Beside You- A Johnlock Fanfiction (BBC Sherlock) *UNDER HEAVY EDITING*

Chapter Twenty-One- Anticipated Answers

What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person.

-          John Green

(A/N- This chapter contains content that refers to drugs, domestic and sexual abuse and possible triggers. I apologize, I won’t make it very detailed but it needs to be added as a significant (and tragic) part of a character’s past.)

Sherlock

The last evening before the wedding- I’ll admit I was nervous, shaking in the back of the car after I’d said goodbye to my fiancé as we were chauffeured in different directions for the night so we could prepare for tomorrow.

I wasn’t nervous about marrying him, or spending the rest of my life with him. I’d never been so sure about wanting something in my entire life. No- what I was nervous about was what he was going to find out tonight.

It was inevitable. I couldn’t do it myself, as much as that was what I would have preferred and would have possibly been better, it was impossible. I could never say it.

Late the previous night, I had phoned Mycroft. He hadn’t replied, so I left him a simple message-

I need you to tell him. - SH 

He’d nodded at me when I’d seen him earlier- he knew exactly what I was talking about. These were the things John needed to know, the memories that wouldn’t leave my sleep. I’d be able to talk to him about it in time. I knew it was late for him to get to know now, and I should have had him notified before but…

“Sherlock, you alright?” Greg asked from the front seat, his eyebrows dipping in concern from the rearview mirror.

“Yes, fine,” I forced a smile.

“Not getting cold feet, are you?” Molly chuckled. I shook my head.

“Of course not.”

 She laughed. “Just checking- what do you want for dinner?”

  

John

Mycroft sat in the passenger seat of the sleek black car that had come to take me away from Baker Street- I’d kissed Sherlock goodbye, and told him that I love him and I couldn’t wait for the next day. He replied with the same message, but our friends and family were raring to go.

I bundled my overnight bag into the boot of the car and then sat down in the backseats on the fine leather. Mycroft made small talk, asking me about how I was and whether I was nervous for tomorrow, and I replied appropriately, but I knew he had something else of a more serious matter on his mind. I was soon to find out, however.

Sherlock’s older brother lived in a very large, fine looking flat somewhere that I had lost in London amongst the twists and turns of the road. When we got to the door, him insisting to take my bag, I soon found out why, what- and who.

 A woman in her late sixties with a thin face and large, green blue eyes that you could tell used to shine a lot brighter stood and greeted us at the door. She was gracefully aged, her hair giving away from black to grey. She smiled at me, and offered me her hand.

“Hello, John.”

“Hi,” I shook it. Her fingers trembled nervously.

“John,” Mycroft said. “I’d like you to meet my mother.”