Finally, it was happening. Without so much as a warning or a respectful pause in which he could have readied himself, things were unfolding beneath his very feet. He would have liked to say that it made him dizzy for then, at least, he would have felt something. But as John Watson stood in front of the wide mirror surveying his expression for emotion he had to admit that he felt nothing.
Well nothing, that is, except for a slight annoyance. His bowtie was too tight, his suit was too hot, and every individual follicle of hair on his head was revolting against the product that he had put in it early that morning. He watched as two hands in the mirror slowly rose and tugged impatiently at his bowtie. Suddenly the bowtie was yanked off and tossed on the bureau. John groaned, dropped his head, and placed both hands against the polished wood (it had swirling, arabesque patterns dotted with tendril-spewing flowers, implicitly meant for the comfort of a nervous bride.) Was he the bride, then? Was that what the universe was implying?
He raised his head again and smiled at himself in the mirror. Beneath the decorative florescent lights his face looked powdery and pale, the true face of a fatigued man from war. He bared his teeth and the 'smile' became a pantomime grimace.
"Feel something, feel something," he said through his teeth. "You're happy, aren't you? It's your big day. It's your-"
"Knock, knock?"
The image of Mycroft appeared on the edge of the mirror. John tried quickly to rearrange his face into something resembling normal but it was too late. The man had seen his facial exhibitions. Mycroft squinted his eyes and tilted his head.
"I hope I'm not disturbing anything…important?"
"No, come on in. I was just, uh, inspecting my teeth."
"Ah."
Without waiting for further instruction Mycroft adjusted his coat and took a seat on the couch behind John. His legs crossed daintily and he held his cane upright beside his leg. The church where the event was taking place laid claim to a wonderful theatre company. Though they solely performed reenactments of religious importance their taste in props and costumes bordered on sinfully indulgent. The room where John had chosen to get dressed was the storage room where they kept their various theatrical decorations. As it was, Mycroft had chosen to sit on a couch meant for the King Solomon. With the velvet cushions and golden embroideries Mycroft could have been royalty. Which he is, in a way, John reminded himself with some envy, all he needs is a crowd.
As if sensing his thoughts Mycroft shifted into a more business-like posture and regaled him with a no-nonsense eye. "Are you nervous?" His tone was more interrogative than comforting. John shrugged and gave a noncommittal laugh.
"What's there to be nervous about?"
"You're marrying my brother."
"Do I hear you volunteering to take my place?"
Though the corners of his lips had lifted, Mycroft was not smiling. "And here you were supposed to balance him out with your maturity."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
John turned back to the mirror and busied himself with nothing in particular. He was suddenly aware of how very quiet it was in the room save for the ponderous thunk thunk thunk of Mycroft's cane against the floor. Once, maybe as recent as a few days ago, this room must have been filled with the sound of laughter and eager whispering. He imagined a flock of bridesmaids done up in lavender, picking and fussing over a spectacular woman dressed in white. In his daydream they wore perfume – something musky and flowery at once, pungent spring flowers and warm summer oak – and had precisely shaped nails with pink undertones. Slowly, without realizing it, he traced the edge of the bureau wondering if the bride before him had done the same, leaving her spring-and-summer scent on everything that she touched. That magic was gone now and he was left in a cluttered room, stuffy and silent save for the privileged fidgeting of Mycroft and the faint scent of what once was lingering in the air. The realization made him unexpectedly depressed.
"Why a wedding?" Mycroft said curiously. John turned to look at him. He was examining the tip of his cane with utmost interest as if it had brought the question to his mind.
"Excuse me?"
"It doesn't seem very much like Sherlock. Domestic partnership, yes. Long-term unofficial relationships, yes. But a wedding…"
"He's changed." John said brusquely. I've changed him, he wanted to add but the look in Mycroft's eye when he turned to him proved that he knew John's heart already. John was thinking about the night when he had found Sherlock on the bench at the fair. The air had been cold then, Sherlock's skin colder as John felt for his pulse. Lights had been flashing everywhere, bouncing off of his buttons, playing tricks on his skin, reflected in his eyes when he looked at John with that matter-of-factly gaze.
"I know about that night," Mycroft said quietly. John turned away and cleared his throat. "You're a doctor. It's only natural that you'd want to heal everyone. But let me ask you this, Dr. Watson, how many times have you brought a patient home with you, let them share your bed, maybe, and eat off of your prized dishes? Not that you'd have any in that flat of yours, I'm sure. But how many times have you really let one in only to realize that they you were only ever a means to an end: a doctor who gave them what they wanted and more of his own free will?"
"If there's a point to this…"
"Only this: be careful. Sherlock doesn't have friends. Why now, then, does he suddenly want a husband?"
Mycroft sighed as if he'd been waiting weeks to get that off of his chest (which, John didn't doubt, he probably had) and stood up. With a general well-wishing and good-daying he exited the room with the same pomp and self-assurance that had brought him in. John mentally cursed him, glad to finally be able to feel annoyed by him on the grounds that he was going to be his brother in law. Otherwise his generally sour reception of Mycroft could have been considered empty.
