A/N: Awkay, this idea hit me out of nowhere and now it's taken over my head. Sooo, here it is.

WARNINGS: SLASH. Sadness. Feels ahoy?

DISCLAIMER: Oh boy, if I DID own anything I wouldn't have to wait on pins and needles to see what series 4 brings.

Alright, then. Because I'm determined to not chicken out, let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

The Last Dance

Sherlock Holmes hated weddings. That was what he decided when he finally made it home after leaving John and Mary's wedding early. He slammed the door heavily, feeling a tiny hint of pleasure at the way it moaned under his violence.

The brief, pale hint of satisfaction was, however, in no way enough to erase the sight of the happy couple dancing together, clearly overjoyed at the start of their own little family.

Sherlock groaned, rubbing his face much too roughly with both hands. Which also wasn't enough to erase all those things that he was quite eager to get well and throughoutly out of his head. He was already contemplating what to throw at the wall when the flat's door opened.

Sherlock growled, his left eyebrow twitching. He definitely wasn't in the mood for one of those well meaning interrogation sessions. "Mrs. Hudson, could you just…" Already whirling around he froze with uncharacteristic shock upon facing the arrival.

For there at the doorway, somehow appearing uncertain and furiously determined all at once, stood Dr. John Watson. Shifting weight restlessly from one foot to another, clearing his throat. A steel hard resolve in his eyes.

Sherlock blinked twice. "John? Aren't you and Mary supposed to be on your way to the honeymoon?" The word burned on his tongue like no acid ever could've.

John checked the time. "Not in another two hours." The soldier's face spoke of sincere concern while the man observed him. "I do hope you realize that it's very rude for a best man to leave the wedding early."

This time it was Sherlock's turn to fidget with discomfort, which felt foreign to him. It wasn't like him to be affected like that. He wasn't himself at all today, it seemed. "Apologies", he resorted to in the end, a little proud of how resigned his voice managed to sound. Yes, that was the high functioning sociopath he was supposed to be. He began to turn away, coming to a realization that otherwise he'd never be able to stop casting glimpses towards John's wedding ring. "Now why don't you cut this pity call short and go back to your wife? I'm sure that she's wondering where you disappeared off to."

"This isn't a pity call, Sherlock."

It came out with such ferocity that Sherlock just had to look. Instantly, instinctively, he observed all the signs. Pupils blown wide. A slight blush, without a doubt caused by elevated blood pressure. New wrinkles on forehead, a clear sign of emotional turmoil. A twitch in left hand.

Sherlock's mouth opened but for once all words disappeared from him.

Clearly noticing that he had the detective's attention John breathed in deep. "I… I noticed how you kept staring at the dance floor. You never did get your dance, did you?"

Sherlock groaned, feeling humiliated, pained and, against all reason, hopeful. He made a very sharp mental note to strangle his brother later. "Whatever Mycroft told you…"

John chuckled. Somehow it sounded far more choked up than it should've. "Unlike you seem to imagine Holmes' aren't the only ones able to pull off a solid deduction every once in a while."

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what happened next. It was unclear which one of them moved or if it was the very gravity of the universe that pulled them together. But all of a sudden he had John in his arms and the smaller man fit there so well that it hurt.

(He was getting quite done with hurting for the day, thank you very much.)

"The curtains aren't closed", he pointed out, his usual baritone husky and a touch deeper than usual.

It was impossible to identify the brief sound the erupted from John. The doctor's face had been turned in a way that made it impossible for him to see the man's expression. "Shut up, you git", John murmured.

Sherlock, miraculously, did just that. He tightened his hold on the former soldier and buried his face into the man's hair. As he inhaled the familiar scent it was deviously easy to imagine that maybe, just maybe, things were still the same, after all.

Then, of course, John had to ruin it all with speaking. "I'm sorry", the doctor whispered in a strange, agonized voice. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear the words or not. "That I came. But I… I had to. I owed that much." To you. To us.

