It was rarely a good thing when Mycroft Holmes dropped around unannounced, and if Sherlock's increasingly adamant declaration of 'No!' was any indication, then this would not be the exception that proved the rule. John did his best to ignore the battling Holmes brothers as they argued behind Sherlock's bedroom door.
He finished his breakfast, decided the washing up could wait, and retreated upstairs to his own room. He could still hear motion, two agitated men pacing to and fro as they debated, but it was much quieter and easier to ignore.
John desperately wanted sleep, but he also knew he should stay up until after Mycroft left, so he picked up a paperback novel that had somehow got mixed up among his own books and with nothing better to do, stretched out on his bed with his pillows propped behind his head and began to read.
When he discovered the subject of the novel, John was tempted to set it aside in favour of finding a new diversion. But the premise was interesting, if somewhat ludicrous, and the writing surprisingly tight. He quickly became engrossed. With a chuff of amusement, he decided it was exactly the sort of light entertainment his tired brain craved.
For the last three days, Sherlock had worked tirelessly, muttering over his chemistry set and playing discordant snatches on his violin as he processed the results. John had been sympathetic and done his best to help with the research, using the Internet to supply an esoteric range of facts that seemingly had nothing to do with anything, let alone each other. As usual, time was short and lives hung in the balance. It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that Sherlock had cracked the case. His triumphant explanation had been delivered to a Bordeaux detective in rapid fire French.
Though it was barely seven o'clock John had thought their work was at an end. He had ordered Sherlock straight to bed and surprisingly, Sherlock had gone without complaint. But Mycroft had arrived shortly thereafter, insisting over John's protests that the matter that brought him to Baker Street could not keep.
Downstairs, the row continued. Upstairs, John read on until his eyes became heavy and sleep beckoned enticingly. Finally, he quit fighting the impulse to nap and faded out with the book resting face down on his chest.
There was a tap at the door. John opened his eyes, startled back to consciousness. "Yeah. Come in."
Sherlock stood in the doorway, an unhappy expression marring his features. Clearly he'd been bested by Mycroft.
"John. Would you come downstairs?"
He marked his place and got to his feet. "What's this about?"
Sherlock stared at the floor for a moment and then met John's gaze. "I just want you to know that I'll understand if you decide not to get involved."
"Now you're scaring me." John hurried after his friend. "Sherlock?"
He looked down on John and smiled a melancholy smile. "It's better if it comes from Mycroft."
Curiosity burning, John followed Sherlock down the stairs.
Tea was laid out on the kitchen table. When they entered the room, Mycroft seemed as perturbed as his brother did, but his expression smoothed out to its usual bland lines as soon as he became aware of their presence.
"I've taken the liberty of pouring." He offered a cup to John, who took it just to be polite.
The aroma was fragrant and smoky. He took a sip and frowned at the cup. It wasn't the usual store brand orange pekoe they kept in the kitchen cupboard. "Is someone going to tell me what's going on?"
"It might be best if you took a seat." Mycroft gestured to the table.
"Bad news?" The tension level in the room climbed higher. John sat down. Complying with Mycroft's wishes seemed the only way to keep him talking.
"On the contrary." Mycroft held a cup out to Sherlock, who scowled and dropped onto the chair next to John's. "Let me be the first to congratulate you." He raised his teacup in their direction.
"Don't be crass," Sherlock snapped.
"I don't understand." John put his cup aside and turned to his flatmate. "Sherlock?"
"It's really a fairly straightforward matter," Mycroft said. "Well, as straightforward as the rules of property inheritance can be when they deal with estates, entails, and lines of succession. According to the instructions in our parents' will, by his next birthday Sherlock must settle down in a relationship recognised under the rules of law."
"Estates." John felt his jaw drop, but he collected his wits and hastily took a sip of his tea. He knew he and Sherlock were from vastly different backgrounds, but he'd always assumed that any fortune the Holmes family had accumulated was long since gone. "You have an estate?"
Sherlock shrugged. "A house in Sussex. Town house in Kensington."
