It's supposed to be the happiest day of his life. Instead, John found himself staring out of the side room window, watching as rain clung to each colored pane. He thought of two years before, and the adventures he had lived through. The silence and stillness in his life were almost suffocating him. Or maybe you tied the windsor too tight. Irrelevant. You know what's wrong. Stop. Stop this now. John gave himself a shake and turned away from the window, going to the armchair, and sitting with his hands on his knees, bracing himself. Even two years from the fall, and he heard his voice, still in his mind.

His throat was very dry, and he forced himself to stand, going to armoire to get some water from the pitcher waiting there. His hands shook as he gripped the glass too tightly, and he slopped some over the side when a knock came to his door. "John, dear?" Ah, Mrs. Hudson. "John, five minutes to go." John gave himself another shake, and nodded, not trusting his voice. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson didn't press on, and he soon heard her steps go lightly down the hall.

He hated this. Surely, he would have talked John out of this. He would have scared away Mary long before any of this could have happened. Stop. Stop this now. Those damn words replayed in his head over and over. From that day. John gave a sigh, taking a sip of water. Could do with something stronger. Whiskey? Really, John on your wedding day? Shut up. John gave another sigh, turning back to the window. The wind had picked up, and it seemed by the reception it should be sunny again. At least that was what was forecasted. John looked to the east, and saw a bit of light, nodding. Mary should be pleased. She wanted outside pictures.

John's mobile buzzed once, then twice. He sighed, pulling it from his breast pocket, and opening the messages. One from an unknown number, wishing him congratulations. Another from Mycroft. John pulled in a breath and opened the message. Congratulations, Dr. Watson. John gave an annoyed huff and ignored the disappointment curling in his stomach. He closed the messages and put the mobile back in his breast pocket. In his haste, he had upset the boutineer with pastels and a single rose, and he immediately put the glass of water down, going to the mirror to fix the flowers upon his chest.

Another knock came to his door, and he stuttered in his floral arranging. "John?" Greg Lestrade's voice came through. Surprisingly, John found his voice, and murmured an "enter", still trying to fix the boutineer. Greg came in, closing the door quietly behind him. "They're ready for us, John." Greg said, moving to his side, "Oh, here, let me." He muttered, and reached for John's boutineer. John sighed again.

"The bloody thing just came loose." He muttered, looking down at it in disdain. Greg eyed him for a moment before focusing his efforts back on the flowers, arranging them to be straight again. When he was done, he gave John's arms a clap, and smiling.

"All sorted. Come on, John. It's the happiest day of your life." Greg said, turning away to lead him out of the door. John checked his reflection for the last time, swiping at his hair, before turning away. Into battle.

…

In no time at all, John was standing at the head of the church, the minister to his right, and Greg at his left. John was scanning the family and friends gathered. His side was as scantily clad as Mary's. Mrs. Hudson sat in the place of his mother and father, both of them long dead. Harry, thankfully had stayed dry, and was sitting beside Mrs. Hudson, the two holding hands and dressed in the pastel lilac dresses Mary had picked. John sighed, thankful that both his sister and Mrs. Hudson had rebelled a little, choosing to wear some plum colored hats and gloves, showing John's preference to the darker colors. Anderson and his wife, and even Sally Donovan made it, sitting behind Mrs. Hudson and his sister, sitting stoically. Some of John's clinic buddies and old war buddies had made it, and he smiled at them. His face felt scrunched, as if his dry throat was transferring to his whole body, making everything tight or suffocated.

John didn't know all of Mary's guests, but he recognized some of the nurses from the clinic. They all looked cheery, with their different pastel colors. John looked down the aisle, and behind him, taking in all the pastel. God damn lilacs, canaries, and corals. It's supposed to be the happiest day of your life. Shut up. John pulled in a sigh again, and folded his hands in front of him, assuming the groom's stance. Moments later, music was starting, and the wee flower girls started down the aisle, throwing white petals. Then Mary's maid of honor started down, Janine. Her dark curly hair was pulled up in a half-do that suited her well, and she smiled at John prettily, before assuming her place across from him.

Music swelled somewhere, and next came Mary. John made sure his face was smiling, although he knew it didn't reach his eyes. Mary really did look radiant, and even with the veil covering her face, John knew she was smiling just as radiantly. Her blond short hair was wavy and arranged framing her face. She made it to her place in front of him, and he came to escort her to the minister, linking his arm through hers. He lifted her veil, and she smiled at him again, mouthing words he didn't quite catch. Then she turned and handed her bouquet to Janine, so that when she faced him, they were able to grasp hands. She gave his hands a squeeze, and John knew it was because he was shaking. He looked to the minister and nodded, signaling he was ready. As ready as I can be.

The minister droned on, quoting scripture and talking about love in life. John kept his eyes on him, blinking slowly every once in awhile, so his eyes wouldn't get dry. It was coming. The point where he could speak. He wouldn't, but he could. He closed his eyes when he heard the prelude. Please.

Then the minister changed his voice slightly, speaking those words. "If anyone should have a reason that these two should not be wed, speak now, or forever hold your peace." John opened his eyes, and out of his peripheral vision, he saw Mary flinch slightly. John didn't know how long passed, but the minister didn't continue. A cough from behind them, their friends and family. Please.

Suddenly, chirps, buzzes, and phone tones were heard. John felt his own buzz against his chest, and he resisted the urge to grab it. The minister patted his pocket, as his must have gone off too. John looked back as Mrs. Hudson gave a gasp and a small shriek. "Oh!" Harry was showing Mrs. Hudson her phone, and John felt his eyebrow arch.