(How befitting, since 'I owe you a fall' started the entire nightmare in the first place.)

"Why?" Why the hell are you doing this to yourself? To me?

"Because I needed to give you the chance to let go."

Somehow, incredible as it may sound, Sherlock understood. But he wasn't ready to take up on John's offer yet. Instead he kept holding on tighter, nearly desperately, while they kept swaying to a music only the two of them could hear.

It was impossible to tell how long passed. A minute. One hour. A day. Years. Neither of them cared, really. For that stolen while they lingered in a world of their own, where time itself had stopped to the second before a fateful phone call. Where it was still just the two of them against the rest of the world.

There, lost in the moment, Sherlock allowed himself to imagine a different reality.

A world where he'd never burned John's heart. A world where they'd realized that the affections they both harbored were mutual before it was too late. A world where the only time either of them acted on their screaming physical desires wasn't a drunken, fumbling hand during a stag night. But even though John fell in love with him the moment he deduced the man's whole life and Sherlock did the same upon realizing that the doctor killed a man to save his life the real world wasn't a fair place. Still, Sherlock dreamt.

"Uh, Sherlock…" John's voice held amusement, ache and irritation. Somehow the mixture came out as a soothing caress that would've made anyone feel warm inside. "Whatever you're thinking about right now… Please stop. You're making this harder than this already is." He heard, even though he didn't see, the doctor's wince. "Sorry. A bad choice of words."

Sherlock felt the radiant blush that took over his face and was suddenly glad that they weren't meeting eye to eye. Despite his best efforts his transport didn't seem to have any intention of listening to him. Not with his blogger's warm body pressed against him. "Shut up", he growled although it was far from what he wanted John to do. A lot of quite filthy thoughts rolled into his head and it did nothing to ease his… problem.

Well, the sound of John's cell phone receiving a text message certainly helped, for he knew who it was.

John swallowed loudly. The doctor's fingers tightened on his shirt, pleading, frantic. They both knew why.

As soon as they'd let go they'd never be like this again.

In that moment, feeling John tremble against him while two equally powerful urges raged over control inside the soldier, Sherlock said that most selfless thing he'd ever uttered. "Go, John. I'd assume that it's rude of a husband to keep the wife waiting on their wedding night."

"What about you?" John whispered barely audibly.

Sherlock shrugged. "I've done quite well alone most of my life. I'll be fine."

At that John pulled away from him, just enough to look at him. There was something breathtakingly stern in the man's eyes. "Listen to me, for once in your life. I may be married now but you'll never, ever be alone again. I'll always be in your life."

Just not in the way the detective would've craved. Because whatever they could've been exploded to pieces the moment John watched Sherlock crash down to pavement and this was what they'd have to make do with, now.

They finally looked at each other with suspiciously moist eyes, neither speaking because there were no words for such a situation. At that moment John did something that, for a moment, stunned them both. The doctor pulled Sherlock close and kissed him, so softly and tenderly that it was like a feather had touched his lips. Instantly Sherlock knew to take the gesture for what it was.

A goodbye.

And sure enough, when his eyes finally fluttered open John was already gone. The man's key to the flat that once was theirs had been left to the living room's table. It wasn't until then Sherlock finally allowed a single tear to fall, knowing full well that on the other side of 221B's door John did the same. The sound of the doctor's steps walking away was the most painful thing Sherlock had ever heard.

In the cold, lonely and dark hours of the night Sherlock played the saddest melody he'd ever composed. Letting go, once and for all, of those dreams that a stupid, pathetic part of him had dared to develop. And felt old monsters stirring to life inside him.

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been'."

(John Greenleaf Whittier)

End.

A/N: Well, now that was sad. And the saddest part is, indeed, to know that things will never be the same between those two. All because of Moriarty.

Soooo… Thoughts? Comments? Feel free to leave those at the box down below. It'd make me INCREDIBLY happy to hear from you.

I've really gotta head to bed now. (yawns) Than you so much for reading! Who knows, maybe we'll be meeting again.

Take care!