You needed to get away. Needed a moment to catch your breath.
The dancing and the crowd were all becoming a bit too much. So a song or two later, you excused yourself from the group. You were distracted anyway so you did not see a point in staying on the dance floor any longer.
Deciding the best thing to do then was to get some fresh air, you headed towards the beautiful French doors leading out to the garden. Perhaps the garden also had better reception and you could give Sherlock a call; it had become glaringly obvious that he was no longer in the reception hall that night and you were itching to know his whereabouts.
But maybe the universe finally wanted to make things easier for you because once you were only a step away from the door, you saw him.
The garden was only dimly lit from the lights filtering through the glass panels and a few outdoor lights stationed a few metres apart from each other. But you saw him. His discernible silhouette was hard to miss. He was swiftly walking away from the direction of the coat room and into the darkness, swinging his infamous coat up and over his shoulders.
Suddenly engulfed by rage, you grasped the door handle and pushed it open.
The night was cold as you stepped outside from the warmth of the crowd. If it were any other time, you would have changed your mind and turned back around. But you were far too enraged then to be mindful of the sudden drop in temperature, only determined to get some explanation as to why the best-man was leaving so quickly and so stealthily and without bidding anyone a farewell.
The French doors opened with a resounding screech, and the sound of people dancing and singing along to the blaring music bled into the quiet night interrupting its tranquillity. But this did not slow him down. So you yelled out his name, hating the fact that your voice cracked.
He stopped in his tracks at the sound of his name.
He made no indication to make a move or turn around, so you took a deep breath and made your way towards him. When he was only a few feet away, you felt much calmer and maybe not as angry anymore.
"You're leaving," you said in a tone that was much softer than you hoped it would be but tinted with a hint of contempt.
His posture relaxed slightly as he turned around to face you, staring at you with an impassive look on his face.
"Lovely wedding party back there," you jutted your head towards the direction of said party. "Shame some of us are leaving so early," you added, giving him a pointed look as some of the ferocity from earlier began to seep its way into your tone.
"Y/N..." he said with a deep sigh, closing his eyes and tilting his head away from you. Almost as if he was ashamed. Ashamed that he was caught leaving. Or maybe disappointed that he couldn't make it out quicker.
You shook your head in disbelief.
"You can't just leave in the middle of your best friend's wedding like this, Sherlock! Not when you're the best-man! Especially not this early!" You paused to catch your breath and took that second to study him. He still had his head lowered as he listened, his hands reaching up once to tighten the scarf around his neck. Maybe it was the poor lighting in the garden, but he had an unreadable expression etched on his face.
So you stepped closer, heels clicking against the concrete pavement.
"And not without saying goodbye..." your voice was softer this time, the hurt in it apparent.
Not without saying goodbye... not without saying goodbye to me. Not like that, left on my own on the dance floor... and for the rest of the night. Did you mean that little to him?
He straightened his posture and raised his head. It was his turn to study you. He took note of your pained expression and your flushed cheeks. And the way your hair was coming undone to rest over your slumped shoulders.
He finally spoke, his voice low, his tone clear, "You know I'm not one for saying goodbyes."
"But we were dancing, we were having a good time..." now only a foot apart, you searched his eyes for an answer, but they were only apologetic and full of remorse. "I don't understand -"
"Y/N," he stopped you mid-sentence. "Mary's pregnant."
You blinked in confusion. Confused not only at the sudden turn in the conversation but also at the sudden revelation.
"'The three of you' as I said earlier," he paused, and you urged for him to continue. "I was referring to John, Mary, and the baby - well, the foetus as of right now."
A few seconds passed as you registered his words.
"Oh."
"You don't look very surprised."
"Well, it was going to happen sooner or later... and she was being funny around the wine I suppose," you remembered earlier in the day how she spit out the wine she had only been praising so far. "John's going to make a great father," you murmured, smiling at the thought.
"You could say he's had practice," Sherlock added, the corners of his lips twitching upwards into a smile.
You chuckled. He was not wrong on that one.
The two of you eyed each other as the amusement died down. And then it fell silent again, only the thrumming of the muffled music echoing though the garden.
He spoke up first, "Just make sure she's okay."
You watched him silently as he adjusted the collar of his coat. He hesitated for a second, looking like he wanted to pat your shoulder or your arm but decided against it. Instead, he gave you a sheepish smile and a nod, and tugged his coat collar one more time before turning around and taking a few steps forward.
"She's not the one I'm worried about," your voice was a mere whisper in the wind, afraid he might not have heard it. But he heard you because his footsteps halted in its path.
"Because I know you're afraid," you swallowed the lump beginning to form in your throat, noticing him twist his neck at an angle to listen to you better.
"You're afraid it's all going to change now. And you can deny it all you want, but marriage... it does change things and it does change people."
He straightened up and while you couldn't see his face, you knew it had morphed into one of surprise. Not surprised at your words because it was something he knew all along but because it was you who was saying those words.
