"Ahhh!" This was the first word John Watson said after he woke up. It was a Sunday morning in early May, and John would have liked to spend it peacefully reading the paper and drinking his coffee. But peaceful Sunday mornings were scarce since he and his family had moved back into 221b, Baker Street four months ago. This particular day, John's morning welcome was an indoor toddler bike left conveniently outside of his door, which he stepped on. He then proceeded to lose his balance and fall unceremoniously down the entire flight of stairs leading to the main floor of the apartment, yelling the whole way down.
Moaning, John brushed himself off and took in the scene. His 2 year old daughter, Rosie, was banging her spoon against her cereal bowl, a soggy cheerio stuck to her chin. Mrs. Hudson was bustling around the kitchen, making breakfast (for someone who insisted she wasn't a housekeeper, John personally thought she showed every sign of it). His wife, Mary, was alternating between encouraging Rosie's "music", and calling out input to Sherlock and Molly, who were seated at the kitchen table, deep in conversation. Well, Molly was deep in conversation, rambling on like she always did. Sherlock was doing his best to humor her, but his eyes kept wandering away from what he was supposed to be looking at (John guessed they were wedding plans). At that moment, Sherlock's gaze landed on John, and he bounded out of his seat to go greet him.
"Good morning, John! Whatever are you doing on the floor?"
"I hear it's healthy to start every morning off with a good pratfall," John replied sarcastically, picking himself up.
"Oh yes, I'm sure it's good for the bones," Sherlock agreed, grinning.
"And how is your morning going?" John asked, nodding meaningfully towards Molly, who had now turned her chatter to Mary.
Sherlock's grin faded.
"John, you've got to help me! If I hear one more word about which flavored cake we'll have or what color the brides maids' dresses will be- it's all the same to me, aren't people supposed to be looking at the bride anyway?- I think I'll shoot another hole through the wall!
I love Molly dearly (John still wasn't quite used to these words), but I have never heard her talk so much in my entire life! You need to help me!"
John tried to hide his grin at his friend's look of true consternation.
"Mary should be taking Molly out dress shopping soon, right?" he asked.
"Well when Molly showed up this morning, Mrs. Hudson insisted on making breakfast- she never does for us, so I don't understand the sudden switch- so of course they have to eat that and then get ready, and then I suppose they'll go out dress shopping… Two hours, John. We've been talking about cakes and dresses for two hours."
John couldn't hide his laugh now.
"Wow, I've really missed a lot, haven't I?" He tried to imagine what it would be like once Molly had moved in, and flat 221b had 5 inhabitants (6 if you counted Mrs. Hudson). It had been busy with two. He wondered again why he had allowed Mrs. Hudson to convince him to move back in.
"Sherlock, what do you think, is green better than pink?" Molly called suddenly.
"Yes, it goes better with your hair," Sherlock invented, smiling over in Molly's direction. Then he turned back to John.
"A case, any case. Do you have a case?"
"You're the one who gets emails about cases," John reminded him, deciding to ignore the fact that it wouldn't matter if green went well with Molly's hair, as her dress would be white.
"Don't be silly, John. You know I always use your computer."
"But then how am I supposed to… oh forget it. Let me say good morning and then I'll check."
But as soon as John went to greet everyone, he, too, was sucked into wedding preparations, and it ended up being another full hour before he and Sherlock could get to checking out cases.
"John, remind me again why I decided to get married." Sherlock sighed, sinking down into his chair.
"Because you love Molly, and as much as you try to deny it, that experience with your sister changed you. I think you might just be turning into a family man."
"I was fine with the chair," Sherlock humphed.
"Did the chair ever talk back?" John asked.
"That's utterly besides the point," Sherlock retorted, pulling the computer onto his lap. "Alright now, let's see what cases we have… boring, boring, boring… her husband was obviously cheating on her, the stepmom stole the necklace…"
After all these years, John still hadn't ceased to be a little awed by how Sherlock could solve cases simply by skimming through an email. Eventually, Sherlock stopped scrolling, and looked up.
"There's nothing. No good cases. Honestly, who do people think I am- one of the Hardy Boys?"
