Joanne. 21. Hong Kong. Fresh graduate and thankfully with a job. |desperate johnlock shipper. |tjlc. |the title says it all. |occasionally blogs about gymnastics.
Remembering a week or so ago when my screenwriting class discussion board was to give an example of a scene with subtext and I gave the fucking tarmac scene
Say what you want about TFP, I think we can all agree the biggest plothole in the whole episode was John finding some bones on the bottom of a well and promptly forgetting his years of medical training
Sherlock: what kind of bones, John?
John Watson, army doctor, frequent visitor of murder scenes, has seen more dead bodies in the last 5 years than a necromancer during the Black Plague: uhm I don't know.... small?
Right. So in NO WAY was Sherlock acting here. This was not Sherlock acting helpless so John would think the bomb was about to go off. This was not Sherlock faking sad so that John would forgive him. This was not Sherlock being dramatic for effect.
This was Sherlock coming to terms with the fact that he returned to London to find that the man he loved chose a future with someone else.
This was Sherlock accepting the fact that he was never to have a future with John, at least not in the way he wanted.
This was Sherlock forcing himself to say it out loud, no matter how much it hurt, because HE was the one who needed to hear it, not John.
Just to make things worse, John and Sherlock kissing right before John is about to get married
(I maybe cheated a little because I can’t do full on angst, but it’s still what you asked for! It’s also...kinda long...)
The door to John’s unofficial dressing room (also known as the pastor’s office behind the chapel) was ajar, allowing Sherlock a moment to pause behind it and observe John unnoticed. He was frowning at himself in the mirror that was propped up against the window. His tie was crooked, and his fingers fiddled with it impatiently. He was nervous. An obvious deduction, of course. Nervousness was common on wedding days. But John’s nervousness didn’t show in shaking hands or pacing. It showed in frowns and irritation, in muttered curses and angry glares.
Sherlock leaned his head against the frame of the door, taking in the sight of John in full wedding dress, preparing for his walk down the aisle. Possibly John would call this an “invasion of privacy,” but Sherlock was past the point of caring. He was able to admit to himself now that he missed these moments, the ones that used to occur in 221B all the time, the ones where Sherlock would walk by the loo and glance inside the open door to see John standing at the mirror, shaving; the ones where John would watch quietly from his armchair as Sherlock adjusted his suit jacket in the mirror above the mantle.
The quiet, domestic moments that Sherlock had never fully appreciated until he’d come back and John had been sharing them with someone else.
For the third time, John cursed and yanked his tie from around his neck. Sherlock would’ve found it amusing if not for the ache in his throat. He nudged the door open and made an “ahem” sound that had John spinning around. The alarm in his eyes faded when they found Sherlock, and he held the tie up, clenched angrily in one fist.
“This damn thing is useless,” he said, shaking it a little.
“Well, it certainly will be soon if you keep strangling it like that,” Sherlock said pointedly. He closed the door with a gentle click and stepped closer, holding out a hand. “Here, let me.”
John handed it over without protest. “I’m surprised you even know how to use one of these,” he said. He smirked, but it was small and tight, and it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped closer, looping the (somewhat wrinkled) silk around John’s neck. “Just because I don’t make a habit of wearing clothing that serves no function doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use it.” The collar of John’s shirt was stiff as Sherlock worked the tie beneath it, and John’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down whenever Sherlock’s fingertips brushed against his neck. “As you can see,” he added, mostly to distract himself, “I’m quite excellent at it.” He nodded down to his own tie, already securely in place.
This time John’s smile was softer and lingered for a second longer. His gaze dropped to Sherlock’s tie, and then he lifted one hand and pressed his fingers lightly to the silk. The barest pressure against his chest had Sherlock holding his breath.
“It suits you,” John said. He was focused on his own hand, on the place where it met Sherlock’s chest. A crease formed between his brow, and something in his expression shifted. “Not just the tie. The whole...look.” He sounded strangely sad.
It was Sherlock’s turn to swallow noticeably. “Well, don’t get used to it.” His voice sounded odd even to his own ears. He cleared his throat and tugged a little bit too hard on John’s tie as he was feeding the end through a loop, making John sway toward him.
