Pure fluffily fluff, this is set far into the future, on the wedding day of Will Holmes - son of Sherlock and Molly, and Rosie Watson (of course we all know who Rosie is!). There are references to "Eight Minutes" but it isn't necessary to read that story to understand what's going on. This started as a oneshot too late last night, but I think it asks me to write a second chapter, from the perspective of the BRIDE'S simultaneous preparations. For the first time ever, I am breaking my own rule and posting before it's complete, but if I know myself, I doubt it will be very long before the second chapter appears on my computer screen, relating Rosie's preparations with the help of Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Eurus. Of course, these are not my characters, with the exception of Will Holmes, who is inspired by characters created by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and THEIR inspiration and of course the creator of the core characters, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No copyright infringement is intended.
John Victor William Holmes stood in front of the full length mirror. Behind him, only a couple of inches taller than him, stood his father Sherlock.
The elder Holmes straightened his bow tie, still not comfortable with it, but willing to do anything for his son and only child on this day. The formerly jet black locks hadn't lost their lustre – or their lackadaisical curls over the years, but they had gained a few streaks of silver "wisdom highlights" to accompany the deepened laugh lines around his blue green eyes. He was convinced that the strapping young man standing in front of him had more than a little bit to do with the silvering curls on his head, and the extra lines on his face. The fact that 25 years had passed since his own wedding day couldn't possibly have had anything to do with the graceful signs of aging he carried. He thought to Molly, assisting the bride downstairs with Mrs Hudson as they awaited Eurus's hoped arrival from Sherrinford on a day pass to complete the women's brigade. Molly had escaped the years with nothing more than a small single streak of subtle silver at her left temple – one easily hidden by a well-thought out ponytail. Were Sherlock Holmes a creature of physical vanity rather than intellectual, he may have felt more than a little bit bitter about his wife's graceful sailing through the years.
Had he been a man of more realistic and less biased view of his wife, however, he might have noticed that she had, in actual fact, earned a few more wisdom highlights than he thought, and the lines around her eyes indicating a life and marriage of happiness and laughter a bit more numerous than he perceived. But, as he always had, Sherlock generally saw what he wanted to, and little else. In his eyes, his Molly would always be radiant and forever young.
"Well Dad," Will said, his baritone voice closely matching his father's. "How do I look? Do you think she'll still want to marry me?"
Sherlock smiled at his grown son's reflection in the mirror. "I've no doubt whatsoever my son. Are you ready for this? Really, really ready?"
Will smiled nervously, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a gush of anticipation. "Yeah, Dad. I'm really, really ready. Where're Mum and Hudders?" he asked, referring to Mrs. Hudson by his dad's old nickname for their landlady, now quite elderly but still as spunky as ever, and proud as punch that this day had finally arrived.
Uncle Mycroft may have predicted it 22 years ago, but Mrs. Hudson had ensured it with her gentle encouragements and sly ministrations when Will and Rosie seemed close to being on the outs yet again. She knew the disagreements were minor, but young love was young love, even if it had been in the works since they had been old enough to develop their own language to communicate with each other in code. It still had its ups and downs.
"Probably down with Rosie helping her out," Sherlock said lightly. Damnit if Mycroft hadn't been right after all. One day, he had said, his nephew and John's daughter would join their families together officially. "Weddings are for brides, son. All the groom need do is to dress up, show up, and shut up. Your mother and Hudders are no doubt convincing her not to bugger off before John has a chance to walk her down the aisle."
"I've already grilled her on that Sherlock," John Watson said, breezing through the door. "Bad news son," he said to Will, "wedding's still on." He winked at his godson and very soon to be son-in-law through the mirror.
"Ah, Uncle," Will chuckled, "I can always count on you to bring the really GOOD news, can't I," he teased. "Seriously though… how is she?"
John smiled proudly. "She's beautiful and stunning and happier than I have seen her since the day you barged into 221B with her in tow, demanded audience with me, and asked for my blessing." He clapped a hand on Will's shoulder, glancing over at Sherlock.
A look of sadness briefly passed over John's face, a look that was not lost on Sherlock.
Over the decades, the two best friends had learned to communicate without words.
"She looks like Mary did, doesn't she?" Sherlock asked him, wordlessly.
"Spitting image," John replied in silence. "I don't know if I should laugh or cry."