"Hey, I liked the Hardy-!" John became distracted by his phone buzzing. It was Lestrade. Quickly, John read the text and typed back "Ready."
"Who was that?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.
"Oh, it was Emma's mom," John lied. "Rosie is going over there today for a playdate." That part was true.
"Why wasn't she texting Mary?"
Before John could think of an excuse, Sherlock's phone started ringing.
Sherlock immediately picked up.
"Yes, Greg?"
John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock must be really grateful to get the Detective Inspector's name right. He listened to the brief one-sided conversation, watching a slow smile start on Sherlock's face. After about a minute, Sherlock closed his phone and turned to John.
"Murder, and the suspect owned up."
John feigned confusion. "Why did Greg call you if the case is solved?"
"Because now the suspect is dead, too. Come on John, the game is afoot!" Sherlock leapt out of his chair and all but ran to the door. Then he paused, seemingly remembering something. Turning, he went into the kitchen, and kissed Molly on the cheek.
"I just got a very important case. I'll be back later. Have fun dress shopping. And pink looks nice with your hair, too."
Molly beamed at him, looking pleasantly surprised. "Thanks, Sherlock! Good luck on your case!"
John said goodbye to his wife and daughter, smiling to himself. Sherlock might have been trying to put on an indifferent act, but John saw right through it.
"What are you smiling at?" Sherlock demanded on their way out the door.
"You. I don't know if I've ever seen you this happy."
"Come now, John, don't get sappy," Sherlock admonished. But John noticed that he didn't deny the statement.
Fifteen minutes later, John and Sherlock had arrived outside of Dane's Brew Pub, the location where the suspect had been murdered. The crime scene was curiously… nonexistent.
"Where's the body?" Sherlock inquired, confused. "Where's the police force? I know they're somewhat incompetent, but this is taking it to a new level." Sherlock glanced to either side of the building, as if the police were hiding in the alleyway.
"Shall we check inside?" John suggested.
Without answering, Sherlock barged dramatically through the door, coat billowing out behind him. Then he looked around in confusion.
"Mycroft? What are you doing here? Since when do you help Grover on cases?"
Sherlock's elder brother was sitting primly at a table in the back of the restaurant. Lestrade was next to him, his previously broad grin slightly diminished by the fact that Sherlock had managed to forget his name again.
"And what is that dorky grin for?" Sherlock inquired, gesturing towards Lestrade.
John ambled up behind Sherlock, unable to contain his amusement. For someone who was a genius most of the time, Sherlock was being remarkably thick headed about the whole situation.
Sherlock turned to John, a look of genuine dubiety on his face.
"John, where's the body? What is Mycroft doing here? What… oh, that text wasn't from Emma's mother at all," Sherlock deduced, comprehension donning. "You all wanted me here and that was an excuse. But why do you want me here?" He pressed his fingertips together contemplatively.
"You see, John," Mycroft inserted. "I told you he wouldn't get it." He turned to address Sherlock. "We are having a celebration for you."
"For me? What for?"
Now John and Lestrade were laughing outright.
"Well, Sherlock, you're getting married," John explained. "Celebrating is kind of what friends do."
"Oh." Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a couple times, unable to speak for one of the rare moments in his life.
"Oh come on, Sherlock, you mean to tell me you've never celebrated with friends before?" Lestrade laughed.
Sherlock got a queer look on his face.
"I didn't even know when his birthday was until two years ago," John explained, taking a seat next to Lestrade.
"I…" Sherlock trailed off. "Thank you all. That was… kind of you to do for me."
"Well for Pete's sake, Sherlock, we haven't even done anything yet!" Lestrade exclaimed. "You've just been standing there gaping."
"Yes, Brother Mine, you look rather like a fish," Mycroft mused. "Why don't you have a seat?"
Pulling himself together, Sherlock took the remaining chair in between John and Mycroft.
"We wanted to do something closer to the wedding, you know, more like a bachelor party," John explained. "But we figured that the only way we'd rope you into something like this is if we caught you completely off guard."
"Well yes, I can't say I was expecting this," Sherlock agreed, and then added after a pause, "But are you sure there are no cases? That murder was bound to be interesting."
