Not Talking Now That You're Here

Chapter Three

It is the red line, across which he had promised himself he wouldn't go.

That is the problem with executive functioning— it always seems to abandon him just when he needs it the most. He is not even aware of crossing the line until hours later, when he sees it miles behind him.

Needs must. Sherlock has already used up everything else, getting ready for John's appearance. But three nicotine patches under the long sleeved shirt, and a strong black coffee are not even making a dent in his lethargy, so he raids his stash under the bathroom sink. The drug cocktail—a combination of 4F-MPH and cocaine—is enough to get him shaved, washed, dressed and vaguely presentable, in his camel cashmere dressing gown.

On the spur of the moment, he defrosts an eyeball in the microwave and makes up a series of experiments on the optic nerve so that he will appear to be busy. Must not appear to be depressed. Appearances are everything, and he is a past master at disguising what he is really thinking when in the presence of John Watson.

As this is his first occasion of taking the 4F-MPH, he writes a few notes about it, under the guise of the eyeball work. It is one of the latest modified ritalins, apparently 2-3 times more potent. Although he isn't feeling much of that yet, it promises longer duration of action and with a more forgiving comedown compared to the parent molecule. If he gets lucky, Lestrade might call with a case just as John is with him, so he wants to plan ahead for the possibility of spending five or six hours in John's company. That idea alone is enough stimulation to get his endorphins going.

One reported side effect is dehydration, so he fixes himself a mug of tea, in anticipation. Unlike cocaine, 4F-MPH has the virtue of still being seen as a legal high. Not that the distinction would have any meaning to the various people who like to think that his sobriety or lack of it is a matter of their concern. Still, 4F-MPH is simpler to manufacture and therefore lower in cost- both financial and in terms of sources attracting unwanted attention. This is not the stuff sold by street corner dealers.

It does take rather longer to come into effect, however, while the joys of IV cocaine are more instantaneous.

Sherlock is not a patient man. So he starts things off with just a small bump of seven percent solution. The 4F-MPH will counter-act the pupil dilation of cocaine- so he'll look less under the influence. A win-win solution.

When he hears the front door onto Baker Street banging closed, his heart rate jumps. Partly the effect of the drugs now hitting peak perfection, but he also knows that adrenaline is playing a role, too. John does that to him, even now. A voice in his Mind Palace that sounds like Mycroft sneers "how pathetic, but he chooses to ignore it. The euphoric stimulation of drugs combined with John just overrides any residual inhibitions. He is determined to enjoy this opportunity; he's had too little of that pleasure lately.

But when the hoped for footsteps on the stairs do not materialise, he grumpily walks to the landing to listen. John is talking to Mrs Hudson downstairs in her kitchen. Jealous of his John time spent being with another, Sherlock sniffs and marches back into the flat's kitchen. He slips on the safety goggles that he never wears unless John is there to chastise him. Lighting the blow torch creates a roar that extinguishes the sound of her raucous laughter. Sherlock rather savagely stabs at the eyeball with his tongs and starts to incinerate the optic nerve.

When John comes into the flat's living room, Sherlock asks rather abruptly, "What was that noise downstairs?" Even to his ears, he sounds petulant and jealous.

"Er, it was Mrs Hudson laughing."

"Sounded like she was torturing an owl." He's not sure why he chose that analogy; he's never tortured a bird, nor heard of one being tortured. It just slips out of his mouth.

"Yeah, well, it was laughter."

Relieved that John isn't reacting to such a weird statement, Sherlock adds rather defensively, "Could have been both."

"Busy?"

"Just occupying myself. Sometimes it is…" Sherlock looks up at the ceiling with a histrionic sigh, "…so-o-o hard not smoking." He hopes that John will put any oddities in his behaviour down to nicotine withdrawal. He is sure that John will remember how extreme his behaviour had been when he'd tried to quit before, just as they'd gone off to Baskerville. Misdirection might mask the effects of the two drugs beating a delicious rhythm in his bloodstream. He can just feel the dopamine levels starting to climb. Bliss.

