The Elephant in the Room
After Sherlock makes his best man speech, John gets up to hug him but Sherlock thought he was supposed to kiss him because that's what the maid of honor did to marry so he plants one on John in front of everyone and John is very confused. Promp by holmosexuality.He hadn't meant to do it. Not really. John stood up, John opened his arms to him, John moved in close with his hand set at the back of Sherlock's neck, dragging him down, pulling him in. He'd meant to find his cheek, he supposed. That was the proper place for a friendly kiss. He'd meant to and then just sort of... missed. Easy mistake. John's head had turned and Sherlock hadn't had time to adjust for the new trajectory. John's hand at his neck made such adjustments a trial. He'd meant it to be friendly. It was supposed to be a simple gesture of affection not unlike Janine's tearful peck shared with Mary. Just an expression of happiness and of hope, a tiny invocation of blessings wished on him and his. It was only supposed to be a friendly, heart-felt but not heart-exposing kiss. But it fell just a couple inches to left, not against the shaved cheek that still smelled of aftershave and the bite of cologne but against the thin lips that beckoned him closer and promised he hadn't gotten it wrong. Too quickly spoken. He had gotten it wrong, perhaps not before but certainly now. Why else would John have recoiled so, arms that so recently heralded him in sent to press him further at bay?
John had a knack for overreaction. His response to Sherlock's resurrection had been to strangle him back towards the grave. It wasn't really all that surprising that a kiss should end in Sherlock falling head over heels. John's knack for overreaction seemed to favor inverse displays. He was going to kill Sherlock because he wasn't dead--now Sherlock was falling because he'd already fallen and in both cases the reason and subject were John. It wouldn't do to make even more of a mess. Best not to try and grab on to Janine's chair to save himself from collapse. Luckily she seemed to be leaning far away to avoid just such an action herself. That was fine--she couldn't save him anyway. They'd discussed as much, more or less, in some respect. There was a vacancy that she couldn't fill--that no one could. Not a one except for the one. And he too, with hands drawn back, had moved aside to watch him, not save him, with eyes drawn narrow in confusion in their darkened display.
He supposed he had just told the entire room of attendees that he loved John. And he had just kissed his lips in front of the gathered crowd as a bride should kiss her groom. Saying he hadn't meant to only helped matters if it nullified his motive. But he'd said love amongst a million praises and touched his lips on the whisper of comfort that stood to praise him in return for bringing tears to the eyes of the man who did so well to hide it all. No one was fooled. Not even John--not anymore. He'd risen to give Sherlock the tiniest bit of a reciprocated display and Sherlock had taken that inch and created a mile that snapped back like rubber, jerking him away. Pushing him away. Sherlock did not bother to raise a hand to him to stop his fall. John's hands were held as to be visible to everyone and show by demonstration how obviously repulsed, how sacredly dismayed he was to be kissed by another on his wedding day, revulsion added because he was a man.
The floor was certainly a long time in coming. Tall people problems. He'd fall on his arse and roll back to save his skull, legs bent to not upset the chairs or table. He'd upset enough. He'd have to get up quickly, of course. Staying down would hint at guilt or remorse while jumping straight up would allow him to pull a face for the crowd as he set his tuxedo straight. Probably a joke would be needed, something slightly demeaning of John that would take the edge off the context within which the kiss was shared. 'Sorry, John, I don't go in for married men. Better keep an eye on him, Mary.' That would do. Give John something to react to. He could sputter and spurn Sherlock's slight with a grimace as they both wiped their lips like children. That would save face. People could question who it was who kissed whom, join in the joke, understand it all to be a mistake. They'd laugh and laugh and laugh at the very idea that John would ever want Sherlock. How absurd. How painfully, utterly, bitterly wrong. John didn't love Sherlock like that. This was his wedding day after all; the day he pledged his undying love for Mary Morstan, forsaking all others, till death did they part.
Maybe somewhere amidst their laughter, John would forget to be mad. Forget the embarrassment of the kiss and believe in the absurdity of the mistake. Such an easy thing to do, really. Why should anyone love Sherlock Holmes? That was the moral of the story, wasn't it? Sherlock was only worth what treasures John bestowed him. Now John had Mary. Now Sherlock had nothing. Now Sherlock was nothing. Not even worth the hands that had held him so briefly as to be a dream.
He hit the floor, he rolled, he bounced up with animation in his leap. It was all an act, put on a good show, smile, laugh, tease, wink and move on. Today, anyway, that was how the story would go. The story of John and Mary, their love, and maybe somewhere in the tale a footnote named Sherlock that boasted of the jester's defeat.