"No, I just made that one up." Lestrade looked rather pleased with himself.
"Ah, well, if your deduction skills were as good as your fake cases, Scotland Yard wouldn't need me quite so often." Sherlock replied, oblivious as to how rude the statement was, or not really caring.
Lestrade quirked an eyebrow, but chose to ignore the comment.
"Well now, we haven't got all day and I'm hungry," Mycroft announced. "Would you all please look at your menus so we can order?"
Conversation abated for a bit while menus were looked at and food was ordered. John noted what an odd group they all were, and how unnatural conversation seemed to be. Leave it to Sherlock to acquire such random friends. Eventually, Lestrade spoke up.
"So, Sherlock, have you decided on a best man?"
Sherlock looked mildly surprised, as though, in all of the intense wedding planning, it hadn't occurred to him that he needed to chose a best man.
"Well, I suppose that's obvious," he replied.
"John, naturally," Mycroft agreed, at the same time as John said "Well, Mycroft is your brother." The two looked at each other.
"Well I most certainly am not going to be the best man," Mycroft put in decidedly.
"Yes, John, I meant you," Sherlock explained.
John didn't put up a fight, as secretly, he had been hoping that it would be him.
"I wasn't even sure I would come to the wedding," Mycroft added. Lestrade looked appalled.
"But, you're his brother!"
"I have never been one for brotherly sentiments," Mycroft replied matter-of-factly. "But our parents might have actually killed me if I hadn't attended, and I have more that I'd like to do with my life."
John and Sherlock were unfazed by this unfeeling statement, but Lestrade was looking increasingly alarmed. John could understand why: If Sherlock were to be considered an acquired taste, Mycroft was nearly unpalatable.
"Well, I guess that means I'll have to come up with a speech," John mused.
"I'm sure, John, if you try, it will be almost as good as mine was," Sherlock told him, kindly.
John and Lestrade exchanged cringing looks, and John wondered if Sherlock genuinely believed that his best man speech had been good.
"Hopefully it will be shorter," Lestrade muttered under his breath, and John smirked.
The rest of lunch was spent discussing an odd mix of things, from what kind of cake would be at the wedding (Sherlock shut that conversation down immediately), to what the grossest crime scene was that each of them had seen. Eventually, the food was finished, and there seemed to be nothing left to say.
"Well, thank you all," Sherlock said to his friends. "We should do this more often."
Lestrade tried not to look pained by this statement, and Mycroft just shook his head.
"On second thought, this should probably be a one-time thing," Sherlock concluded. Then, abruptly, he shook everyones' hands and swept out of the restaurant. John followed after him, chuckling. That had been one unique bachelor party.
That night at 221b Baker Street, Sherlock was back to looking at wedding plans. He was seemingly less pained by it, as he had taken out some of his pent up energy composing an vivacious melody for the violin, and fencing with an imaginary opponent. Eventually, though, even Molly had had enough of planning, so instead, she regaled Sherlock with tales of dress shopping. John noted that her babbling had become less awkward and more just happy since she had gotten together with Sherlock.
"I shipped it from the first time I saw them together," Mary told John, from her spot next to him on the couch.
"Shipped it?" John asked, confused.
"Yes, you know, pairing two people up together. They're perfect for each other." She nodded towards Sherlock and Molly.
John laughed at his wife. "I wonder what their kids will be like," he mused in a tone that implied they'd have interesting children.
"Well, look at our daughter." Mary gestured towards Rosie, who was running around the apartment in a pirate costume (courtesy of Sherlock). Occasionally, she came to sit on her "captive's" lap (Mrs. Hudson was sweetly tolerating being bound to a chair, and thoroughly enjoying her role of surrogate grandmother).
"She tied Mrs. Hudson up herself."
John shook his head, "We certainly have an odd family."
"But would you have it any other way?" Mary asked him. "Come on, you live for adventure."
John looked around flat 221b, at his crazy family, at the dagger sticking out of the mantle, at the bullet holes in the wall, at the scattered cases mixed with wedding plans.
"Yes, you're right," he agreed. "I live for this."