i’m rewatching TEH and i’m again realizing how incredibly coded parts of it are like hudders has been done to death and is the harbinger of all that is good and tru but lestrade asking sherlock “this gonna be your new arrangement now” and sherlock uncomfortably saying “just…trying it on” about molly helping him and lestrade is like, “UM HELLO JOHN” and sherlock is all *shifty eyes* “notreallyinthepicture NOW BACK TO THE CASE”
like is this not about a fucking couple everybody on that fucking show has been shipping since day one
After the vows had been exchanged, they had all sat down to dinner
under a sky painted rose and heather and tangerine by the setting sun, the
faintest flecks of stars beginning to peek through. Now that the food has been
eaten, the happy couple toasted, the champagne drunk, and the dancing begun,
Sherlock finds himself alone at a table, looking around at nothing in
particular. John has excused himself to give his regards to the newlyweds, and
everyone else has made their way to the patio-turned-dance floor. Sherlock lets
his eyes linger for a moment on the guests dancing there and wishes, for the
millionth or so time in his life, that he were a different kind of man–perhaps
the kind who feels comfortable asking a stranger to dance, or, better yet,
asking the one person he really wants to hold in his arms as they spin
gracefully around the floor, eyes locked on one another, the world around them
melting away. But Sherlock isn’t that kind of man.
The memory of the last time he had wanted to dance at a wedding needles
him, and Sherlock has to fight to tamp down the regret and sadness he still
feels about that entire situation. Yes, John is back at Baker Street now and
Mary is long gone, but part of Sherlock still hates that he hadn’t been more
vocal about his desires, that he hadn’t tried harder to stop John from marrying
her. He knows it’s selfish–though he tells himself it would have saved both of
them a lot of pain and suffering in the long run. The whole thing fills him
with self-loathing. He hadn’t been good enough to peg Mary as the liar she
really was from the start. He hadn’t been brave enough to tell John how he
felt. And in the end he hadn’t been quick enough to prevent Mary from
absconding with John’s daughter, both of them disappearing into the night like
phantoms. The guilt eats at Sherlock until he pushes himself away from the
table and slips into the darkness. He follows the low garden wall to the
farthest corner, well outside the warm sphere of light cast by the lanterns
surrounding the patio. Sherlock lifts his long legs carefully up and over
before taking a seat on the wall, facing out at the surrounding hills looming
nearly invisible in the darkness. He could really use a cigarette. Instead he
watches the stars emerge as his vision adjusts, and when the slight autumn
breeze ruffles his hair, he wishes he had thought to bring his coat.
Soft footsteps behind him. An all-too-familiar cadence. John.
“There you are. I was wondering where you’d got off to.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock hums noncommittally. John stops just behind him,
close enough that Sherlock could lean his head back against John’s chest if he
wanted to. And he does want to. But he doesn’t move. Since John has come home,
they seem to have found their rhythm again, and Sherlock doesn’t want to screw that
up. Sometimes though, there are little touches–John’s arm glancing off
Sherlock’s as they walk, John’s fingers brushing across his as John hands him a
cup of tea, John’s hand gently squeezing Sherlock’s bicep in an occasional
gesture of… friendship? understanding? support? Sherlock isn’t sure. He also
isn’t sure if they actually happen more often now or if he just notices them
more often now that he is more attuned to the effect that John has on him.
Either way, he doesn’t think that his head resting on John’s chest would be
welcome. It’s too… intimate. And so he restrains the desire that pulses through
him with every beat of his heart.
John clambers over the wall, his shorter legs making the movement
far less graceful than Sherlock’s had been, and takes a seat next to him.
Sherlock can feel the fabric of John’s suit jacket catch ever so slightly on
his own where their arms graze against each other. They sit in companionable
silence, the strains of a recent pop hit floating gently away from the cottage,
past where they’re huddled on the wall, and out into the open night.
John eventually breaks the silence with a quiet sigh. “I never
should have gotten married.”
The really odd thing about human sex, though, was the way it went on even when people were fully clothed and sitting on opposite sides of a fire. It was in the things they said and did not say, the way they looked at one another and looked away.
It’s funny
I think very often in fiction there is a romance between a dark-haired character and a light-haired character because it creates a sense of contrast and so on….. which just adds another one on the list of tropes appearing in sherlock
hmm who might these two be
And then we have John and Mary (both blond) and Sherlock and Irene (both dark haired) I WONDER WHAT THAT COULD POSSIBLY MEAN
Sherlock never accounted for the fact that John could have moved on during his absence. Sherlock certainly hasn’t.
No, Sherlock had spent years alone with the memory of wire and silk hair, stupid jumpers and sharp blue eyes; the taste of tea and the slow sound of words being pecked out two-fingered with painful care painted his mind in the colors of comfort he would not find in his hell outside of London.
Coming home he thought he’d have left that hell behind but instead he walked right out of the damn frying pan convinced he was saved and boy did he get burned for that sentimental hope.
Now Sherlock sits at the fire in an empty flat with and empty glass stinking of juniper and rubbing alcohol and he folds back into the memories of the tap tap tap of keys and warm-honey-home taste of tea, imagining that he could pick up where they left off dancing around the prospect of something so beyond friends and flatmates and fair-weather lovers.
In his little palace stuffed full of memories and facts all categorized and placed in rooms with neat labels and cool colors, he stands in the only one with any heat. The one that has his clay-furred childhood friend curled at the fire while he dances with his soldier, his doctor, his compass across the threadbare carpet, legs shifting and stepping in perfect disharmony. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Their bodies are close and hot and melted like old wax, slumped into each other with contentment and safety and all the other things that make people write terrible poems and sing warbling songs beneath a back-lit window.
Here Sherlock remembers to say I love you.
Here he hears it back.
Outside the world moves on and he will correct purple to lilac and fold the Sydney Opera House out of cotton.
But inside, inside he can pretend he remembered. He can pretend things are fine, that he didn’t miss his chance. Inside, it’s his name on heavy paper beside his doctor and not on the placard reading best man.
Yes, inside everything moves like the smoothest brandy through his veins, flowing in bright curls and he dips his partner and he kisses him and he warms him on the couch with long fingers and deft tongue and he remembers to say I love you over and over and over again because he will never ever say it outside.