"Laugh," Sherlock said out loud. "Molly, Hudders, and Rosie will provide enough tears for all of us. And Eurus too, if Mycroft manages to secure her day pass today."
Will rose an eyebrow at his father and his godfather. There they were at it again. That annoying way they had of talking to each other without actually TALKING. Okay, so maybe he and Rosie did it all the time, but that was DIFFERENT.
"I'm sure Uncle Mycroft will manage to get Auntie Eurus here," Will reassured them. "He promised, and Uncle Myc never reneges on his promises to me. But dad… speaking of promises…"
"Right here," Sherlock smiled. He glanced over to the sofa where his violin sat, still in its case. "I've practiced it, I hope I've gotten it right. It's been so many years since I heard it I confess I'm a little worried."
John had heard Sherlock practice the piece, and had smiled happily. He was glad that the violin piece Will had composed for Rosie when he was only 6 years old, and she was 8, had managed to come through the years without having been lost to time, or multiple packings up to move somewhere for schooling, or jobs, or the temporary move back home to 221B in between flats as life carried them forward – or even the ravages of time upon paper, fraying the edges and turning them brittle and fragile, as it was apt to do.
"Play it Dad, please? I just want to make sure?" Will pleaded.
Sherlock glanced at John, and then towards the door as Mycroft entered silently, smiling with satisfaction. "I've brought Eurus, brother mine," he communicated to Sherlock, in much the same way Sherlock talked wordlessly to John. "She's with the ladies downstairs settling in."
"Thank you Uncle Mine, I love you," Will grinned at him. Mycroft's eyes grew large and Sherlock and John shared a knowing look of amusement at Mycroft's reaction.
"What, you didn't think the apple would fall far from that tree, did you Uncle Myc?" Will voiced out loud. His baritone laughter echoed through the room, his mood clearly lightened and his mind at ease for the first time all day. Everyone important was here now. The only one missing from the room was his dad's old New Scotland Yard cronie, Greg Lestrade, and Will knew that Greg was downstairs somewhere in the trenches, making sure that the officiant and the ushers and all of the small details were handled seamlessly at the last minute.
Sherlock, in the meantime, had removed his violin from the case. Plucking the strings gently, he adjusted the tension while John set up the music stand and set the yellowing sheet music out.
Just outside, Rosie, decked out in her mother's wedding dress and taking a stroll through the hallways to clear her head, having wisely taken Aunt Eurus's suggestion to get away from the stifling smother mothers that were Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Happening past the door, she paused, hearing the familiar voices inside, and Uncle Sherlock plucking and tuning his violin.
Strains of memory echoed through her mind as Uncle Sherlock began to play the old piece that Will had composed for her after their visit to Sherrinford to see Aunt Eurus all those years ago. It had been a long flight back home from the island facility that evening, but she and Will had been too wired from the day to sleep. They had left the adults to their own devices in the living room while she had curled up in the big chair in Will's room, listening to him compose a gift for her.
She hadn't forgotten about it, but she hadn't heard it in years either. She had hoped that Will had preserved the aging sheet music, composed in his childish, 6 year old hand, but was relieved to discover that he had, indeed, managed to keep it safe. Uncle Sherlock didn't play it with the same kind of love that Will did, but he did play it like it belonged in her heart, in the same way he played everything he played for her. She knew that Will had planned to have his dad play it for them as they danced their first dance as husband and wife, and she was glad for the sentiment.
"Ready when you are, love," she whispered to him silently through the door.
Will sensed her presence outside and heard her sweet voice in his heart. "Meet you downstairs, my RosieRose," he replied.
Rosie paused a moment more as Sherlock's violin played the final notes of the piece. Smiling happily, she turned and headed back down to where the women were. Lestrade ran into her and offered an arm, tsking at her ventures so close to the groom. "Bad luck my dear," the recently retired DI scolded gently, his velvet voice unchanged through the years. "Can't let him see you before the ceremony." He winked at her as she took his arm and allowed him to lead her back on track towards the stairs. Greg always did have the situation in hand.
Inside the door, Will braced himself then glanced at Sherlock. "In for a penny, in for a pound, Dad," he said. "Uncles, shall we?" He gestured briefly towards the door. The four men, led by Will, took one last moment to straighten their ties and tug at their jackets, then, single file, headed downstairs.