"Don't forget the hunting lodge in Scotland," Mycroft added. "And a considerable number of lesser properties. There's also the matter of your trust fund."
"Trust fund," John repeated. "You have a trust fund."
"How else do you think he supports his rather esoteric lifestyle?" Mycroft asked with an arch of an eyebrow. "Certainly not through the fees from his dabbling in criminology. Which brings us to the matter at hand."
John shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm completely lost. What's this to do with me? I mean, I suppose if Sherlock marries then I'll be out a flatmate, but – "
"John," Sherlock said, his tone heavy with regret. "Under the terms of the agreement, my intended spouse must be someone I've been in a relationship with for at least one year, and as you might surmise, there's only one person in my life that could possibly be construed to meet the requirement."
The penny dropped. John knew he was gaping, but there really didn't seem to be any other appropriate response. "Me. You mean me? Oh no. No. No. No."
Mycroft glanced at his watch. "Before you dismiss the idea out of hand, Doctor, I suggest you let Sherlock explain the situation in full." He pulled his mobile from his pocket, dialled a number, and as the call went through, headed for the doorway. He glanced backwards over his shoulder and said, "I expect to hear happy news before the day is concluded," before turning his attention to the next problem on his agenda.
"I'm sorry, John." Very tentatively Sherlock laid his hand against his shoulder as if he wasn't sure how the gesture would be received. John knew it was a sign how upset his friend was, and didn't shrug him away. "I've had my solicitors working on the problem since Mycroft started pressuring me. I thought they'd come up with a loophole."
John looked up from his hands and at Sherlock. "I don't understand. You're the second son. Isn't this usually the problem of the first born?"
Sherlock nodded in reply. He smiled in a self-deprecating way. "Normally, you'd be correct. But the second born sons in my family have a tendency towards recklessness. Forcing them to become stewards of the family fortune is meant to rein in their bohemian ways."
Sherlock got to his feet abruptly and began to pace. He looked in the canister on the mantel and the box on the end table desperate for a cigarette to take the edge off his nerves. Under the circumstances it seemed a wholly justified reaction. John got up as well, opened the cupboard under the sink, and freed the plastic sandwich bag containing the pack and lighter he'd secured there. He handed them off to Sherlock who gave him a grateful look and then tore into the bag and lit up. He smoked in silence, his attention wholly absorbed by the cigarette.
"If it were just the affairs of Mycroft and myself in the balance, I'd not give a toss. But unfortunately, there are a considerable number of other relations whose finances hang in the balance. If I don't marry, or in this case, take a civil partner, they'll lose their homes and incomes." Sherlock looked up from his cigarette. He'd nearly smoked it down to the filter in just a few drags. "So you see, John, I really am under a considerable degree of pressure to comply with the family's wishes."
"And Mycroft thinks I'm a suitable candidate?"
Sherlock tapped ash into the sink. "One of the reasons I chose you as a flatmate was I thought he wouldn't. If my solicitors failed, and I was pushed into a corner, you wouldn't be an obvious choice. Not to be crude, but ours wouldn't be a productive union."
It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what Sherlock meant. Without outside intervention to help things along, there would be no children. "Oh."
John was tempted to snatch the packet out of Sherlock's hands as he lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the first. "Evidently, the family lawyers have interpreted the rules of the estate to keep up with the times. A civil union is an acceptable alternative to a marriage."
John went to the window and opened it. He took a deep breath of city air and found it wasn't much of an improvement over Sherlock's tobacco smoke. "I don't suppose Mycroft went out of his way to discourage them."
"And therein lies the trouble, John. If Mycroft chooses, he could ruin you with the stroke of a pen. And if you don't cooperate, I doubt he'd hesitate to do so."
"My ability to practice medicine," John said dully.
Sherlock was rarely inclined to remorse, but in that moment he looked genuinely sorry. "I'm afraid so."
Thoughts spinning furiously, John stared down at the street and watched a woman hail a cab. It pulled to the kerb and the woman got in. Seconds later, it was pulling away again. Sherlock often said that Mycroft was the British government. If that was so, then getting a retired Army doctor struck off would be no trouble at all.