For the first time in several days, Sherlock is close to feeling normal—well, as normal as he is capable of feeling these days. Waving the eyeball around to illustrate his point has a drawback, however, as it falls out of the tongs and drops into Sherlock's mug of tea with a splash. A surprised "Oh" is all he can muster.

To his credit, John doesn't laugh, so Sherlock doesn't either. Now that the drugs are working he is able to focus his attention. Sherlock can pick up the social cues, and mirror behaviour. He starts to relax, until he looks more closely at the expression on John's face.

In fact, John looks rather serious, a deduction confirmed when he goes on to ask, "Mind if I interrupt?"

So, he wants a formal invitation? Is that what their relationship has become? An electric jolt of doubt creeps in to dull Sherlock's euphoria. Where is the ease that had once allowed the two men to live side by side without worrying about conventions and social niceties? Stifling a sigh, Sherlock gestures to the chair at the end of the kitchen table. "Be my guest."

If that is how John wants to play things, Sherlock's drug-induced civility can play along. He could do this sort of thing. He switches off the blow torch, picks up the mug of tea and offers it to John. "Tea?" he said brightly, hoping that he's found the right balance between upbeat and manic.

John seems amused but declines the offer, so Sherlock puts his mug down and takes off his safety googles. As it was John's decision to visit, Sherlock knows that the rules of conversation mean that he should wait for John to start.

"So. The big question."

John says that phrase in a portentous tone, almost as if he's rehearsed it. Sherlock freezes. He lacks enough data to be certain what the big question is about. Has the doctor seen the fact that he is high? Is he going to ask why? He offers a noncommittal "Mm-hm" as a way to stall. He tries to still his thudding heartbeat, to stay calm. It would not do to run to the worst case scenario.

John clasps his hands together in front of him on the table- a formal posture, which Sherlock deduces is masking nervousness. Why is John nervous? The fact that he can't deduce the answer to that question makes Sherlock nervous, too.

"The best man."

Sherlock's confusion deepens. John is clearly expecting him to say something in reaction to that statement, but he has absolutely no idea what he is supposed to say.

"The best man?" Retreating into repetition, Sherlock hopes that John won't accuse him of echolalia. Mycroft used to do that all the time, telling him that he would never repeat himself, as a form of corrective therapy. "You'll just have to listen better, little brother." In this case, he has listened, but that makes no difference. At least, Sherlock gives the requisite upward inflection to the end of the repeated last word, so John should realise that he is seeking clarification.

But instead of explaining, the doctor then compounds Sherlock's difficulties by asking another question. "What do you think?"

At this precise moment Sherlock's drug-fuelled brain is spinning at a hundred miles a minute considering all sorts of things. The idea of cataloging all of his thoughts to his former flatmate seems bizarre in the extreme. So he deduces that John expected him to know exactly what he was getting at, and that he expected Sherlock to have a definitive answer. In neither case is the doctor's expectation valid.

Sherlock's mouth goes dry and he wonders whether he should brave a sip from the mug of tea, despite the eyeball in it. No that wouldn't do. Deconstructing John's question, he defines best — foremost, principal, unexcelled, peerless— and realises that the doctor wants his opinion about who is the man who conforms to this ideal. Utterly floored for a moment, he blurts out the first thing that comes into his mind when he puts the adjective best together with the noun man.

"Billy Kincaid."

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock's grammar check programme slips to the front of his mind, and he has to bite his tongue so that he doesn't blurt out "not a what, a who." Instead, he repeats that Billy Kincaid, the Camden Garotter was the best man he'd ever known.

For some reason, this provokes a frown from John, and Sherlock worries. Has he said something wrong? Is John hoping that Sherlock would say that John was the best man he'd ever known? It is true, but he's not deduced this as the motive behind John's question. Sherlock tries to swallow, and finds that he does not have enough saliva to make it possible. Why would John be fishing for compliments in this way?

