they must be at the airport now or they would miss the flight.

- I'm fine and at home. Enjoy your holidays, Mycroft graded it up a bit, it's his present, or at least it

was his credit card. SH –

He turned off the phone with a small smirk and it slid to the floor. Let them go, Sherlock.

Slowly and thoroughly he began to search through his locker, he was sure the little wooden box had been somewhere here. There it was! With a gleam of triumph in his eyes he sat down on his bed and caressed the finely engraved lid. This would help to sooth his mind and to numb the pain. He opened the box and stared in disbelief - it was empty. Empty!? Mycroft! You ...

With a cry of rage and despair Sherlock smashed the little box to pieces and dropped onto the bed, totally exhausted.

Four days later Sherlock hadn't left his bedroom at all, or just for the bathroom. Mrs. Hudson regularly brought him some tea and food, but he hardly ate anything and refused to speak. Most times he pretended to sleep. He hadn't answered his phone or his mails and at one point Mycroft came over to check on him - tedious.

Sherlock ignored his surrounding; he had withdrawn into his mind palace and refused to get out again. Here he could be with John, here John was with him; here life was bearable.

Warm hands were cupping his face and caressing his cheeks now and Sherlock sighed in relief. "John," he whispered, "my John."

The hands stilled and a hesitant voice asked: "Sherlock? Are you awake?"

Sherlock froze. This was not his John in his mind palace; this was the real John, Mary's John.

And John could feel how Sherlock tensed up and clenched his jaw, so he continued to stroke and caress Sherlock's face and the mop of dark curls while he spoke.

"Sherlock, tell me what it is. We were so worried. You left our wedding without a word, without a trace, only Molly saw you leaving - and this time I asked her," he added with a wry smile. "And you didn't answer your phone for days on end. Even Mycroft was stumped and Mrs. H. was quite beside herself."

Delicately John brushed the curls from Sherlock's face. "Please, Sherlock, look at me."

But Sherlock squeezed his eyes even more, if that was possible, and shook his head lightly. He felt humiliated and was horrified that John had found him like this. John shouldn't be here at all; he was supposed to be with Mary somewhere on a tiny island at a white sandy beach.

Mary! Sherlock jerked at the thought of her, seeing him like this. Mary would see through him immediately, she would know in an instant, and then she wouldn't want to see him ever again, she wouldn't let John see Sherlock ever again.

Sherlock panicked. He started to shake and his breathing became erratic. John was startled, he'd never seen Sherlock like this before and he wasn't sure how to help him. Very gentle he removed his hands and instead he started to whisper quietly.

"It's ok, Sherlock, I'm here, I'm with you. Sherlock, you need to breathe. Just listen to me, listen to my breathing."

John's warm breath grazed Sherlock's face as he leaned forward and deliberately breathed for him so Sherlock would have a rhythm to focus on and match. "That's good, Sherlock, keep breathing," John whispered again.

Their foreheads were touching slightly and the realization hit John suddenly with the force of a sledgehammer. Oh my God, he had been so blind! All the little hints, the things Sherlock had done and said over the last months. And even before he ... he'd done it because he had loved him - still loved him. Mary was right, of course she was, but he'd ignored her, because he couldn't believe, he didn't want to believe, not after all this time. Because he'd been a coward.

"Oh my god," John gasped. His hands cupped Sherlock's face again and John pressed their foreheads together. "Oh my god, Sherlock. I'd never ... I, I ... you were always ... you ... " His voice cracked.

Sherlock did not dare to open his eyes, he was afraid of what he would see in John's face. "I'm sorry John," he whispered desperately. "I'm so sorry, really, John. I will never mention, nobody will know. But please, please, please, John, let me see you again. Just now and then and only on your terms, with Mary, whatever you want, but please ..." Sherlock sobbed now and his face was wet.

It took John a moment to understand what Sherlock was talking about and another to decide what to do.

"Shhhhh, Sherlock, shhhhh." John's hands were still on Sherlock's face; his thumbs wiped away the steady stream of tears. "It's all right, Sherlock, it's all right."

Sherlock had recovered a bit and stirred backwards, away from John. "No, it's not, I know," he whispered hoarse, "but I can pull myself together. I always did. Please forget what happened, it will never -"

"Sherlock, stop it." John cut him off and Sherlock stilled completely.

"Sherlock, I really need you to open your eyes now and to look at me," John insisted and a jerk went through Sherlock, he seemed to straighten up inwardly and obeyed.

John hesitated just a moment, and then he lowered his face slowly and kissed Sherlock delicately. Sherlock did not shy away, so John continued to cover his face with small, light kisses. Sherlock stared at him. "But, John, Mary. John you are married and -"

John cut him off again. "Oh, Mary knows. She knew it the moment she saw you, or rather she saw us together. She asked me a few weeks ago, but I told her, that you were never interested in these things and - she laughed so hard she almost choked," he added with a wry smile. "I didn't believe her; I suppressed and ignored it successful, until today."

Sherlock smiled back tentatively. "And she's ok with - this?"

"Would I be here otherwise? Sherlock, we have canceled our honeymoon because we were worried about you - we both were." John cleared his voice. "And what you said in your speech at our wedding, that you love me -" Sherlock blushed furiously and John continued with a smile. "I love you too, and if you want me, if you're ready to share, than I'm yours." The flat was very quiet and John felt the urge to reassure Sherlock.

"But Sherlock, whatever will happen I promise that you will never be alone, ok? I promise."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to give John a bright and genuine smile and finally, finally they shared their first deep and wonderful kiss.