Exactly one year after he fell from the roof of St. Bart's, Sherlock came home. The date was inconsequential to him. If he had been ready a week ago, even a day ago, he would not have waited. If he had needed more time to be sure it was safe to return he would have taken it. But today was the day, and even he could see a certain poetry in that. He may even have smiled, if not for the paper crumbled in his fist.

The church was not large or ornate, exactly the kind of place he would have expected John to choose. If he had ever given thought to his best friend getting married.

"Morstan-Watson Wedding," the sign outside proclaimed. It was inevitable, he supposed. And he should probably have thanked Mycroft for the warning. Instead of slapping him. He glanced at the paper again. Not a real invitation, of course. People didn't invite ghosts to their weddings. But it had the necessary information to get Sherlock to the right place at the right time. What he did next was up to him.

After stepping into the church he took a moment to regard his reflection in the glass. The beard was all right but the wig needed some adjusting. He pushed the glasses up his nose and reminded himself to slouch. While unlikely this Mary would recognize him, it would do no good to have her describe him to John later and raise suspicions. Satisfied, he made his way to the basement area where he knew Miss Morstan would be finishing her preparations.

"You look lovely, dear," he wheezed.

"Thank you," she said immediately, even before turning to see who had spoken. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"An old friend of John's. We've lost touch over the years but I happened to be passing through town when I heard…about this."

"Oh! He'll be so happy. John is such a remarkable man. I wish he had more friends about him." She looked as though she were about to say more, but a voice floated down from the stairwell informing her she had ten more minutes.

"Please, do stay for the reception. We've had a few last-minute cancellations so there's plenty of room. And I'm sure John would welcome the company."

Sherlock was amazed. He'd barged in on this woman on her wedding day, and she was inviting him to stay. He gave himself just a moment to deduce her, though he had sworn he wouldn't. He tried to see her as John would. Kind. Giving. Not entirely idiotic. Attractive.

So much like John.

"Thank you. But if I can't, don't mention it to John. I'll get in touch with him another time."

"Certainly," she agreed, but her face showed her disappointment. She wanted so much for John to have another familiar, friendly face here today. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. It was very nice to meet you, Mr…"

"Smith," Sherlock replied in what was certainly the worst lie of his life. How could he have forgotten a name? "Oswald Smith."

Sherlock left her and made his way back up the stairs. He should go, walk away now and leave John to the life he'd always wanted, the kind Sherlock had prevented him from having. But he'd come so far. One little glimpse of the man he'd shared a flat with—shared a life with however briefly—couldn't hurt. Couldn't hurt John, anyway. His disguise was convincing enough, and John would have far too much else on his mind even if he did notice a slight resemblance in the strange old man in the back of the church.

Having convinced himself, Sherlock found a seat far enough away from other guests to discourage conversation in the few moments before the ceremony began. This half of the church was rather sparsely populated, compared to the bride's side. He gathered his courage and looked toward the front of the room.

John was gorgeous. He stood alone in a suit that fit him perfectly. The alone part bothered Sherlock. Where was his best man? Surely he had some friend from work or uni who would stand up with him. Why not Lestrade? Perhaps, Sherlock reasoned, it was to be a small ceremony with no attendants on either side. He could accept that better than the doctor keeping the position open for a friend who could not be there. Even though, technically, he was.

The music swelled, and Sherlock rose with the others to watch as the bride's parents walked down the aisle arm in arm. A moment later his earlier hope was dashed when an ungainly young woman in a red dress followed them. The maid of honor. Probably the bride's younger sister. He could have accepted one of the handbills the ushers were distributing, but that would have left him nothing to deduce, nothing to distract him.

The music changed and Mary Morstan appeared in the doorway. She all but glowed as she made her way demurely toward John. Her future husband. His former best friend. Sherlock could not find any fault with her, much as he tried. She reached the altar and stood a few feet from John.

That wasn't right. Sherlock had not been to many weddings in his life, but he was quite sure the bride and groom should stand closer. Didn't they need to hold hands or something? And John wasn't even looking at Mary. He continued to gaze down the aisle, waiting, it seemed, for one more addition to the party.

The music changed again and another bride graced the doorway. This one not as young or as beautiful or nearly as graceful, but her face showed the same kind of love he had seen on Mary's. Sherlock shook his head slightly. Surely English marriage laws had not changed that much in the year he'd been away. What was he missing?

The second bride reached the altar and John lifted her veil and kissed her cheek before stepping back. Into the best man's position.

Sherlock thought back to that first cab ride he had shared with John, during which he had impressed the doctor all out of proportion with his simple deductions.

"Did I get anything wrong?" He had asked, quite sure he hadn't.

"Harry is short for Harriet."

Sherlock nearly laughed at making the same mistake twice. He did have to sit down quite suddenly.

His sister. Of course. Mary Morstan was marrying John's sister.