While Mrs Hudson and Mycroft had been the voice of reason over the months leading up to the wedding, the rest of you were just as engrossed in his little fantasy world as he was. A fantasy world where marriage was only just a celebratory party with no repercussions and with no long-lasting effects on relationships. Assuring him that it was all going to be fine and finding ways to distract not only him, but yourselves too. But there was no point in sugar-coating the facts anymore. Especially when everyone else knew he wasn't being fooled. And he needed to hear it from you no matter how sick he was of hearing it.
"But change isn't always a bad thing," you quickly added, taking a few steps closer. Hearing you approach him, he turned around slowly, looking uncertain but fixing you with a cold stare.
"And things are changing really quickly but I meant what I said earlier today. Everything will be back to normal. Maybe not the normal that you were used to but some version of that. Maybe even a better one, who knows? But you'll just have to give it some time."
He shifted his gaze to stare to the reception party behind you through the glass panels.
"There cannot be a version better than what we already had."
His face had softened now and his voice was low and thick with emotion as his eyes glazed over. He looked heartbroken as the shadows of the happy couples and the happy groups singing and dancing along to the roaring music and the flashing disco lights danced over his vision.
Your chest ached seeing him like this; seeing him without his usual façade, seeing him let down the walls that he had built around himself. But it was also cathartic to see him acknowledge not to you, but to himself, that he was miserable. That he was frightened. It was only human to be wary at the uncertainty of the future ahead.
"Maybe... or maybe not. You'll never know if you don't try." Your chest was beginning to feel tighter as you spoke, so you took a deep breath in. "Nobody likes change. Not you, not John... nobody. But whatever happens, or doesn't happen... they will still be here... I will still be here."
His finally tore his gaze from the reception and back to you, eyes boring into yours intently. Confidently, without any hesitation, he said, "I never doubted that."
You tried to give him a genuine smile. A smile that said, 'you can count on me'. But your cheeks felt warm, and your vision got blurry, so you could only look away in an attempt to mask your reaction.
Soft footsteps echoed against the pavement, accompanied by a small flutter of movement which stopped right in front of you. You couldn't force yourself to look at him, afraid that doing so would further weaken your still somewhat of a firm grip on your composure.
A pair of hands reached out and gently cupped your cheeks, tilting your face to look at his. Now that he was much closer, the dim lights illuminated the sharp contours of his cheekbones, but your eyes were drawn to the rest of his features which were softer, his eyes gleaming in gratitude.
A lone tear escaped your eye much to your chagrin. You closed your eyes as a long, delicate finger wiped it away as it ran down your cheek.
You felt him shift, felt him encircle his arms around your shoulders in an embrace, eventually resting his head over yours. You reached out to wrap your arms around his form, finding comfort in his touch and savouring the warmth.
"Thank you, for being honest," he whispered. "And I'm not drunk this time, so you know I really mean it."
You blinked in surprise. Snippets of the conversation with Sherlock from John's stag night echoed in your mind:
'You made it so much easier to lose John.'
'I don't want to be alone.'
Of course he'd remember. Even alcohol did not stand a chance against the mind of Sherlock Holmes.
You tightened your grip in response, scrunching up his coat in your fists, and nodded mutely to let him know you understood, to let him know you appreciated his gratitude.
"You're not going to be alone, Sherlock. I will be here," your soft whispers against his chest were muffled into his coat but you were certain he heard it because he squeezed your shoulders ever so slightly.
It felt like neither of you wanted to let go, both of you finding comfort and solace in the embrace. Protecting each other from the real world and its real problems. Eventually you loosened your grip around him and he reluctantly disentangled his arms from around you. But not completely, as his hands encircled back around to cup your face again and this time, he leaned in and gently pressed his lips on your temple.
"You don't have to stay," you whispered. A part of you really wished he'd stay. Wished he'd stay and dance the night away with you. But a bigger part of you also understood what he could be feeling; if he was to come into terms with everything he needed to be on his own for a bit. He was probably sick of all the wedding talk and the sentiment. Sick of only talking about matrimony and celebration and love for the past couple of months.
"I am glad you understand," he gave you a small, genuine smile.
You smiled in return and noticed him eyeing the boutonniere on your wrist. He reached out and toyed with it for a while, before tightening it and adjusting it to sit better around your wrist.
"It looks nicer on you."
You stared at the arrangement of white carnations tied around your wrist, appreciating its beauty. Sherlock gulped and stood a bit taller, eyes flickering over to the reception party which was now in full swing.
He cleared his throat. "You should go back inside."
You shifted your gaze back at him and a heavy pit dropped in your stomach.
But I don't want to go back! I want to be here with you!
Instead, you pathetically muttered, "Right... yeah."
He glanced over at the reception one last time and then back at you with a lingering stare. Finally, he gave you a small smile and a quick nod goodbye.
As you watched his retreating back slowly disappearing into the darkness, the muted music started to sound louder and louder in the deserted garden. It was then when you realised how chilly the night was. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not only from the cold but also because suddenly, you felt alone.