Digging deeper into the hole he's made for himself, Sherlock elaborates rapidly, "Personally managed to save three hospitals from closure and ran the best and safest children's homes in north England."

Somehow this answer doesn't satisfy the doctor, who scrubs his fingers over his eyes. Sherlock has come to associate this gesture with a feeling of frustration and impatience, but for the life of him, he cannot figure out what is provoking this reaction from John.

It all depends on what John means by "best", of course. Sherlock has surmised that John's moral compass tolerates some criminality (after all, he had shot Jeff Hope) so long as the ends are deemed to be worthwhile. And while Kincaid had some issues with particular individuals whom he dispatched with a cheese wire, the man had single-handedly saved three hospitals from closure. That should have appealed to the doctor in John, but it has not. All this is deduced in a split second.

He tries again. "Yes, every now and again there'd be some garrottings, but stacking up the lives saved against the garrottings, on balance I'd say ..."

John interrupts, saying forcefully "For my wedding! For me. I need a best man."

Sherlock thinks about this and comes up blank. What man would be best in the context of a wedding? He knows nothing about weddings, having never attended a single one in his life. He buys himself a little time by offering a non-committal, "Oh, right." It's one of his scripted responses, offered when he really hasn't a clue what is going on but deduces that some response, some acknowledgement is needed that the other person is in charge of the conversation.

It is a form of begging for more explanation, which John promptly gives. "Maybe not a garrotter."

So, Sherlock deduces that this person needs to be someone who will be attending John and Mary's wedding. That eliminates a large number of possible candidates, so he starts with one whom he knows John respects.

"Gavin?"

"Who?"

"Gavin Lestrade? He's a man, and good at it?" As he said it, even to his ears, the statement sounds odd—it betrays the fact that he has no idea what would be "best" in the context of a wedding guest. Is this some strange ritual, choosing someone amongst the guests who should be seen as "best"? Still, at least John knows Lestrade. However, this sends Sherlock's mind ricocheting off in another direction. How does one choose who to invite to one's wedding? What are the criteria? Perhaps Mary does not want a detective inspector attending her wedding. Is this the reason why John's face suddenly looks pained? Sherlock feels like he is watching a foreign film in a language he doesn't know, without the benefit of subtitles. A thin wedge of anxiety begins to take the edge off his euphoria.

John flexes his clasped fingers and looks back down at the table top, his annoyance evident even to Sherlock in his befuddled state. "It's Greg. And he's not my best friend." At this last phrase, John looks back up at Sherlock, with a trace of a smirk, as if he is amused by the way the conversation was going.

Sherlock has Lestrade's first name on permanent delete, for professional reasons*, so he ignores that part of John's statement. Instead he realises that John has just given him the key criterion, so he gives a long "Oh," as if in sudden comprehension, following it with, "Mike Stamford, I see. Well, he's nice, um, though I'm not sure how well he'd cope with all ..." He is about to add in "his teaching commitments in the USA this term." Stamford is on research leave in the US, at Maryland's Johns Hopkins University.

John interrupts that explanation, rather impatiently; "No, Mike's great, but he's not my best friend." He opens his hands for emphasis, and he is now sounding a tiny bit annoyed, which ratchets up the pressure on Sherlock.

Time slows to a crawl. He has little real exposure to the concept of friends, let alone best friends. He's read about the concept of friends, of course, but not had much experience. The one time he'd ventured to use the word friend to refer to John when introducing the doctor to Sebastian Wilkes, John had rejected it. Later John had been willing to endure the phrase, even used it himself occasionally, calling himself Sherlock's friend. But Sherlock's not used the word himself again, not after that correction.

Whatever he might understand about the theory of friendship, Sherlock has even less experience of the concept of a "best" friend.