The church bell rung and with a sudden panic John realized that it had begun. His heart fluttered within him but still he kept a calm façade. Surely he'd be able to trick everyone into thinking that he was ecstatic underneath but, as they would expect of him, still cool-headed as a soldier under times of stress. Steadily, he reached for his bowtie. Only then did he noticed that his hands were shaking furiously, too furious, in fact for him to do anything more than toss the bowtie away.
#
An hour later found John standing at the altar, his hands clasped neatly before him. Though he tried to keep his mind blank the sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice forced its way into his head. She sat in the front row, dabbing away at her nose while muttering a string of emotional commentary that ranged from the color of his suit ('Very suave, it makes him look a bit fresher') to her much unappreciated premonitions ('I knew that John was the one for 'im the minute he set foot in the flat.') Perhaps it hadn't been in their best interest to place her in the front where her animated storytelling and peacock-inspired ensemble seemed to dominate the proceedings. Still, John was grateful. In the large, stone chapel with its concaved wall and splashes of dramatically crimson religion, her motherly rambling was the only thing that felt familiar to him.
Only a few minutes ago the flower girl had pitched a fit and flung her basket on the floor, claiming that the man with the funny cheeks had promised that there would be a dead body there. The priest that now swayed happily behind him had actually been a participant in one of their cases. If John remembered correctly, he had almost beheaded a woman. And if dear, sweet Molly had not intervened he was sure that the small crowd that had gathered there would not have thought twice about skipping the event. Sherlock had wanted to word the invitations in a rather put-offish way and John, being at the end of the line, had almost let him get away with it.
A low, violin note suddenly sounded from the speakers and the crowd turned eagerly towards the entrance. John straightened his shoulders and tried to smile but his heart was beating so fast that his lips twitched indecisively along with it. Slowly, a shadow stretched out from behind the chrysanthemum-strewn archway. It grew and grew, rolling out before the man like a carpet, until finally Sherlock rounded the corner. His face was set in a respectfully solemn expression but nothing could mask the alertness of his eyes. They moved from one thing to the next as if he was sensing the presence of a powerful being hiding somewhere in the shadow (not God, of course, but a human adversary with a freakish underworld title.) The line formed by his lips grew straighter as the crowd erupted into giggles. There, leaning lovingly on his arm, was Sherlock's father. Even John had to stifle a laugh. Never, under any other circumstance, would Sherlock have dared to be caught in such an embarrassing display of father-son tradition. His father, for his part, looked as merry as a schoolboy in a candy shop. Finally, the son who they all believed to be doomed to a life of morbid solitude was getting married…to a man, as it was! John wondered if the look of mischeivity that he cast his wife ran along the same vein as Mrs. Hudson's 'I told you so' wails. His own parents hadn't been so thrilled about the arrangement and, try as he might, John could not ignore the two glaringly empty seat that sat before his family's portion of the seating arrangement. It seemed like a hundred camera lights flashed at once and a woman stood from her chair to toss white rose petals Sherlock's way. Sherlock flinched and demanded that she stop that at once but the damage had been done. Petals, like white jewels, cascaded from his curly black locks and onto his lapel.
"Oh, lookit 'im! Jus' look" Mrs. Hudson said. "Isn't he so handsome?" Suddenly she gave a loud hiccup and buried her nose in the coat of a grimacing Lestrade. But as much as John peered and squinted he could not see the beauty in Sherlock. No, he looked like he did every day when he was berating John's writing or studying a troublesome chemical. He didn't look like a husband to be. He just looked like John's flatmate.
Finally, he reached the altar and after having disentangled himself from his grinning father, Sherlock joined John at the top of the stairs. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye with a look that read all too well 'if you ever mention this again, I'll kill us both.'
"Dearly beloved!" The vicar began in a voice that seemed to set the tassels hanging from the ceiling aflutter with fright. "And vehemently unbeloved! And those who are warmly unconsidered but politely invited anyway. We are gathered here today, forcibly or not, intoxicated or sober…"
Sherlock nudged him. "Nervous?" he asked out of the corner of his mouth. John sighed and dropped his head in exasperation. Sherlock and Mycroft had the uncanny ability of being so similar and so different at once. When he raised his head again the vicar was going off on a passionate tangent about marital obedience and his own personal guilt.
"Nervous," he repeated just as quietly, though with more emotion, "no, why would I be nervous? Actually, no, I take that back. Yes, Sherlock, I'm very nervous."
"Why?"
"Because this is our wedding." The vicar stopped and glared at him. In the sudden silence that followed John felt very childish. He grinned sheepishly and the vicar resumed his tirade. John whispered, "For all I know you'll be wanting to adopt a kid next."
"Do you have something against kids?" Sherlock whispered back. "Pity. I had my eye on one."
"Oh my god..."
"A little American girl named Bobby. I've already started the adoption process, I hope you don't mind."
"Sherlock…"
"I was thinking we could all have Sunday dinners-"
"Sherlock…"
"Walks on the beach. Couple's counseling. I'll call you 'honey bear' and you'll call me 'sugar plum.'"
