【Joanlock】Five years too late 渣翻译慎入！

To be continued。。。

好虐…

哎呦我去好苦逼的样子

渣译各种无能...译了一个小时才有那么一点~~
Joan和Bell选择了在购物广场中心结婚，一个充满受贿发生的地方。尽管并非出自他所愿，他还是不得不承认，这是一个会很漂亮的婚礼。而最特别也是最重要的一点——Joan是新娘。
走在被地毯覆盖上了婚礼打听，花农、侍应不断地从他的身边经过。脑海里突然闪烁出要不要和她坦白的一切的念头。这是一个很愚蠢的想法，但他却忍不住感到很快乐。那一定是一个很完美的剧本，不是吗？他和Joan，在婚礼开始前的最后一分钟，双双逃离现场，Bell像个傻瓜一样站在婚礼台上，安慰各个来宾。“Oh，她一定会来的，我们终究是相爱的。”
可永远都不会发生像这样的事情——当他走进了Joan的房间，看见她脸上那么快乐的笑容后，这是一个越来越清晰的事实。God，he loved
it when she was happy,她的笑容足以让这个该死的房间瞬间被点亮。如果她现在没有穿着婚纱裙的话，他会觉得更漂亮。尽管身上的这套裙子只会愈发衬托出她的美丽。
“白色的裙子？Watson。”身体靠在门边，他说道。Joan转头看向他，眼里闪现些许光辉。“You're
fooling no one”。他说。
像以前那个他了解的，他爱的Joan Watson一样，眼前的她又出现了那种熟悉的对他表示不满时的眼神。
“Oh，shut up。”一半反驳，一半快乐的语气。
努力表现出在今天婚礼上该有的反应，他走近她。
“除了在裙子这个问题上你被别人欺骗了之外，你看起来很漂亮。”
他吻了吻她的额头后，和她一同转向镶有三面镜子的木板。“Look at you，Watson。”忍住那多多少少使他惊愕的泪水，他轻轻说道。
Crying？Come on！
她轻咬嘴唇，转身看着他，突然用自己的手臂抱住了他的脖子。
“Don’t cry。”他柔声安慰，轻轻拍打着她的背。
“我看见婚礼的账单了…你付给化妆师的钱有点多了，我可以化一个免费的妆的。”
他听见一些不易被察觉的笑声，然后是一阵属于她的低声解释：“我让伴娘团们在隔壁的房间等着。”哽咽着，她继续说道：“I wanted
to...to wait for you. Because..."她抬起头，看向他的脸。对于他来说，这是一张他从未有像此刻那般强烈欲望想吻她的脸。
“I love you。”她说道。
他的身子一下子僵直了。
"You're my best friend."
Oh God, no.

To be continued

我靠 这么虐

还真够纠结的。

拖了好久真的是很抱歉！本想等着考完试就翻的，谁知又军训....然后军训完后又要忙着写一篇论文，好不容易放假了又各种懒...前前后后都三个多月了，终于把他翻出来了。但是我觉得这篇翻得很不好...有些句子我都不知道该怎么表达..看懂和翻出来真的是两回事啊
好吧，我以后有时间会接着翻的~话说看见咱吧很多人都主动出来翻译，真是好啊！
楼下放原文~各位能看懂原文更好~Sherlock的悲伤还是用英语表现得更贴切。

