A Member of the Wedding
The church was terribly hot and John felt a drop of sweat slide down his back from the collar of his pearl grey morning coat to the waistband of his pearl grey trousers, and for a moment he questioned the wisdom of the whole ceremony - it might have been better to simply elope and have done with it. He could hear the rustle of paper fans behind him as family and friends tried, valiantly, not to melt.
Then he glanced over at Mary, radiant in pale grey, a crown of small pink roses, matching the ones pinned to the lapel of his jacket, fixed in her blonde curls. She had worked terribly hard for this day, and she looked for all the world like a cat who'd got in the cream - very pleased and not a small bit sly. She glanced over at him, catching him looking, and let one lid slide down over her eye in a sneaky wink. He almost started giggling, but instead forced his face into a serious expression, as serious as the situation surely warranted, his lips pressed into a firm line. He looked at her, mock sternly, and saw her suppressing her own giggles. The minister in front of them droned on and on, something about family, something about commitment, something about love.
John allowed his gaze to slide in the other direction, to the man at his other side, black curls going slightly wild in the humidity. Sherlock did not look ready to burst out in uncontrollable giggles. His face was schooled into appropriate calm solemnity, but John saw his hands clutching tightly at the brim of the tall steel-grey hat in his hands, the shine of nervous moisture up around his temples. He had argued against this, but John had finally beaten him down, insisting on going forward, insisting on Sherlock's full cooperation. This was what adults did, John had said. They grow up and get on with their lives, they make commitments and compromises. Sherlock, he said, should understand that. He had made commitments and compromises when he jumped from the roof of St. Barts, that terrible day, had made difficult choices that affected more people than just him. This was no different.
It hadn't been easy to get here, to this moment. When Sherlock returned, John and Mary had been a couple for a year, co-habitating for three months. Life was settled and gentle. They were making plans to have a long life together, a house in the country, children. Then Sherlock dropped back into the world like a stone into a calm pond, sending ripples in every direction. Part of John had reveled in being the prize in that battle of indomitable wills, Mary's and Sherlock's, but mostly it was a nightmare. Torn between the two people he loved most in the world, trying to mediate between them, and trying, as adults do, to make commitments and compromises. In time, things that needed to happen, happen. Mohammed met the mountain and reached a tentative peace. And, eventually, more than that. Sherlock recognized in Mary a clever wit and a devotion to John he thought only he was capable of, and Mary, in fact, recognized the same.
And they both understood that sometimes love is letting go of what you hold most dear.
"Rings?"
John snapped out of his reverie, realizing that something was required of him. "I'm sorry?"
"Rings?" The minister did not look amused.
"Ah, yes."
John looked over at Mary who snapped open her small pink reticule ("Pink?" John had said. "Yes," Mary responded. "I like pink, and I'm organizing this damn wedding and you'll take pink and like it."), extracting two white gold bands, which she handed to the minister, who placed one in John's slightly sweaty palm, and one in Sherlock's.
John looked at Sherlock, who seemed to be trembling, and smiled reassuringly. "It's okay," he whispered. "I love you," and slipped the ring on Sherlock's long, pale finger. "With this ring, I thee wed," he said, loudly and clearly, and held out his other hand.
Sherlock's hands were steady as he slipped the ring on John's finger. "With this ring, I thee wed." The crowd let out a deep, relieved sigh. The end was in sight, as well as well-deserved glasses of chilled chardonnay.
"You have to kiss, now." Mary's stage whisper echoed through the church, eliciting no small number of chuckles. "Then we can all go get drunk. Get on with it!" John felt her hand on the small of his back, propelling him toward his new husband.
John tilted his head up and whispered, more quietly, "You heard the lady. Kiss me," and reached up to curl his fingers into Sherlock's hair. "You great brilliant git."
Sherlock touched his lips to John's, gently, then reached past him to gather Mary into their embrace. "Thank you," slipped past John's ear and into Mary's. John felt Mary's cheek pressed into his, damp with hot, happy tears.
"Anything for you both," she said.