Instead of pulling back, John let the momentum carry him closer, taking one step forward and curling his hand into the lapel of Sherlock’s suit to steady himself . The movement carried the scent of his cologne, hardly ever worn, through the air, and Sherlock was bombarded with a thousand conflicting thoughts that ultimately ranged from “John is close enough to kiss me” to “John is wearing that cologne for his soon-to-be wife” in about two point five seconds.
“Almost done,” he said, if only to break the silence. He was focused on John’s tie, not daring to look up and meet his eyes. He feared that, if he did, John would surely see everything he was trying so hard not to feel. He just had to get through this day. That’s what he kept telling himself. If he could get through this day without feeling, then tomorrow he could allow himself to fall apart.
“Would you tell me if you thought I was making a mistake?” John asked. His hand was still caught up in Sherlock’s suit.
Sherlock’s fingers fumbled on the knot he was perfecting. “Don’t be ridiculous.’
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t answer stupid questions.”
“You practically make a living out of answering stupid questions,” John pointed out.
“Exactly, I get enough of them at work, I don’t need them at home, too.” He yanked a bit too hard on the knot, and John’s other foot came forward so that they were toe-to-toe and John’s forehead bumped against Sherlock’s chin.
When the fight-or-flight response kicked in, Sherlock was usually in favor of a good fight. But right now, his body was screaming at him to flee, to get himself away from John Watson as fast as he could. He was about to do just that, had already begun his escape by taking a step back when—
“Wait.”
It was his greatest weakness, really, that John Watson could command him with just a word. When they were out in London, chasing a case or foraging for clues, Sherlock was in control. Of himself, of their actions, of each and every decision. But here, in the back room of a drafty chapel, on this day when John Watson’s happiness was the only thing that mattered, all it took was one word to make him ignore the screaming in his head, to make him abandon his own self-preservation instincts and keep his feet firmly planted. John Watson said “Wait,” and Sherlock Holmes froze where he stood, his eyes falling briefly closed in an attempt to block out whatever came next until he forced them open again.
“Your tie is done,” he said, looking somewhere over John’s left shoulder.
“Sherlock.”
“I did it perfectly, if I do say so myself, and I do.”
“Sherlock, look at me.”
“The ceremony will be starting soon, we need to—”
“For God’s sake, Sherlock!”
“What?”
John yanked at the bit of jacket he still had a hold of, and Sherlock stumbled forward, his hands grasping for purchase. He found it in the form of handfuls of John’s own jacket, and he gripped it in fistfuls that were surely doing absolutely nothing good for the fabric. When he finally had a hold of himself again, he found John’s blue eyes inches from his own.
“You said ‘home,’” John said.
Sherlock was thrown. “I—what?”
“Just a second ago. You said you didn’t need stupid questions at home.”
“I don’t...what’s your point?”
“You’re not at home. I’m not at home. In fact, we’re at no one’s home right now.”
“Your priest might argue that you are, in fact, in God’s home—”
“But you still said ‘home.’ Why?”
Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times. There was a strange look in John’s eyes, something feverish and questioning that Sherlock didn’t understand. He knew the answer to John’s question the second John asked it, but it wasn’t an answer he could conceivably give. Not when they were standing in a church, preparing for John’s wedding to someone else.
“Slip of the tongue,” he said finally.
“I don’t believe you.”
It wasn’t his most convincing lie, truth be told. He tried a different tactic. “John, we don’t have time for this.” He tried to pry John’s hand from his jacket so he could flee.
John only tightened his grip. “Tell me why you said home.”
“I told you.”
“No, you didn’t. Stop fighting me.”
“Then let me go!”
“Not until you tell me why.”
“John—”
“Why did you say home, Sherlock?”
“This is a waste of time, your bride is waiting!”
“That’s why I need you to tell me!”
Sherlock threw his hands in the air. “Because you ’re my home!” he practically shouted.
And then the world went very still. Sherlock, breathing hard, cut his eyes away from John’s face, his hands falling to his sides and his face flushing hot. He couldn’t think past the words he’d just put into the air between them, and his heart kicked against his ribs like an angry bird.