"We just pop down to the Registrar's, sign the book, and all is well?" John asked. "Your family tradition isn't so medieval that someone's going to want to tag along on our honeymoon, is it?"
Sherlock took a great, steadying lungful of smoke and then joined John at the window. "Fortunately, no."
That was good. They could work with that. As long as no one was inspecting them in the bedroom, they could probably manage.
"It will make Mrs Hudson happy."
Sherlock smiled ruefully. "There is that."
John smiled back in the same, hesitant way. "It's not as if dating has been getting me anywhere." He watched the cars and pedestrians, normal people going about their normal lives, and considered the parting words of his last three girlfriends, all of which had been variations on 'Sherlock Holmes is a lucky man' and said, "Yeah … all right."
The atmosphere became awkward. John wasn't sure what he should do, and neither, from the look of him, could Sherlock.
"I always figured if I ever got engaged, there would be more kissing," John blurted and then shook his head. "Sorry. This is really strange."
"Drink?" Sherlock offered. He pinched his cigarette and tossed the still smoking butt out onto the street.
"Oh God, yeah." John collapsed onto the sofa and felt as if he'd just plunged down Alice's rabbit hole.
They should have expected the paparazzi. There was a crowd of them, reporters and photographers camped out on the doorstep. John peeked around the curtains and sighed.
"It's only getting worse, dear," Mrs Hudson said. "Maybe if you gave them a statement they'd go away."
John had to concede she had a point. The police had been called out by someone to get a handle on the traffic and the illegal parking, but they couldn't do a thing about the reporters as long as they stayed on the pavement and out of the street. "You're probably right." He glanced up at Sherlock and saw the storm clouds that had marred his expression when the first camera crew had appeared hadn't dissipated.
"This really is intolerable." Sherlock exhaled through his nose, and his features fell into more placid lines. He opened the door enough to take a look for himself, no doubt identifying which reporters worked for which tabloid or broadsheet, and then with John in tow stepped outside.
The reporters surged forward and jostled for position, shouting their questions until they blurred together. Sherlock dropped his arm over John's shoulder and they stood together as one against the army of news-hounds. "Ladies and gentleman, please. I'd like to make a statement."
The crowd shuffled, but quieted. Cameras rolled. Sherlock gave John's shoulder a squeeze. "I suppose you're loitering on our doorstep because you've heard the news."
The crowd laughed. Sherlock smiled and then held up his hand to quiet them again. "John Watson is my friend. He's my rock and my guiding light. My life changed the day John agreed to be my flatmate. It's become better and richer for his presence. Because of all these reasons, I am very pleased to announce that Dr John Watson has done me the honour of accepting my proposal of civil partnership. Ours will be a private ceremony, for friends and family only, but we know your warm wishes will be with us on the happy day."
"Give us a kiss, Mr Holmes!" one of the camera operators called. Others took up the cry.
They stared at one another. They hadn't celebrated their engagement with as much as a handshake. Now they had an audience that wouldn't be satisfied until they got what they wanted.
John pivoted in Sherlock's embrace and put one hand behind Sherlock's head and other against his shoulder. He was forced to compensate for the difference in their heights by standing on his toes, but Sherlock obliged and shifted his stance so that it wasn't quite as much of a stretch. He'd intended a quick peck, just enough to seal the deal in the eyes of the media, but Sherlock's obsessive attention to detail kicked in. He could nearly hear the thoughts racing through his friend's head analysing their body language and pronouncing it false.
He was swept off his feet and into Sherlock's arms. The kiss that followed demanded a response and before John realised what he was doing, he and Sherlock were snogging each other passionately without any regard for their audience. It was only when someone called, "Save something for the honeymoon, boys!" did they pull apart.
John looked up to see Sherlock staring back at him, and then almost simultaneously they remembered the reporters. Sherlock blushed scarlet and John could feel his blood pounding in his ears. He stared at the paparazzi as that down the rabbit hole feeling got a firm grip again, grabbed Sherlock's hand, and dragged him back inside the flat.
"Tell me if they're acceptable."
