CONTEXT:
A spur-of-the-moment kiss leads to a passionate night together. But does Sherlock want more? Or did he see it as just a fling?
__________
Another wedding.
Y/N was at that age where everyone she knew seemed to be getting married. This time it was her flatmate's old friend and previous roommate, John Watson. Y/N had met him several times, but she wouldn't say they were friends---she hadn't spent enough time with him to call him a friend. He'd come over for a cup of tea, then by the time the kettle had boiled he'd have to rush off again, usually to the surgery where he works, or he just has to leave early because it takes so long to cross London back to his new house.
John's distance---physically and emotionally---had made Y/N wonder why Sherlock had been invited to the wedding at all. Sure, he'd lived with Sherlock for a couple of months before moving out with his girlfriend several years ago, but that had been, well, several years ago. They didn't even seem that close; when John came over Y/N couldn't help noticing Sherlock's change in demeanour. It was like watching him put on an outfit she wasn't used to seeing him wear; turning him into an aloof stranger. During conversation, it was almost as if he was keeping John's companionship away with a ten-foot pole, skillfully dodging any queries into his personal life, steering topics back to simple things like work or...well, work.
"Why do you go all quiet when John comes over?" Y/N couldn't help asking one day, after one of said man's hurried visits. Not only had Sherlock said very little, but the things he had said had been clipped and in a tone of voice that suggested he'd rather not have to say anything at all. Not like the Sherlock Y/N knew; excited about cases and science and a book he'd just read, mind constantly whirring with ideas and thoughts he enjoyed sharing.
"You know how you sometimes act a certain way with a person, and then before you know it it's too late to show them who you really are?"
Y/N thought about it. She definitely knew that feeling, and it was somehow comforting to know that even The Great Sherlock Holmes wasn't immune to such mistakes. To this day, a colleague of Y/N's has been under the impression that Y/N's name is pronounced [wrong way], just because Y/N had been too shy to correct him when they'd first met. And she'd be lying if she said she hadn't faked a small part of her personality every now and again to fit into social groups. "I get that. Why, out of all the ways you could have acted, did you choose to pretend to be an unfeeling machine?"
Sherlock had shrugged his shoulders, continuing to tune his violin with his long pale fingers. "I was in a bad mood back then. I got introduced to John while I was looking at some evidence at the labs in Scotland Yard. Sally had been ordered to fetch the evidence for me, which she obviously didn't like, and had told me what she thought of me just before John walked in. I guess I just...wanted someone to think me pretty cool. Which he did, so I didn't stop doing it."
Y/N had tried to imagine that; Sherlock not doing all his little Sherlock-things---pretending to be someone else---in his own home. "You had to go months without singing in the shower? Without mouthing the words to ABBA as you wash up? Without doing that thing you do where you eat your food in a certain order?"
The corners of Sherlock's lips had twitched up with an embarrassed smile. "I don't sing in the shower." Before Y/N could contradict him: "And I could still do the last thing; he knows about my Asperger's syndrome. I think that's what made him think I was interesting; I'm like...an oddity. Something strange in his boring little life. That's why I couldn't do the other things; he'd think me boring."
Y/N turned that information over in her mind. "That's sad."
Sherlock had finished tuning his violin and placed it in one smooth motion under his chin, getting ready to play. "Yeah. But I didn't mind so much. I didn't know him very well, so I probably wouldn't have felt comfortable opening up with him anyway."
...
Presently, Y/N waited for the taxi to come to a stop before stepping out of it, gravel crunching under the soles of her feet. Every wedding party started like this, she mused as Sherlock paid the driver. Weddings always start with a wide gravel driveway leading to a countryside manor house, guests flocking to the doors like ants into a nest. Very smartly-dressed ants, in this case. The invitations had specified formal attire, which, actually had been one of the only reasons Y/N had agreed to attend. As soon as Sherlock's invitation had slid through the mailbox he'd asked Y/N to come with him as his plus-one. Y/N had agreed, mainly because she was his best friend and didn't want him to have to face a social event alone, and also because of the opportunity to see him in suit and tie.
The wedding party hadn't even started yet and Y/N had already firmly made up her mind that agreeing to come had been worth it. Sherlock looked...dashing? Gorgeous? Breathtakingly attractive? Since he'd emerged from his bedroom this morning, every time Y/N had looked at her best friend she hadn't been able to help but notice how his perfectly-tailored suit clung neatly to his slender, sinewy body. She'd be wrenching her mind away from mental images of him in it for the rest of her life, she just knew it.
Yes, Y/N was very strongly attracted to Sherlock Holmes, but, she reassured herself, so was anyone who set eyes on him. The fact that he had the power to make her knees weak just by uttering her name doesn't mean anything, and wouldn't affect their relationship at all, she'd decided.
"We'll only stay for a bit," Sherlock said, breaking her stupor. "Just long enough so we can say we went."