Greg gave John a tap on his shoulder and was holding out his phone towards the doctor. John finally dropped Mary's hands, to her annoyance, and reached for the mobile. It felt as if all the breath left him.

I object. SH

John stared at the screen for a moment longer before looking out at the friends and family gathered, before looking to the rafters, searching for any sign. Him. How could it be? Irrelevant. What are you going to do? John's phone buzzed again, and he hastily reached for his own mobile. His hands were shaking worse now, but he managed to open the mobile, and then the messages.

Sherlock.

The first, I object. SH.

The second, If convenient, meet me outside. If inconvenient, come all the same.

John looked down the aisle, staring to the double doors. If he squinted, he swore, he could see him. Mary was talking to him now, but he didn't take in a word. The minister was asking if he should continue. John turned to Greg, who was wearing a awed look. John arched his eyebrow again, and Greg gave the briefest of nods. That was all that was needed. He handed Greg his mobile back, before pocketing his own and starting down the aisle. Away from the minister and Mary. People were shouting now, and he saw several stand as if to go after him. He ignored them all.

After what seemed an eternity, he made it to the double doors, and he took another breath before pushing them open, and exiting into blazing sunlight. He squinted his eyes, and looked down the steps of the church. There he was. His belstaff was opened slightly, revealing a deep plum button down shirt, and his black trousers were as pressed and clean as ever. The only thing that had changed was his hair, the mass of curls being slightly longer than the last time he had seen him. John's heart stuttered in his chest.

There was a cab waiting, and he gestured to it, his deep baritone bearing into John, "Shall we?"

"Oh, God yes." John said, feeling the air come back to his lungs, and life to his body. The detective smiled at him, eyes watching him. John bounded down the stairs, following him into the cab.

"221b Baker St." Came the baritone.

…

Their cab ride was silent. He stared out the side window, but John couldn't keep his eyes off of him. When they made it to their old flat, he pulled out the pounds necessary, and held open the door for John. The front door was held open for the doctor as well, but the detective bounded up the stairs to their old flat. John followed, taking off his boutineer as he came through the door. The flat was dusty with disuse, and there were a few boxes in front of the fire grate. He was facing the windows looking down on the street, pulling the curtains softly. He gave no notice at John's arrival, instead concentrating on the fluttering curtains. John closed the door, taking two more steps into the sitting room.

He turned to face John, his blue-green eyes boring into John's own blue eyes. The silence spreads between them, and John stands still, flexing his hands. He still can't believe that he's here. Hell, you can't even think his name. John grasps at his tie, loosening the knot only a fraction. Brilliant. Took seconds to tie it, but now I can't even get it off. John's hands are shaking again.

The detective comes forward, hands outstretched. John drops his hands automatically, staring in apprehension. His hands are gentle as they loosen the windsor knot, finally pulling the tie free from John's neck. John takes a deep breath, feeling as if it's his first. He doesn't move away, just throws the tie to the side, still staring at John, disregarding personal space, as normal. John's hands flex again. The detective seems unable to take the silence any longer, for he finally murmurs,

"Alright?"

John sees red. Alright? ALRIGHT? His flexing hands find their way to his belstaff, clenching around the fabric. He realizes he is spluttering out phrases like, "How?" and "You were dead!" What he really wants to say is, "I'm so glad you're here, safe, alive." His cheeks are warm, and he can't tell if it's from being so flustered, or if it's from tears spilling over his lids.

"John!" Came the baritone, and he felt hands brace against his chest. The pair of men took steps back, John being forced back, finally landing against the wall next to the front door. John finally knows that it is tears from his eyes, and that he is choking from the anger and grief that have been consuming him since that day two years again. "John!" He said again, giving the doctor a small shake.

John shakes his head, leaning his forehead against the taller man's chest. Get it together, Captain. Come, now. His grip on the belstaff is loosening, and the detective's arms are moving around his back, bringing him into an embrace. "John." A whisper.

"Why, Sherlock?" John whispers back, tears steadfastly falling. Sherlock tensed, but pulled him closer.

"Obvious. For you." They're still whispering, and John is gasping out air, trying to keep from going into straight hysterics. "John?" John can't bring himself to reply, but relaxes slightly when he feels Sherlock's long fingers under his chin, tilting his head up again. The detective is searching his eyes and face for something, and John closes his eyes. Please.

And then Sherlock's lips are upon his own, moving softly, but in need, kissing him deeply. John lets out a noise between a moan and a cry, for his chest is exploding, his limbs are on fire, his very breath is gone again. He grasps at the detective's coat again, so that he may have an anchor, and know that he isn't dreaming. Their tongues collide, and John relishes the taste. Sherlock is lifting him up, so as to get a better angle, hands under John's arse. John separates his legs so that he can wrap them around the detective's hips, bringing their bodies closer and closer. Sherlock is panting into his mouth, grasping at John's hip and arse, and John is tangling his hands in his curly hair.

Sherlock pulls away from John's mouth, kissing his cheek and moving down to his neck. John is gasping again, but this time, gasping out, "Sherlock… Sherlock…" John tugs on Sherlock's hair, pulling him away from his neck. Finally, he meets those blue-green eyes again. They're both out of breath, and Sherlock has a confused look on his face. "Sherlock," John whispers, licking his lips, trying to gather his thoughts. "Sherlock, how long?"

The detective opens his mouth, but no sound comes. He closes it, then opens, trying again. "Since the Study in Pink. When you shot the cabby." He pauses for a moment, then asks, "You?"

John huffs a laugh, then whispers, "When you asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'." Sherlock lets out a moan and covers John's lips again, claiming another kiss. And John can't help thinking, I'd walk out on thousands of weddings if it always led to this.