If he hadn't reacted to the sudden blur of motion the jeweller's box would have landed in his coffee. John glanced up at Sherlock, gauged his appearance, and found it troubling. After the incident with the reporters Sherlock had absented himself from the flat, offering monosyllabic explanations on the rare occasions John had seen him before shutting himself in his room or hurrying off again.
He opened the box. Twin gold rings lay tucked side by side on a bed of white satin. John selected the one that seemed sized for him and examined it more carefully. He slipped it onto his finger. It was a perfect fit. "I don't remember being measured for this."
Sherlock shrugged, raising and lowering his shoulders in a desultory manner. "I held your hand."
"Of course," John replied, feeling stupid. "They're lovely. I didn't know we were having rings."
"Mycroft insisted." Sherlock began a circuit of the room. He picked up his violin and drew his fingers over the strings. He reached for his bow, but put it, and the violin, down again and flung himself across the sofa instead.
"You look tired." John got up. He fixed a cup of coffee with sugar, pressed it into his companion's hands, and then dropped into the remaining space, forcing Sherlock to sit in something closer to an upright position.
"I'm not sure I can do this." Sherlock stared morosely at his coffee.
What Mycroft and Sherlock had described in sketches Morningstar the family solicitor had painted in exquisite detail. Unless their union provided children, the Crown would be the benefactor of the Holmes estate upon the brothers' deaths. Until then, in addition to Sherlock and Mycroft, sixteen elderly relations and several long term retainers depended on the incomes provided by the Holmes trust. Without it, they would be forced out of their homes and into penury.
"You heard the lecture from your solicitor." John said, trying to console Sherlock, even though his misgivings were just as acute. "This isn't about us."
"No," Sherlock replied, his voice bitter. "It's about family honour. My duty as a second son." He seemed on the verge of throwing his cup. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's, staying it. He prised tense fingers from the handle and set the cup at his feet. When he looked up, Sherlock was studying him, his expression curious. "I know my reasons. Aside from the fact Mycroft would make your life impossible, why are you doing this?"
He'd spent the greater part of the last few days asking himself that question. John shrugged. "We fit. Sure there are times you drive me crazy, but everything else makes up for it. I can't imagine my life without you in it, Sherlock, and if I'm going to plight my troth, then it may as well be with you."
"You surprise me."
John chuckled. "Sometimes I surprise me too."
He picked up the coffee and offered it back. Sherlock took a deep draught, and a second. As he emptied the cup, the bitter anger that had momentarily consumed him seemed to leech away. A heavy silence threatened to settle in its place.
"Something else is troubling you," John said softly. "What is it?"
"You're a man accustomed to physical affection." Sherlock seemed visibly uncomfortable, his expressive features shifting between concern and distaste for the subject he was broaching. "I am not."
John's mind went blank as it was confronted with a topic he'd made a point to avoid thinking about. Sherlock must have seen his expression do the same, because he said in a rather frustrated tone, "Sex, John."
He held up his hand, stalling any further elaboration. "Yeah. I know what you're getting at. To be honest, I haven't given it much thought." He pushed his palm over his face and avoided looking Sherlock in the eye, not sure he wanted to start now that the subject was sitting out in the open. "All right. I've made a point not to think about it at all."
Neither one of them spoke for nearly a minute. Finally John asked, "That kiss the other day. The reporters seemed to like it well enough. Did you?"
"Did you?" Sherlock countered.
"I asked first," John shot back. He had no idea why he'd posed the question. Only that his future sex life seemed to depend on the answer.
"I'm not sure my feelings on the subject are relevant."
"I think your feelings on the subject are completely relevant!"
John could feel his patience crumbling and didn't understand that at all. The passion of the staged kiss had caught him by surprise, and if the look in his eyes had been any indication, Sherlock had been positively gob-smacked. Despite his long history with women, John found he enjoyed the kiss. He realised that it was entirely possible he could have a physical relationship with a man and be okay with it. Now Sherlock was being deliberately provocative, raising the subject of sex and then refusing to discuss it.
