Calla lilies have no scent. Tuberose and gardenia; about as English as vanilla, bay rum and cinnamon. Traditions, heritage of empire. A little too sweet. Trace of frankincense. Higher Church than Mary seems. Relatives?
"You're still angry."
"No, I'm not, I'm not even thinking of that." John's hand flexes. Unfair; the women have bouquets to fiddle with. Sherlock knows better than to play catch with the ring box.
"Then why are you glaring at my shoes?"
"I'm not glaring."
"Quite adequate for running, if you want to."
"Where would I want to run?"
"Almost anywhere. Her friends are expecting it."
"Thank you for that."
"So are yours."
"Sherlock."
"I'm supposed to be supportive as you kidnap her. Civilized patrilocal arrangement."
"I don't need to kidnap her, this is the 21st century, she is an independent agent and the whole point is to make sure we're both able to consent and in our right minds."
"Pity, then."
John grinds his teeth. It is possible Sherlock's elegant toes will burst into flame. He has no shame.
"And you affirm this meeting in front of people you haven't seen in years, some of whom each of you hopes never to have to see again, to promise a philosophical entity things you can't control?"
"SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES—"
"Not nervous now, are you? Look— the bride."