The tuxedo reminded him of Joan, simply because it fit him,
as did she. It wasn't often that you came across someone like that—someone
you could look at and wonder what higher power had made it possible for you to
meet. Because with the universe constantly being against you, it's a big
surprise when it goes, "Here's someone that's perfect for you." He
wouldn't call it love at first sight, since, as far as he was concerned, it
didn't exist. But when her last few weeks as a companion loomed like an
oncoming storm, it suddenly hit him: He was in love with Joan Watson. Irene's
reappearance hadn't dissolved those feelings in the slightest, but had made him
set them aside for the time being. After Irene had revealed herself as
Moriarty, it had taken a few weeks to cope with the fact that the woman he had
admittedly loved was not who she said she was, and was a malicious killer, at
that. After that, his love for Joan became stronger than ever, because he
realized she would always be there. It was a big assumption, that she would
never leave his side, but he stuck by it. Joan wouldn't betray him as Moriarty
had, wouldn't lie and scheme. Another thing to add to her long list of
wonderful qualities.
For years, now, Moriarty would try and find ways to screw
things up, to make things just a bit more difficult for him and Joan. Once, it
had gotten so bad that he had begged Joan to get the hell out and go live a
safe and normal life. But she had stayed. Through all of Moriarty's attempts,
she was always there to comfort him and say, "We'll get her one day."
That day never seemed to arrive, although she insisted that it would.
About two years after they had first met, he had finally
decided to tell her that he loved her. He didn't plan anything big and fancy—that
wasn't his style. In fact, he didn't even reallyhave a style, his only plan being to simply walk into the room and
say, "I love you."
Not every woman's dream way of hearing those words, but he
had a feeling that, if the feeling was reciprocated, she would appreciate it
nonetheless. Whether or not she would feel the same way was questionable, but,
as long as she at least knew how he felt, he wouldn't give a damn.
Fear of rejection was
uncommon in the heart of Sherlock Holmes, mostly because he had maintained very
few relationships to get rejected from. Joan could reject him, though. And if
she did, well...he figured he would get to that later.
However, he had walked into the living room, preparing to
utter the rather dangerous phrase, when he laid eyes on a heavily made-up Joan,
strapping on some stilettos to accompany a violet cocktail dress.
"Sherlock," she said with a nervous smile, standing up to put her
beautiful figure on display. "You're stunning," he blurted
out, wondering if he should regret that. She arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Grinning, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, revealing her sharp,
breath-taking features. "Thanks, Sherlock. Never knew you were one for
compliments," she laughed airily. "Anyway, I'm just about to head out
for a date. I went ahead and ordered you some Chinese...it should be here in
twenty minutes or so."
The doorbell had sounded, and who else would be there to
greet her but Detective Bell, who told her, as if it weren't blatantly obvious,
that she was beautiful. What made it worse was that she seemed more grateful
when the remark came from him, like she took anything Sherlock said with a
grain of salt. They had left, and the Chinese did show up after twenty minutes.
He hadn't enjoyed it.
It won't
last, he had thought. Then
I'll tell her.

He was at their wedding.
Bell proposed after an agonizing two years of watching them
greet each other at the door, kissing outside the brownstone, and horrifying
mornings where he would accidentally run into the detective. How hellish it had
been, greeting him in the kitchen and offering him a coffee, Bell totally oblivious to the fact that this
was an awkward situation.
As soon as he proposed, Joan moved into his apartment, and
that really hit home. She was leaving him. Of course, did he expect her to
never live with her future husband, or for Bell to move here? But it still bothered him,
still made his heart break as she packed up her things, kissed him on the
cheek, and left. He still saw her at work every day, but he no longer got to
ride home with her and order pizza and listen to her rant about his
eccentricity. Instead, they parted ways, and he always lingered long enough to
see her hop into the car with Bell,
laughing about something he stopped caring about.
Now he stood in front of a floor-length mirror, adjusting his
cufflinks and wondering why the hell he agreed to be the maid of honor. The
femininity of the role wasn't what bothered him—Joan had once made him watch a movie where
Patrick Dempsey had done the same—he really didn't care if he stood among a bunch of
pastel-adorned women. But he had considered not even attending the wedding in
the first place. He had to, of course, because Joan and—for the most part—Bell were his
friends. It would definitely not be easy, however, to stand right near the
woman he loved as she wed. Yet he was still here, preparing to go and see her
before the big day that he wished didn't exist.
Joan and Bell
were marrying at the Plaza, a venue that had taken much bribery to acquire.
Despite himself, Sherlock had to admit that the wedding was going to be a
beautiful one, especially with Joan as the bride. As he made his way down the
carpeted hall, florists and caterers rushing past him, he considered trying to
talk her out of it. A foolish idea, but one he couldn't help but entertain.
That would be the perfect scenario, wouldn't it? Him and Joan, ditching the
wedding at the last minute, Bell standing at the altar like an idiot,
reassuring all the guests that, "Oh, she'll come. We're in love, after
all." Nothing like this would ever happen, a fact that became clear as
soon as he entered Joan's suite and saw the happy look on her face. God, he
loved it when she was happy, when she was wearing that smile that
lit up the whole damn room. If only she weren't wearing that white dress,
though she looked absolutely ravishing in it.
"White, Watson?" he asked, leaning against the
door. Joan turned in his direction, her eyes brightening when she saw him.
"You're fooling no one." Rolling her eyes
like the good old Joan Watson he knew and loved, she smoothed out the skirt of
her dress. "Oh shut up," she half-retorted, half-giggled. Trying to
emit anticipation for the day's events, he approached her. "Putting aside
the deception of the fabric, you look beautiful." He kissed the top of her
head and faced the three-paneled mirror with her. "Look at you,
Watson," he whispered, holding back tears, much to his own dismay. Crying?
Come on! She bit her lip and turned around, unexpectedly throwing her arms
around his neck. "Don't cry," he mumbled, patting her back. "I
saw the bill...you paid that make-up artist a bit too much. I could have done
it for free." He heard a muffled laugh, then a small whimper. "I told
the other bridesmaids to wait in the other room," she explained,
sniffling. "I wanted to...to wait for you.
Because..." She looked up at his face, the face that he kept frozen in
a expression that didn't convey the absolute longing he felt to kiss her.
"I love you." He stiffened. "You're my best friend." Oh
God, no.
Putting his head on top of hers, careful not to mess up the
curls, he sighed. "You're my best friend too, my dear
Watson. And...I'm happy for you." She pulled away, smiling and wiping
her eyes tentatively. "And as your best friend," Sherlock continued,
"if you wish to...I think the proper vernacular is 'bounce,' I can go call
a cab." She laughed whole-heartedly, except it had only been a partial
joke. Being piloted off to the brownstone, where he could kiss her and tell her
he loved her...too good to be true, which it was. She was getting married, and
showing no signs of cold feet. "My dad should be here any minute,"
she said quietly, checking the mirror to see if she had smudged her makeup.
"I think, right before we walk down the aisle, I'll tell him how much this
all costs. He doesn't know yet." He grinned. "That's quite the
scheme, Joan." They both froze. He had only referred to her as Joan in his
head. Very rarely had he been on a first name basis with anyone, formality
being his strong suit.
"Joan," she said quietly. "I like it."
SHAPE \* MERGEFORMAT