"If there wasn't an audience, would you kiss me again of your own free will?" John didn't bother to wait for an answer, he'd asked the question of himself often enough since that press conference. He straddled Sherlock's lap, put his hand behind Sherlock's head, and pressed their lips together. For a moment Sherlock stayed passive as John traced the crease of his mouth with the tip of his tongue, and then his lips parted and one hand found John's shoulder and gripped it tightly as they began to explore one another's mouths.
"Coo-ie, boys," Mrs Hudson called from the doorway. "I've got the post."
They broke apart and John pushed out of Sherlock's lap. They stared at one another for a long moment, and then Sherlock was gone, up and on his feet and out of the flat without another word.
It was his bachelors' party. John glanced around the room and as he watched his mates from the hospital, and the Army, and even a few lads from his university days carrying on as if they were happy for him, he felt a complete fraud.
"The ceremony is in eight hours and he won't even return my texts." John accepted the beer the waiter placed on the table and didn't even wait for the head to settle. He tipped the glass back and poured ale down his throat. When he set the glass down again, Lestrade was looking at him with a sympathetic expression. "I did get one from Mycroft, though. 'He'll be there.' So at least there's that."
"I never did really see Sherlock as the marrying type." Lestrade seemed to realise maybe that had been the wrong thing to say, but they were on their fourth stop on the pub crawl, and that was after a long boozy dinner, so neither one of them was exactly in a position to pull their verbal punches.
John shrugged in agreement. "Yeah, me neither. But then his family got involved, and that as they say, is that." He drained another third of his pint. "Thing is, before all this kicked off, we were happy." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and typed another request that Sherlock come home but he had a second thought, deleted the message, and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
"Thing is, he asked me. He talked me into this. Now he's got cold feet. And I'm the one –" John realised he was spilling his guts. And as much as he liked Greg Lestrade, there were just some things that were too personal to share. "I think I'm going to call it a night. Get me a cab?"
Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, that might be for the best."
None of the others noticed when their guest of honour slipped out of the room and left the party.
"How's your head?" Mike Stamford handed over aspirin and a glass of water without asking.
John waved them away. Truth be told, he'd sobered rather quickly after leaving the bar, and the aspirin would just irritate his already touchy stomach. "It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine."
He glanced at the ornate china clock on the dressing table. Everything at the rarely used Kensington town house was old and expensive looking. He wondered if that was why Sherlock had abandoned the place in favour of their ramshackle Baker Street flat. "I'd just like to get this over with."
There was a tap at the door. "It's time, Dr Watson."
He'd still not seen Sherlock, and John doubted the reason had anything to do with wedding day traditions. Still, if he was being summoned to the central salon, as the large front room had been called, then Mycroft, with Sherlock in tow, must have finally arrived.
Mike straightened his tie, and then John's, and then checked his pocket, opening and closing the ring box to make sure nothing had happened since the last time he'd looked. John took a deep breath and let it out again. He felt a bit like a lamb to the slaughter, and wished for a drink.
His nervousness confounded him. He'd survived live fire. He'd survived the aftermath of being shot. More than once his adventures with Sherlock had placed his life in grave danger but those situations hadn't scared him half as much as the prospect of walking out of the room and facing his friends and family.
He took another deep breath and forced his feet to move. Somehow he made it down the corridor and through the small servant's alcove that preceded the grand salon. From the doorway, he looked out and saw their guests. His sister sat in the first row next to her latest girlfriend. His friends were there. Mrs Hudson had a place of honour, as did Sherlock's favourite Great Aunt Mary. The Metropolitan Police was well represented. Lestrade sat next to the Chief Superintendent. He even saw Sally Donovan and Molly Hooper. Molly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and looked like she might fall apart completely.
Up front, standing next to his brother, Sherlock waited. He looked very handsome. The old fashioned cut of his morning suit complimented his long, lean frame. John's breath caught in his throat. Mike gave him a nudge to get his feet moving again. Back under control, John took his place at Sherlock's side and the ceremony began.
Strictly speaking, there was nothing for them to do but sign the documents in front of the Registrar and witnesses, but the Holmes family was an old one, and as such demanded much more pomp and circumstance. The Registrar made a speech of welcome that John barely heard as he searched Sherlock's face.