"Why did you agree to go if you didn't want to?" Y/N asked as they joined the flow of people slowly being consumed by the venue at the end of the driveway. It had surprised her that he'd agreed to go at all; Sherlock is far from a social person, infinitely preferring quiet nights in reading a book or watching a film to going to a club with friends. In fact, spending his time doing anything of the sort just didn't seem to occur to him. True, this was a wedding party, not a club, but even those seemed far from Sherlock's usual habitat. Not that he looked it; he looked more than at home. Like a wedding-guest stock-photo model. But prettier.
"I'm a groomsman, I could hardly say no."
"I don't think he would have minded you not coming to the party, you just had to turn up at the church."
Their conversation was interrupted as they reached the entrance, John and his hew wife, Amy, flushing excitedly and shaking their guest's hands as they went inside. The venue looked magnificent up close, and even more magnificent inside, towering windows flooding the airy space with sunny June daylight and picturesque views of the surrounding countryside. Bunches of white and purple balloons billowed in pillars like bubbles from a fizzy drink, confetti strategically strewn over the expansive table barley supporting a mountain of gifts addressed to the new couple. Y/N couldn't' help giggling to herself at the memory of Sherlock purchasing the gravy boat they'd registered for. "Why would anyone waste an opportunity for free gifts on a gravy boat?!" He'd exclaimed, apparently appalled.
The main hall of the manor house was exceedingly large, the majority of it set up as a dining area and the rest not set up as anything because it was clearly a dance floor. An elaborate buffet was spread out over several narrow tables along one side of the room, which Y/N knew Sherlock would be pleased about, being famously somewhat choosy about what he eats. He was also obviously pleased when they located where they'd be sitting; a small round table nestled in the corner of the room with only two chairs.
"I don't understand weddings like this," Sherlock said, pale eyes surveying the room, passing over the lacey table clothes and frilly centrepieces with obvious contempt. "I think there comes a point where a wedding stops being about celebrating two people's dedication to one another and starts being about throwing an impressive party."
Y/N gave him a teasing smirk, nudging his foot with hers under the table. "So Sherlock Holmes has a bit of romance tucked away in that logic-driven head of his?"
He quickly tried to disguise the dusting of pink his cheekbones had acquired with nonchalance as he replied: "I have a bit of everything tucked away in my well-balanced head. I just think that if it was my wedding, I wouldn't care about the groomsmen's ties matching the flowers, or the bridesmaids all having their hair in that same twisty plait thing. Colour coordination and hairstyles would be the last thing on my mind." He'd started absently making a little pile out of the violet sequin hearts that decorated their table, keeping his gaze fixed on it as if preferring not to make eye contact while spilling something so personal.
"Would you ever get married?" Y/N asked, trying to sound casual---although she felt anything but. Maybe it was because the thought of her crush marrying someone that wasn't her caused a hot flush to creep up the back of her neck. Maybe it was because she'd just never heard Sherlock talk about anything like this before, and she didn't want to scare him off now that he was.
Sherlock had collected all the sequins from his side of the table and began picking them up between his delicate finger and thumb, letting them run through his grip and back onto the tablecloth. "I don't know. Maybe. If I was with someone I wanted to marry---and she wanted to marry me too, obviously. I didn't use to think I'd ever want to be in a relationship, but now I don't think they look so bad, so who knows." He pushed out a bitter laugh, "I'd have to have someone want to date me first, so I have all the time in the world to make up my mind."
Failing to hold back her bewilderment, Y/N chuckled as if he'd said something very very stupid (because he had). "You talk like someone wanting to date you is impossible."
"Well isn't it?" He said back indifferently. As if it was just a fact he knew to be indisputably true, as if he'd been asked if the sea is made of water, or if gravity is what keeps us on the planet's surface.
"'Course it's not, you idiot."
Sherlock's serene expression turned to mild shock.
Y/N didn't know if it was at her tone, the idea she'd posited, or the fact that she'd called him an idiot, and she didn't care. "You're intelligent, sensitive, kind, compassionate---"
The pink flush Sherlock had gained when his love-life had been metaphorically examined under the metaphorical microscope deepened to an embarrassed red, and he tipped his head forwards, hiding his eyes with his fringe. "I didn't ask for pity---"
"I'm not pitying you, I'm just saying you're blind."
What could be mistaken as a shy smile playing on his perfectly curved lips. "I appreciate the effort, Y/N, but really, there's no need. I don't know why I said anything; I'm not the kind of person to get mixed up in all that...dating, etcetera, anyway. Forget it."
Y/N didn't know if it was the dejected undertone slipping into his voice, or the tired acceptance in which he said it: she suddenly felt slightly sorrowful. Yes, the thought of him dating anyone that was not her was painful, but seeing him like this was even worse. She didn't want to forget it, she wanted to take his slender hand now resting on the table and tell him people do want to be in a relationship with him, they do, and she knows because she is one of them, a living, breathing example. But she didn't. He's already uncomfortable enough in this room full of people, he'd probably just get up and leave if his flatmate confessed her undying love for him as well. Sherlock is the closest friend she'd ever had, their home-life the happiest she'd ever been. Risking tipping such a perfectly balanced scale was not worth it.
Oh, dear. She's in love.