Much to the wedding coordinator's horror, he didn't proceed
down the aisle to the rubbish "rhythm" she had taught everyone
involved in the procession. Instead, he fast-walked, dragging Gregson, the best
man, behind him. Along the way, they received plenty of strange looks from the
guests, which Sherlock waved off. "Yeah, yeah, yeah,
we're not important anyway."
"Holmes!" Gregson hissed. "What the hell are
you doing?" At the altar, Bell
watched with wide eyes alongside the minister, who seemed to look up and utter
a prayer that this wedding would work out okay. "Getting the show on the
road," he replied, wanting to laugh at how the piano player sped up the
tempo of the song to go along with their brisk pace. He practically shoved
Gregson over to where the groomsmen stood, all of them looking disapprovingly
at the maid of honor. "You messed everything up!" one of the
bridesmaids whispered angrily. "Piss off," was all he had to say.
When Joan stepped onto the aisle, he noticed two things: 1)
She was an absolute goddess, and 2) Her father was looking as white as her
dress. She must have just told him about the wedding's total price. They
continued their steady walk, the bridesmaid growling, "See, that's how it's done!" He ignored
her, totally fixated on the glowing Joan. She whispered "hello" to
multiple people, waving to little children who obviously adored her. Who
couldn't? Bell,
of course, looked almost as captured as he, but he didn't pay attention to him.