Sherlock had evidently immersed himself in one of his characters for the occasion. He looked happy and excited, and from time to time his mouth trembled as if he might actually cry. John thought it all a bit much. He was tempted to call a halt to the farce right there and then, but then Sherlock spoke in a tone too soft for any but him to hear.
"I've been an idiot. I love you, John Watson."
He took John's hand and slipped the ring over his finger and without any prompting began to recite his vows.
"I take you John from this day forward. For better. For worse. In sickness and in health. With this ring I thee partner. With my body I will worship. And with all my worldly goods, I thee endow. For all the days of our lives."
John's brain went blank as he realised that Sherlock wasn't acting and he meant what he said. He offered a tiny smile and then repeated the vows, placing the same emphasis on the words 'body' and 'worship' that Sherlock had.
A moment later he was in Sherlock's arms and they were kissing, and this time he didn't care that everyone he knew was watching.
"John."
He was lost in the taste of Sherlock's mouth. No tobacco marred the kiss. There was just the faint echoes of mint toothpaste and whisky.
"John."
Sherlock's tone became more insistent, and he supposed his new partner had a point, they should end the kiss and receive the congratulations of their guests. But after the weeks of confusion and strain, it felt good to acknowledge what they had finally admitted to be true; they not only loved one another as friends, they were in love.
Someone shook him, probably Stamford, he couldn't be sure. In that moment, the world had receded and he only had thoughts for the man in his arms.
Reluctantly, he broke the kiss and opened his eyes. "What?"
He looked around and became completely confused. He wasn't in an ornately decorated room in Kensington. He was lying on his bed in the Baker Street flat. Sherlock wasn't holding him. He was standing next to the bed with an annoyed expression marring his handsome face.
John rubbed sleep from his eyes. Something slid off his chest and he caught the Mills and Boon historical romance he'd been reading before it dropped to the floor. He shoved it face first against the duvet in a vain hope that Sherlock wouldn't see.
"Mycroft gone?"
"Yes. Blast him." Sherlock was still obviously perturbed by his brother's visit. "Some business has come up."
"You're not being forced into a marriage of convenience to save the family estate?" John forced humour he wasn't sure he felt into his words. The events of the dream still felt disturbingly real.
Sherlock pulled a face. "Don't be silly, John. I figured a way out of that situation long ago. No, it's some other family's honour on the line. I'd appreciate your company. These archaic ceremonies can be annoyingly tedious. Pack for a house party weekend," he said and started to turn away. He paused and turned back to study John's face. "Are you all right? You seem flushed." He dropped onto the mattress at John's side and took his hand. "Your pulse is elevated."
John took a breath. His heart was racing, pounding against his ribs as if he'd been running. He pulled his hand away. "Nightmare. Awful. I should thank you for waking me up when you did."
Sherlock didn't look entirely convinced, but he got up and then paused at the doorway when he sensed John hadn't leapt to his feet. "Our train leaves in an hour." A moment later he was off again, presumably to do his own packing.
John flopped against the pillows, picked up the book, and examined the ridiculous illustration of the couple gazing ardently into one another's eyes. He tossed it to the floor and looked up at the ceiling, recalling bits and pieces of the dream. His therapist would no doubt want a full accounting. She was interested in all of his relationships and how they evolved as he adjusted to civilian life. But unlike his battle nightmares, which he was able to document in halting phrases, there was no way he could even begin to describe what he'd experienced without raising questions that he had no desire to explore.
He pulled his suitcase out from underneath the bed and began to pack what he hoped was a suitable wardrobe. He shouldn't have been the least surprised when Mrs Hudson knocked. "Mycroft said you'd need this, dear." She hung a suit bag over the door and set a box down next to it.
Inside the bag was formal evening dress tailored to his exact measurements. The box held shoes to match, white gloves and other accessories.
"Mycroft thinks of everything," he said softly as he added the clothes to the ones he'd already packed. The thought sent a chill down his spine and he suddenly felt very vulnerable.