He struggles to understand what might have happened in John's estimation to oust Mike Stamford from that role. Perhaps because he'd moved to the USA- out of sight, out of mind? In a blinding flash of realisation, Sherlock recognises that he knows almost nothing about what has happened to John over the previous two years. He'd been slightly facetious in his "what life? I've been away" jibe at Mycroft when his brother rubbed in the fact that John had moved on in his life. But it is true. While Sherlock was away, John has acquired a new job, a new flat, a new fiancé, so the idea of him also accumulating a new best friend is distinctly possible. Perhaps he resumed contact with his army friends, or returned to being a rugby fan; maybe one of the other doctors at the surgery has become a close friend with whom he and Mary could both socialise.

A piece of him is now seriously panicking. Is this yet another case of John pointing out to Sherlock just how much he has changed? Sherlock does not understand why else John would come to him to discuss the wedding guest list, nor who was the best male on it. He knew for certain that he would be the worst guest on the list, if in the end he can actually muster the courage to attend. Mary has already made it clear that she expects him to be there, which might also explain why John might feel an odd compulsion to talk about other invitees with him.

Sherlock has tried to explain that weddings aren't really his thing. Maybe this whole conversation is a method of telling him what standards of behaviour he will be expected to reach as a guest, or tell him that they've decided it would be better if he didn't attend. In fact, that would be a conclusion so welcome to Sherlock that he'd find it hard to disguise his relief. The process is giving him a monstrous headache, although that might be a reaction to the 4F-MPH, he decides.

Then abruptly, Sherlock is back standing beside the kitchen table, looking down at John in confusion as the man said, "Look, Sherlock, this is the biggest and most important day of my life."

He could think of at least a half dozen other more significant occasions, starting with being born, choosing to go to medical school, then John's first day in the army, or the day the doctor was shot, or even perhaps a certain day in a lab at Barts. Any one of those is a stronger candidate than an arbitrary date set for a party to celebrate two people who already lived together obtaining legal status through an obscure series of rituals. He pulls a face. "Well…"

John instantly shuts him off, pointing his finger and stating firmly, "No, it is! It is, and I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world."

Sherlock hears this, and sees the expectant look on John's face. But he doesn't understand, so he falls back on what his mother had always taught him was an acceptable stalling tactic. "Just agree, say that you understand what the other person has said, even if you are not entirely sure. That will allow them to go on and give you more information, so you can figure it out."

So, he pulls out his "Yes" and gives it to John, all the while trying to figure out who else the man loved, whom he wants to see "up there beside him" as "best" man. His sister Harry is the obvious candidate for the love, but as a woman she didn't fit the "man" part of the term. For a split second, Sherlock wondered if this is what John is being coy about- at some point over the past two years had Harry transitioned to being a man?

Sherlock decides that discretion is needed, so he waits for John to tell him.

"So, Mary Morstan ..." and then the seated man pauses, as if waiting for Sherlock to fill in the gap. Sherlock rolls out his encouraging "Yes" again—acknowledging as a given that John would say that he loved Mary. He waits for the other person's name.

For some reason, this waiting seems to irritate John, who sighs before offering "... and ..." as if prompting Sherlock to come up with a name. But Sherlock does not want to betray his ignorance about what had happened during his two years away. Either John has found a new best friend to supplant Mike Stamford, or it is Harry.

The silence lengthens. Eventually John draws in a deep breath and says, "…You."

That word stops time in its tracks. His perception of reality fractures, and he sees himself from a distance, not as one person but two, and then another split happens and there are four Sherlocks, each standing in a different corridor of his Mind Palace. Rival channels of thought occurring simultaneously, each contending for control. He's in the middle, spinning to look down each corridor and the Sherlock who was standing there. It is most disconcerting. For a moment, he panics, wondering if the drug combination has somehow provoked a psychotic break. Am I going mad?

"May I draw your attention to the fact that you seem to have lost control of your eyelids?"

He turns to see a version of him looking at him with disdain.

