The Best Man
loosely based on this little post
Lovely women in fancy frocks and lovely men in lovely suits and lovely wine and lovely music and lovely chairs and oh what a lovely day to celebrate love above all things love because love is the reason we’re all here today love between John and John and John and John and
Sherlock bolts out a back door and lets it slam behind him. A chorus of cheerful voices whirlpools down into a buzzing hum as he skirts around the backside of a potting shed and leans against the mossy wall, cool against his back even through his jacket.
John and.
He stumbles forward a few metres and places his hands upon the stone worktop adjacent to the small structure, his head dipping down and forward like an anchor between his shoulders. The tinkle of champagne glasses and falsities lingers in his ears, but no one can see him here.
He reaches into his pocket.
The box is soft and velvety, something like how he’d always imagined the spot of skin on John’s neck behind an earlobe would feel against the very tip of his nose. Against a wandering finger. Against the curve of his lips.
Inside of the box, potent even in the darkness, is John’s ring.
Don’t.
Don’t do this.
Sherlock pulls the black case from his pocket and opens it.
The ring is unassuming, a rather plain gold band: traditional, steadfast, a simple and straightforward choice. It gleams in the sunlight and Sherlock thumbs over the smooth edges.
John’s ring.
The inside will touch John’s skin constantly, presumably. He’s unlikely to take it off.
We’re here today to celebrate the love between John and.
No one has to know. No one will know, ever.
He gently eases the ring from the box and then sets the box on the worktop, still opened. Rolls the small circle of gold between fingers for a moment. What would John say if he knew?
What does he want John to say.
Sherlock, I promise—
Thumb and finger. A prize. He wants this.
–all the days of my life–
John’s ring. Suits him, don’t you think?
–to love you and be true to you as–
He holds the ring between right thumb and finger and angles his left hand, ducking his pinky down, making room to slide it–
–your husband.
The inside of John’s ring touches the tip of Sherlock’s fourth finger.
I do.
He clenches his fist shut and places his hands again on the stone worktop. Hidden again, the ring taunts him.
Stop kidding yourself.
