The Sign of Three: A Reader's Journey

Not Without Saying Goodbye

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?