"Really, this sort of physical stimming is just pathetic."

Sherlock becomes aware that his eyelashes are fluttering, without any voluntary decision being made to do so.

This Sherlock's lip curls in a sneer. "Don't pretend. We both know that there's nothing wrong with your vision- you can see John's face looking at you."

It was true—John is staring at him with a strange mixture of expectancy, laced with a tinge of irritation, which slowly turns into concern, too. There is no grit in Sherlock's eye, no propensity to tears, yet the fluttering of his eyes continues.

Back in his Mind Palace, the other Sherlock has crept beside him and now whispers in his ear.

"Spontaneous eye blink rate is a marker of central dopaminergic functioning, which controls interactions between the prefrontal cortex and the basal ganglia."

Sherlock wonders, is the 4F-MPH interfering with his normal functioning in some way?

There is a disdainful sniff at his shoulder.

"Don't pretend ignorance. You've read how recreational users of cocaine can suffer from reduced dopamine D2 receptors in the striatum, which means that you need more time to inhibit responses than non-users." There is a tiny pause and then a caustic question, "What response are you trying to inhibit?"

It was a good question, and Sherlock did not have an answer. He didn't even understand the question. What was John actually asking?

"Ahem. Work it out."

This command is uttered in his own baritone. His attention pivots to the right hand corridor where one of the four Sherlocks is standing with his arms crossed and a slightly superior look on his face.

This Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It isn't rocket science. Make sense of the word 'you'."

John's use of the word had been unambiguous- he was clearly referring to Sherlock. But what did that actually mean?

"Oh, for God's sake. Work it backwards. There's Mary Morstan, whom John identified as one of the two people he wanted to be up there with."

What does that mean? Up where? No clue.

His avatar narrows his eyes and sighs pointedly. "You are not thinking logically."

He considers the other part of the phrase, "the two people that I love and care about most in the world." That both verbs applied to Mary was obvious.

Again, he gets an eye roll followed by a snarky, "If John did not love her, then he would not be marrying her. Get on with it." This version of him starts to tap his fingers and gives Sherlock a pointed look.

Bewildered, Sherlock tries to understand how he could possibly be included in that phrase.

A dry baritone echoes down the corridor of the Mind Palace, "You are distinctly unlovable, so let's just dismiss that part of the sentence as irrelevant. Narrow it down; it must be in reference to the "care about" bit. Obvious, really; after all, John was willing to shoot Jeff Hope, so he must care in some way about you."

He argues back at himself, "But why—or rather how—can that be manifested at a wedding? Does he want me there because he thinks he's protecting me from some sort of danger?"

"Clearly. After Hartswood, he thinks you've got suicidal inclinations. So he pities you enough to want to keep an eye on you while he can, before he disappears into wedded bliss. Once he's safely married to her, he can then get on with his life, without you."

"So, this is just, what? Manipulation?"

"Finally, the penny is dropping. By getting you involved in the wedding, John is looking for validation of his choice. You've participated, therefore you must approve. All the people who knew you together with him are being shown that John is doing the right thing. They will assume that you have accepted the fact that he is moving on in his life— and that's away from you, by the way."

"Does it have to end that way?" He cannot keep the despair from his question.

"I give up." The logical Sherlock stalks off down the corridor in a huff.

"Stop this! You're just making it worse!"

To his left, down the corridor another Sherlock is standing with his back turned and shoulders slumped. This one looks younger, no…he's actually in the state of mind that Sherlock had been in when he woke up this morning—confused, depressed, distressed. Is the eye blink just a return of the childhood tic he used to manifest when confronted with stressful situations?

"Don't you remember? One of those stupid doctors Mummy took us to see. He said blinking is our way of limiting visual stimuli to give our brain time to catch up when we are stressed. It's no big deal. Just another physical manifestation of our defectiveness."

This Sherlock won't turn around to look at him. In a resigned tone, he asks, "Why would John say this? What does it mean? What does he expect from us? We don't do friends, remember?"