When Joan and Bell joined
hands and the minister started his slow droning, Sherlock decided that the only
way to get through this ceremony was to pretend that he was Bell. It seemed petty, but he could easily
admit that he was jealousy-ridden. He wanted it to be him looking into Joan's eyes, about to be married to the greatest
woman on the face of the earth. But what he had learned long ago was that
things will always work out for men like Bell,
the men who shine their shoes and use their manners and always stay composed.
Men like Bell
get women like Joan Watson. Men like Sherlock end up with a drug problem,
meaningless one-night stands, and unrequited love. Maybe it's his fault, since,
after all, he's chosen to be this way: A rather arrogant asshole that women can
only stand when they're drunk and feeling spontaneous. There's a reason why
he's not getting married in the Plaza today. There's a reason why Joan is
paying no mind to him, just staring and staring at Bell, the man who did
everything right, and was able to snatch her up in the process.
It was almost a good thing that today was not Sherlock's
wedding, for he had no vows prepared, nor was he good at writing any. Bell started to speak,
and Sherlock briefly remembered a short poem. A cheesy poem, but more than he
would ever be able to articulate. He spoke as well, yet silently.
"The
sun is no match for our heat, our light
The moon
is put to shame by our pull
The stars
admire our unity
I was
empty, dear, now I am full!
A door
opens, and I stop, clouded by fear
For I
fear what is sudden and new
Yet you
hold my hand, and we take it by storm
For I no
longer fear it with you.
Your eyes
contain all that is good
And your
smile trumps any strife
Oh, your
voice, your laugh, your kiss, my love
Brightens
the dark that is life."
Bell's vows
are followed by an impressed "Awww" or two, Joan's watery eyes
crinkling as she smiles. "I love you," she mouths, and it hurts how
much Sherlock wishes that were directed towards him. She says her vows, and,
although he had planned to, he doesn't listen, just watches her. It really is a
beautiful sight, her being happy. She giggles as she stumbles over words, bites
her lip momentarily as she pauses between sentences.
He doesn't make her that happy.
Sherlock is not one to make someone happy. It's not an
intentional flaw, obviously—he doesn't like overhearing conversations about how much
people hate him. He's just always been better at posing a challenge, a small
mystery for the companion to solve. Although he hates to think it, maybe that's
the only reason Joan has stuck around: The fun of it all. Questioning suspects,
examining clues...maybe that's all she craves. Not his company. It's obvious to
him now, as he watches her grip Bell's
hands more tightly as she recalls their first date. Joan's not like that...Maybe she isn't with good people! The people
that deserve to see her so often! She did call you her best friend...She
had been too emotional to say anything rational. He clenches his jaw,
considering whether or not he should storm out of here, when Joan peeks around Bell's shoulder. Tears
are running clear down her face now, and some bridesmaid behind him is whining
about her makeup. "And Sherlock," she says, smiling softly. "My
best friend. It's been five years now, hasn't it?" Everyone's attention is
on him now, his quick passage to the altar quickly forgotten, for the bride has
mentioned his name. He smiles sheepishly, wondering if he should answer aloud.
Probably not. "Five years!" she exclaims. "We've been consulting
together, and let me just say, Sherlock, it's been the best time of my
life." The fact that Joan took time out of her wedding to acknowledge an
irrelevant friend brings him to the realization that her intentions are good.
Of course they are, though...shouldn't he have learned that by now? He's a
bloody idiot, is what he is.
"Especially," she adds, looking at Bell again, "it's how I met this guy." A few chuckle at that,
even Sherlock, except it's a chuckle out of disappointment. Because it's his
fault, in the end. It's his fault that the priest is saying, "I now
pronounce you man and wife," and Joan and Bell are kissing and everyone's cheering and
crying because everything is oh-so-beautiful. It's his fault that, as they are
stepping off the altar, Joan looks back and extends her hand for him. As a
friendly gesture. He takes it, because that's what "friends" are for.
They all make it out of the room through the cheering crowd,
and Joan gives Sherlock's hand a squeeze before letting it go. "We'll call
you over for some pictures in a minute," she promises as she is whisked
away by a grinning Bell.
He has every right to, of course: He just married Joan Watson.
Yes, it's all his fault. He could have told her a long time
ago that he loved her. Then, maybe, it could have been him standing in front of
a photographer, looping his arms around Joan's waist and pressing a kiss to her
cheek, or dipping her low to the ground before kissing her. People standing
from a distance could have whispered to each other, "Sherlock and Joan
make such a lovely couple." But they're not. And who's to blame? Him, of
course.
Five years too late. He gives a small sigh, shakes his head,
and walks straight out of the Plaza. Unbeknownst to him, Joan watches him head
toward the door, about to call his name when the photographer yells, "Over
here, Joan!" She pauses for just a second for the next picture. The camera
flashes, and she turns back to the Plaza's entrance. "Sherlock!"
Except he's already halfway down the street, muttering,
"I love you," over and over again, constantly professing to Manhattan that today was
the wedding of the woman he loved.

米福的心理描写很细，看了一种感同身受的感觉，特别揪心。不过从Joan那nFang

从Joan那方面看，到一个让人觉得温暖，安心的人身边去，后半生互相依靠互相照顾，也是个好结局。