Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.


AN: And here's the Sign of Three - not a lot of changes, just some notes from Irene's perspective. Hope you enjoy!


Irene smiled at her lover. He was devouring a book which she had briefly caught the title of as she passed him with Nero: 'Ways to Make a Memorable Best Man's Speech'. John and Mary had finally decided on a wedding date, not too far off from today.

She had never gotten married before...a lad named Norton had almost got her, but she had refused at the last second. In fact, Irene and Sherlock weren't even married. They were more of intellectual partners and lovers, with Sherlock having outright refused to get married.

Though no one else had agreed, being slightly shocked at the thought that Irene and Sherlock weren't married, Irene had agreed with his reasoning. To get married was to proclaim that they were going to be forever together, and then seal it with pointless rings of metal. In fact, 1 out of 3 weddings always ended in divorce.

'Darling, it's time for dinner.'

Sherlock didn't give any notice that he had heard her. Irene sighed, and placed Nero down in the playpen that Mrs. Hudson had kept from her own children and set up once again for Nero (God, that woman was a saint), and then picked up the book from Sherlock's grip, igniting an annoyed 'Irene!'

'Don't give me that look, darling. It's time for dinner, and I won't have you abandoning it even though it's John's wedding.'

'But-'

'No buts.' Sherlock sulked and stood up, crossing over in his blue silk dressing gown and bare feet into the kitchen. Irene sighed at his behaviour, and picked Nero up, placing him in the baby seat.

'Anecdotes.' He growled.

'Hm?' Irene looked up from where she was unsuccessfully trying to feed Nero. 'Sorry?'

'I need anecdotes about John.'

Irene raised an elegant eyebrow. 'Then contact Lestrade.' Her brow then furrowed. 'No, Sherlock-' Sherlock already had texted Lestrade, obviously forgetting that Lestrade was busy with a case this evening. Taking out her phone, Irene dialled the Detective Inspector's number. He picked up, and Irene walked out of the kitchen, leaving the task of feeding Nero to Sherlock.

'Inspector? Don't bother coming. Sherlock merely needs anecdotes.'

A curse on the other side. 'Christ! Thanks Irene.'

Irene smiled. 'Of course. Now, if you don't mind, I have to get back.' She hung up and turned back to face Sherlock. Sherlock frowned at her, but his expression softened only slightly as she pecked him on the lips, and turned back to where Nero was demanding their attention.


'Congratulations!' The greeting was shouted out by the photographer as he stepped in front. 'Hang on, I just want to get this one. Just the bride and groom, please.'

Janine (a girl that Irene didn't care much about, and no, she wasn't jealous), and Sherlock were standing to the side, Janine clinging, well, not exactly clinging, but something like it, to Sherlock, while Sherlock backed away slightly, obviously uncomfortable. He scowled at Irene's smirk.

Irene smiled at the groom and bride. Both were glowing with happiness.


Irene laughed as the boy, Archie, was it? hugged Sherlock tightly, while her lover stiffened and patted his head awkwardly, promising pictures of beheadings to the boy, while the unaware mother frowned, asking her son what he had said as she led him in.

Seeing the man that was previously Mary's boyfriend, no, fiancé, stare at Sherlock in discomfort made Irene want to laugh again. God. She had been in her room and had heard the conversations he had had with the different people in the different positions of the wedding.

She joined Sherlock, carrying Nero who looked uncomfortable in his suit (Sherlock had demanded where the heck she had managed to get one), and was playing with his tie. Sherlock was talking with Mary, who were looking at John greeting someone.

Major Sholto, she supposed, but Sherlock clearly didn't know it.

'Major Sholto? If they're such good friends, why does he never mention him to me?'

Mary frowned. 'Mentions him all the time to me, never shuts up about him.'

'And he did mention it to you, darling.' Irene's voice breezed into the conversation. 'Do you not remember? When we were talking about the invitations.' Sherlock scowled.

'That does not mean anything.'

Mary smiled at the couple, and grimaced as she took a sip of her wine: 'I chose this wine, but it's bloody awful.', before adding her bit in about Sholto. 'Hm, John said that he's the most unsociable man he's ever met.'

'He is he's the most unsociable man he's ever met?' Sherlock demanded, the second question cutting over the first.

Mary laughed as she looked at Sherlock. 'Aw, Sherlock, neither of us were the first.'

'Stop smiling.'

'Darling.' Irene's tone was slightly warning.

Mary didn't seem to care as she laughed in nearly incredulous surprise. 'It's my wedding day!'


Irene later caught Sherlock talking to Mycroft on the phone, before hearing him snap 'I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft,' and hanging up.

She had seen that look on his face before. When he had spoke to Nero about his old dog: Redbeard. Well, used to be only friend. Before he met John. Irene moved to Sherlock. 'Enjoying yourself?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

'Are you?'

'Other than some of the more idiotic and obtuse of John's cousins, I suppose that it'll have to do.'


Irene knew that the speech was going to go down the moment she saw Sherlock throw away the telegrams, and faintly remembered laughing with Mrs. Hudson about it as Sherlock entertained Nero on the violin upstairs in their flat.

John had come in catching both of them in mid-laughter, with the statement 'I thought you were dying...' and unable to get anything out of Mrs. Hudson except for 'The telegrams, John, oh, the telegrams!'.

Irene merely smirked at him, regained her composure, and said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, moving back upstairs, with John following her upstairs, to see Nero sleeping peacefully on the sofa with a recording of Sherlock's violin going on.

Irene tutted as Sherlock held a fire to an eyeball, and looked up. 'Oh. I thought Mrs. Hudson was torturing an owl. Was she?'

'No, darling.' Irene smiled. 'She was laughing her poor self to death.'

John frowned at the statement as Sherlock replied. 'Could have been doing both at the same time.' John sat himself down at the table, and looked at Irene, who smiled and moved to what became her and Sherlock's bedroom.

Irene didn't hear much of the conversation, but noted that there had been a long silence after John spoke. She wondered briefly what was, and wondered whether she was going to eavesdrop or not.

Deciding she had nothing to lose, she did so, just in time to hear Sherlock's low baritone. 'I'm your best friend?', saying 'friend' at the same time as John, who had said 'man'.

John seemed shock, before speaking. 'Yeah. You're my best friend.'


Then, when Sherlock admitted what an arsehole he was, Irene could only stare in something like amazement. God. Sherlock admitting that.

She saw tears in the eyes of some, and grinned as she looked at his slightly panicked face, being close enough to hear John and Mary conversing quietly. 'If I go up and try to hug him, stop me.'

'Certainly not.'

Irene smiled as Sherlock started on the funny stories, recounting 'The Hollow Client', 'The Poison Giant', 'The Matchbox Dacathlete' (Which had both of them stumped for a second, before Irene and Sherlock's knowledge about tobacco had helped), and the 'Elephant in the Room'.

Worry churned in her gut for some reason when Sherlock started the story on the 'Bloody Guardsman'.