The avatar's questions bring back memories. The whole topic of friendship has always been a minefield and he needs to try to process the intent behind John's word rather than the word itself. He is suddenly afraid— afraid of getting it wrong, making a mistake, misunderstanding what is being said and what he should be doing.

This realisation brings a slightly hysterical laugh out of the Sherlock down the corridor. He puts a hand out to the wall, as if holding himself from falling. "You're going to do what you always do, mess it up. You thought you were doing the thing that John would respect you for, the noble thing, what a friend would do to protect their friend, and look what happened. You've come home to find that you destroyed the very idea of friendship." This Sherlock's voice sounds increasingly ragged, as if he's trying not to cry. "If he's doing this now, it's because he pities you. Push him away, make a joke, laugh at how sentimental the very idea of friendship is; remind him that you are married to your work."

There is a gasp from behind Sherlock, and he turns to look down the last of the four corridors.

This Sherlock is on his knees. "Feel this? Remember it?"

Suddenly, as if someone had thrown a switch, Sherlock's senses are on full alert, riding a wave of anxiety. His stomach clenches.

Between panting breaths, the Sherlock down the corridor grunts out, "Fight or flight reaction… norephinephrine and cortisol…increasing pulse…pushing blood into muscles…deep breaths."

Behind him again, the sneering Sherlock can't resist. "Pathetic, isn't it? One word from him and you just go to pieces."

Maybe because of the visceral reactions, Sherlock's hearing now focuses in on a sound of a shoe scraping against wooden floorboard. John has started tapping his foot. Eyes focus ever so briefly on the doctor's face, and Sherlock can see that the expression is now becoming more concerned than expectant.

Sherlock's eyes zoom into focus on John's mouth as a word is uttered, which he hears as if slowed down to half speed. "Sh…er….lo…ck…" The word echoes in his hippocampus, connecting up to all the other times the man has said the word, the different intonations attached. Memories flood into the front of Sherlock's mind— his name shouted by John in despair, in fear, in exasperation, as an attempt to get his attention. Yes…that must be what John is attempting to do now. The word is given meaning, but it still doesn't allow him to break free of this fugue of contending Sherlocks, the perfect storm that has seized his brain and brought him to this state of speechlessness.

He registers the fact that John has spoken again. "That's getting a bit scary now."

If it's scary for John, it is positively terrifying for Sherlock. A hefty dose of adrenaline appears out of nowhere to break the stalemate in his Mind Palace. The four contending avatars disappear and Sherlock becomes aware of himself again. He takes a shaky breath, swallowing reflexively and narrowing his eyes slightly as he refocuses on John. Words reappear in his mind, and he finds that he is able to speak them, even if he has to swallow hard, and blink slowly before he can start.

"So, in fact ..."

He may be capable of words, but putting them together in a sentence is still beyond him. Sherlock tries again.

"You-you mean ..."

When he runs out of steam, John offers an encouraging "Yes."

"I'm your ..." and grinds to a halt for the second time. He still cannot manage to put a sentence together.

John nods again. He's smiling, almost smirking, as if he is enjoying Sherlock's confusion.

The word finally escapes Sherlock's lips: "... best ..."

John completes the sentence with the word "man", just as Sherlock says "friend?" There is incredulity in his question.

This seems to surprise John. "Yeah, 'course you are." He's watching Sherlock, seeing his silence, so he repeats it, 'Course, you're my best friend."

John says this as if it were a given, a fact. Sherlock's cognitive tectonic plates shift, and in the earthquake he loses the power of speech again. To find something to do while his brain re-boots, he picks up his mug from the table and starts to take a sip of tea. Sherlock's eyes do not leave John's, as he draws the liquid into his mouth. He sees John's rapt, almost bemused expression, as he takes a big slurp of tea.

"Well, how was that?"