“Christ,” he whispered, and he tried, again, to back away. “I—I’ve got to go, I’m not...this isn’t how today was…”
But John still had him, and he wasn’t letting go. In fact, he was pulling Sherlock closer, his other hand coming up to curve around the back of his neck. And Sherlock’s world shrank to the color of John’s eyes as he was pulled in until they were all he could see, until John’s lips against his own were all he could feel. He very nearly let himself fall into it, very nearly let John steal his breath and stop his heart. John’s lips had just parted, seeking more, when the church bells began to ring somewhere high above them, and Sherlock jerked back, stumbling until his back hit the wall.
“You’re getting married,” he said, and his voice trembled traitorously.
Part of him was angry, furious with John for putting him in this position at this moment, when all was already lost. But most of him was just exhausted and aching, longing for this day to be over so he could return to the sanctity of Baker Street and flush these godforsaken feelings out of himself.
John hadn’t moved, had let Sherlock flee this time, but his expression was soft, and his eyes were too bright. “Now who’s being stupid?” he asked.
Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and shook his head hard, probably ruining his perfectly crafted hair. “What are you talking about?”
“Sherlock…” John’s voice held his name like it was something precious. He heard the soft sounds of John’s footsteps, felt John’s hands slide beneath his jacket, onto his waist, and when John spoke again, his lips tingled against Sherlock’s ear. “You’re my home, too.”
He pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s breath shuddered out of him.
“John, it’s your wedding day,” he said hoarsely. “I’m...you can’t tell me this on your wedding day.”
“Would you rather I waited until after my honeymoon?”
A strange sound, half-sob, half-laugh, got caught in Sherlock’s throat, and he gripped John’s arms tightly, pushing him back enough that he could see him properly. “This isn’t funny,” he said in as serious a voice as he could.
“You’re right, it’s a fucking travesty,” John said. “How did we let it get this far? I was about to walk down that aisle and marry someone else, and you were just going to stand there and watch it happen? What the hell is the matter with us?”
“I thought it was what you wanted.”
“Well, it’s not.”
Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall and let out a long, low breath. “What do you want then?”
John reached up and brushed a loose curl back from Sherlock’s forehead. “I want to go home. All I’ve wanted since you came back was to go home. With you.”
“That’s not true, you also wanted to punch me when I came back.”
John’s breath of laughter was enough to make Sherlock smile.
“God, we must have the worst timing of anyone in the world,” John said softly, his fingers lingering against Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips. “I don’t care, kiss me again.”
John didn’t hesitate. He pushed up onto his toes and pulled Sherlock down to meet him all at once, and this time, when he parted his lips, Sherlock didn’t pull away, didn’t try to flee. He let John’s body press him against the wall, let John’s hands slip around to the small of his back where they dipped dangerously low, and he let John’s breath become his own, let his heart match its rhythm to John’s until he felt like it might actually burst out of him in an attempt to be as close to John as possible.
There was so much they needed to do. They’d have to tell the guests. John needed to talk to Mary. Sherlock would have to punch Mycroft in his smug ‘told-you-so’ face later.
But for now...there was only this. Only them. Home at last.
Sherlock: I will now go into the gayest fever dream in all of history so I can sit in a greenhouse and talk about love with my crush. Then he will save me from my worst nightmare and I will literally jump off a cliff as a metaphor for falling for him, after I flirt with him.
Sherlock: and then I will come back and realise he has a wife.
Sherlock: Then I will go back to our flat and be on my phone all day so that I can ignore the fact he isn't with me.
John: Sherlock, you know your saying all this out loud right?
There’s a lot of talk of John marrying Mary as a way to ‘prove’ his heterosexuality. He felt the need to appear ‘normal’, so he took on a normal life: wife, child, living in the suburbs. If we expand upon this a bit, I think his reaction to Mary when he finds out who she really is is telling.
He’s not upset that she lied. He’s not upset she has a secret identity. He’s not upset that she shot Sherlock to cover up who she is. No, the thing that appears to upset him the most is that she ‘isn’t normal’. She doesn’t conform to idea of a ‘perfect’, ‘normal’ (aka, heterosexual) life. She isn’t the happy wife in the suburbs with a child, but a highly trained assassin. John chose Mary because he thought he could have a normal life with her. He chose someone who he thought was the exact opposite of Sherlock: wanting to settle down, not go on crazy, dangerous adventures.
But, even in his attempt to chose someone completely opposite to Sherlock, someone he can pretend to be straight with, he still ends up choosing someone who is similar to Sherlock in a lot of ways.
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