They couldn't help it. The two men were suddenly caught in a fit of giggles that could not be suppressed no matter how hard they tried. The vicar slammed his hand into the pulpit and proclaimed that he was trying to do something here, god damn them all! The congregation suddenly became very restless and after many promises and bribes from John the vicar resumed his speech. And Sherlock's lips remained slanted at the corners.
So this is how it's going to be, John thought as the procession commenced. Molly looked as if she were about to burst, Mycroft had dosed off with his arms crossed in front of his chest, and the vicar was steadily raising his voice over the sound of Mrs. Hudson's welsh ballads. It was all so odd and as he said his vows and exchanged rings he seemed to be floating above it all, watching his marriage with a humorous eye. This was how his life with Sherlock was going to be: odd, loud, discordant, familiar. And, really had he expected any different? He would have been worried if their wedding was normal because normal was a word seldom used by them. But nothing was going to change, really. That much was obvious to him as Sherlock hissed over the irony of the melting unity candle. Yes, for all that mattered they would still be the same old flat mates. Only this time they would wear rings on their fingers and John would have saved Sherlock's life.
John hadn't realized that he was lost in his thoughts until he turned and found the vicar grinning at him nastily.
"Sorry?" he said and the vicar rolled his eyes.
"I said kiss the man!"
"Oh! Right, yeah. I knew that. Okay," John turned to face Sherlock, his hands waving and clenching at his sides. He was aware of the camerawoman poised eagerly at the steps and Mycroft suddenly sitting wide awake in the back aisle. He inhaled deeply – taking in the familiar scent of Sherlock as he did – and, holding his breath, placed a soft peck on Sherlock's unresponsive lips.
There. He leaned back with a sigh, satisfied to have gotten that done with. The camerawoman was looking between him and Sherlock with confusion, her camera poised hesitantly before her as if to say, 'that was it?' John was about to turn to her and explain that yes, that was it and who had hired her, anyway when Sherlock called his name in a soft voice. He turned for the second time to find Sherlock gazing at him with that oh-so-uncomfortable reptilian gaze.
"Wha-" his mouth fell open. Sherlock, ever the gracious being, grabbed his coat collar and pulled him in close. His eyes were like sunlight over tar.
"Kiss me like you mean it."
Oh my, oh my, John thought as Sherlock took advantage of his parted lips, right then and there in front of everybody. The crowd gave a collected sigh and white hot fireworks exploded on the edge of his vision. These were caused by the camera's flashing about him. Head pounding, he pulled away with an embarrassed laugh and waved his hand at the crowd.
"Yeah, no everything's all right. I can breathe, don't worry."
The crowd laughed at that. The vicar, having suddenly seen the light of closure, loudly presented the newly married couple, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
"May your lives be full and bodies with head," he said with a bow of his own balding head. But no one heard him then as the couple had started down the aisle, one foot before the other on the blood red carpet unfurling like a great, wet tongue towards their future.
#
John was not to have a wedding night that night, which was both a blessing and a pity to him as he had prepared a speech especially for the occasion. "Sherlock," he had recited to the mirror with a bottle of champagne in hand. He hiccupped, cleared his throat, and then started all over again. "I know you're my husband now and I like – no, I love you very much but I'd rather we save our consu…consummation for a later date. I'm not feeling well."
He felt like one of those women on the blue pill commercials who made excuses to their husbands not yet knowing that they had discovered the miracle of Viagra. He winced and try again.
"Sherlock, if you touch me I will bring this bottle down on your head right now."
That was more like it. He fell into the plush hotel bed with a sigh, conscious of every second that went by as he waited for him. He got to taking larger sips from the bottle, mentally cursing himself each time, so that by the time Molly came around and bid him goodnight (having realized which night it was she suddenly blushed and excused herself) he was lying on his back, singing lazy welsh ballads to the ceiling light. That was how Sherlock found him: his hair rumpled, stamping his legs impatiently against the headboard.
"Sherlock!" He sat up quickly, regretted his decision, and fell back down with a groan. The words that he had been planning skipped and collided in his head.
"So sorry, John, but I must go out tonight," Sherlock said as sweetly as he could which, in John's opinion, wasn't very sweet at all.
"Salty," he mumbled. Sherlock's brows came together.
"What?"
"It's your voice…um, nothing. Where are you going, again?"
Sherlock didn't respond. Instead he walked over to the bed with a determined look in his eye. Before John could complain he had grabbed his face in his hands and was kissing him slowly, seemingly savoring every moment.
"I love you," Sherlock said with a certain finality that left no room for contradiction. And all that John could do was repeat the words back to him. Sherlock smiled and without another word disappeared in a whirl of black, white, and grey. John lay back in bed. He suddenly felt very satiated. He would have loved to bask in this feeling until the morning light shone through the window but Mycroft's voice, like an ugly snake, reared itself to life in his head.
"What kind of man leaves his husband drunk and alone on their wedding night?"
"Go to hell, Mycroft," John muttered into his pillow. The words hung still for a moment in the air around him and then fell back down on nobody's ears but his own.