The taste in his mouth was definitely smoky, and it had a bit more edge to it than before. A bit like a strong Lapsang Souchong.

"Surprisingly okay."

He's just starting to recover his equilibrium when John adds something new.

"So, you'll have to make a speech, of course."

Sherlock stares at him, driven into silence again.

Eventually, he manages to stutter out a "Wh…why?"

"That's what a best man does. At the wedding. Well, after the wedding, actually. At the reception; it's tradition."

"Oh."

John seems highly amused that for once Sherlock was incapable of having the last word. "Just think of it as a bit like when you were in the witness stand at the Old Bailey. Only this time, try not to end up getting arrested for contempt of court."

He deduces that the doctor is being facetious, and that in fact the speech should bear little resemblance to that had happened in court. And Sherlock tries hard to ignore the memory of that particular attempt ending in a prison cell. "What am I supposed to say?"

"You're the detective. Do your research."

John gets up, biting his lip, clearly finding it hard not to laugh. "I've got to get home; I'm on KP tonight; Mary's expecting me to cook dinner and hand her a glass of wine when she gets home after work. "

He is at the door to the stairs before Sherlock manages to get out a word.

"John." He puts in every bit of uncertainty, anxiety and confusion that he could pack into that one word.

The smile on the doctor's face softens. "Relax, Sherlock. You'll be fine."

And with that, he clatters down the stairs.

Sherlock runs to his laptop to find out what the hell a 'best man' is in the context of a wedding.

oOo

While riding his high down all the rest of the evening, Sherlock tries to understand what John is asking him to be and to do at the wedding. He is still baffled by the whole conversation. He has no idea, having never attended a wedding before. And while his fingers tap the keyboard to search on Best Man, he tries to comprehend the significance of the adjective "best" in the context of the noun "friend". As someone who'd never thought of himself as being capable of being someone's friend at all, the idea of being promoted to "best" confuses him. What social obligations come with such a thing?

One website lists thirty one items on the checklist of "Best Man's Duties", a number of which he doesn't understand. What is a "ring bearer" and why does the site mention "child" in the same sentence? What is a "groomsman"? The more he reads, the more he knows instinctively that this is going to end in disaster. He will do something wrong. And when he does, then John will cease to consider him to be his friend, let alone the superlative of "best" friend. He will be the one responsible for ruining John and Mary's wedding. The thought makes his mouth dry up and his stomach clench again. Far from helping him get through this conversation, the drugs seem to be exacerbating every one of his foibles, insecurities and cognitive defects.

He's lost in a pit of despond when he re-connects with the item on the screen that lists the "Best man's speech", which leaves him speechless.

Mrs Hudson bustles in at some point and chatters to him from the kitchen, but he can't find the words to answer her. He registers a squeak of "disgusting" and deduces this might be due to her finding the eyeball in the tea mug, but then loses interest again and isn't even aware of when she leaves.

The more he reads about what a Best Man's speech is, the more anxious he becomes. To stand exposed in front of an audience, proposing a toast to the happiness of the couple? He'd rather strip naked and walk out of Buckingham Palace. In fact, that is a damn sight easier to contemplate than to have a room full of people he didn't know looking at him, expecting him to give a coherent monologue on why John Watson should be getting married. As if he would do such a thing, willingly. Delivering his own funeral eulogy would be easier.

He has said to both of them that he is happy for them. Sherlock wants John to be happy, and as this marriage is what he wants, Sherlock cannot possibly object, given that he now understands how unhappy he made John when he went off as Lars Sigurson. But there is a world of difference between saying that privately to the couple, and doing so on a public stage.

Because John has asked him to, he knows he will try. Because he's just been told that he is John's "Best Friend", not doing this is no longer an option. Echoing down the corridors of his Mind Palace he hears both a sneering baritone laugh and a cry of distress.

I'm never going to get through this.

Author's Note: * Why Sherlock never remembers Lestrade's first name is covered in Got My Eye on You, Chapter 10