Ever since that day, the flashbacks have been returning relentlessly- a body falling from the rooftop, coat flailing behind him, landing on the pavement, covered in blood. John running towards him. John reaching out for him. John blacking out, thinking, he's gone, he's gone, but he can't be gone... Then the flashbacks will disappear, just as suddenly as it had arrived, and John will be back to wherever he was before, left with a sick churning in his stomach, and a fresh reminder of the pain.

It was like he was back in the first years of being away from the war again, with unwanted flashbacks attacking him every now and then, interrupting his meals, his sleep, his work...

But he would never have guessed that it would be interrupting his own wedding.

On second thought though, he realised that he should have known, or at least taken some pills. He groaned as he massaged his forehead, and tried to not let anything show.

But of course, Mary noticed. Standing opposite him on the stage, in her rented wedding dress, she looked at him, concern clouding her eyes.

"I'm okay," he mouthed.

"I love you," she mouthed back, and smiled.

Mary, soon-to-be Mary Watson, his beautiful wife. This woman has been through the most difficult two years of his life with him. He owed her so much.

"If these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Stop it, stop thinking about him. He's dead, and Mary's all I have now.

Suddenly, John's thoughts were interrupted by a unison of phones beeping throughout the hall. He looked around. All the audiences reached for their phones, and as phone after phone emerged from pockets and handbags and purses, gasps began to fill the room. Looks of bewilderment were everywhere. John felt a vibration in his tux pocket, and reached for his own phone.

And there, on the screen, one new message:

I object

-SH

A gasp. The phone landed on the floor with a loud "thunk".

Was this some sick prank? John's lips started to tremble. He's dead, he's dead, a voice in John's head was saying over and over again, blocking out everything else- the murmurs filling the hall, the thundering roar of blood gushing in his ears, and his heart hammering against his chest.

Even the priest was looking at him questioningly, not knowing how to go on. Most weddings go smoothly, and never in his career has an objection text been sent to everyone attending the ceremony.

"John," Mary had walked over to him, her own phone in hand, and gently put her hand on his forearm. "S-H... John, it can't be?"

"He's dead, it can't be," he breathed.

Mary held up a hand to the priest, and he nodded in understanding. "Ladies and gentlemen, an unexpected situation has occurred, and the bride and the groom would like a moment please."

"It just says 'I object'," someone from the audience shouted.

"Who's S-H? What's happening?" someone else called.

"Our bride and groom are sorting this out, please, kindly give them a moment."

"John," Mary slowly began, "John, I know he's supposed to be dead, but-"

"He is dead!"

"I know, I know," Mary reached for his hand and squeezed it,"but, John, all I'm saying is-"

Suddenly, the door flew open. And while gasps once again filled the hall, a familiar silhouette appeared.

Sherlock Holmes.

John's eyes widened. In the corner of his eye, he caught people in the audience rising- Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson... But most people were, of course, exchanging confused looks with each other, although not many managed to realize how pale the groom had become.

John opened his mouth, struggling for words. How could this be? His hands, clenched tightly into fists, started trembling violently. No. This can't be happening.

Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?!

But Mary nodded her head slightly, and gently squeezed his hand again.

"As I was saying, John, if he just so happened to be alive and well after all, I think that everyone deserves a second chance at love, even if this second chance is a little late-"

"A little?!"

"John-"

"TWO YEARS! TWO WHOLE YEARS!"

"John, go."

"Hang on- Mary, how did you-"

"John Watson. You love that man, and he's right there. You're in a tux, he's in his battle uniform. Now go, go to him," Mary gave John a little push.

"But Mary..."

"Honestly, John, go!"

"T-thank you."

And for the first time in two years, John looked up and caught Sherlock's eye.

His eyes, they were just as he remembered. These were the eyes that have been appearing countless of times in John's mind, John's dreams...

Sherlock stood, cheekbones high, jawline sharp, coat-collar turned up. Two years, and nothing has changed. Except for this church that he was standing in, this ring on his finger, this woman beside him, and the words that have haunted him ever since that day-"Sherlock is dead"-words that have been solid and sure, until now.

Sherlock stood. Waiting for an answer to a question at didn't need to be voiced because it had been there all along.

But it was also a question that had always been avoided. And now it was here-in Sherlock's eyes, in the way he stood, in the way his chin titled upwards, bracing himself for the long-anticipated answer.

But what was the answer? John didn't know. He only knew that his heart was bursting-with anger at the sudden arrival? With love that he felt for this man? He only knew that his hands were trembling, because it had been too long, far too long, since the last time they brushed against Sherlock's.

And there Sherlock Holmes stood, cheekbones high, jawline sharp, coat-collar turned up, and John Watson also happened to know that if anyone held answers, it was Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson made his way down the aisle-in the opposite direction this time-straight towards Sherlock. Arriving in front of him, he reached up and cupped his face in his still-shaking hands, and leaned in.

John didn't have answer, so he searched for them in Sherlock's lips.