Sherlock stepped into the church's sanctuary with the bouquet pressed tightly to his abdomen. He felt overwhelmed by breathless excitement and anticipation. And, as he saw John—standing there in a dashing tux at the other end of the aisle, staring back at him with pure adoration—a sort of serene joy. Sherlock walked past most of their friends and family—everyone the two of them cared about really, plus a few others he didn't recognize—and took his place opposite his best friend. Cameras flashed and someone started talking in a droning monotone, the words of which Sherlock could barely make out.

He and John's eyes met, their gazes level with each other's. "You look amazing," John whispered, eyes shining. Sherlock could only blush and study the carpet. A tall suited man behind John coughed, and one of the guests seated in the pews began crying happily.

More cameras flashed. The click of a shutter became a crack of lightning outside the window; the entire church was lit with a blinding white light, which quickly faded to an inky darkness that covered every last detail until Sherlock could see nothing. All noise from the guests and priest stopped. The only sounds were his own breathing and the slow rumble of thunder approaching. As it rolled through the sanctuary with a low grumble, shaking the floor and threatening to knock everything off the walls, emergency lights dimly came to life overhead and bathed the scene in an eerie green glow.

The guests and the priest were still—they were dead. They stared straight ahead with lax, blank expressions. Sherlock was at peace. He only had eyes for John.

"I do," John whispered. His voice was unbearably loud in the quiet. He slipped a matching pair of golden rings on both of their fingers, then leaned forward.

Sherlock leaned forward, too. Their lips touched and John let out a warm, wet sigh against his mouth. It wasn't over. Sherlock stepped close, desire clawing its way up his chest and choking off his air. He wanted more. John whimpered.

Sherlock leaned back. John's eyes were glazed over and his face twisted with sensation. His heartbeat was fluttering in his neck like that of a scared rabbit's. Sherlock's arm twitched, and warmth spilled over his hand. He looked down, and—

And part of John's intestines fell out of the hole in his belly. With every one of Sherlock's breaths, the knife in his hand sawed delicately of its own accord against the other man's skin. Blood spilled over both of them, sprayed in all directions, stained the front of the white dress he was wearing.

The man in a suit behind John shifted, and Sherlock's head snapped up. It was him. The other Sherlock stared back with a cold, unfamiliar look. "Obvious," he sighed, and looked away, disinterested. Clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Did nothing.

John sobbed and pressed his hands weakly against the hole in his stomach, trying to shove his insides back in. "I love you," he moaned. "I love you, I love you, I love you…"

Sherlock caught sight of his own reflection in a stained glass window that depicted what he assumed was some Important Historical Figure betraying another. What he saw was Lilith's face, terrified and distorted, with endless black eyes and gaunt, pinched features. Her lips were slack and looked fake.

"I love you too," Sherlock said, and pressed a kiss to the corner of John's mouth. The knife twisted and a single pair of hands from the back of the pews began clapping.

-x-

Sherlock woke up screaming and covered in sweat. He ran out of breath, the yell trailed off with a rasp, and bile rose up to replace it. The detective had to throw himself off the bed in order to get his face to the trash can before he vomited, and ended up badly bruising his right knee and almost knocking his bedside table over.

"Bark bark!" Sherlock turned his head minutely and locked eyes with a distressed Gladstone who was peeking over the edge of the mattress. "Bark bark baRK BARK bark BArk bark BARK!"

"Oh, hush," Sherlock groaned. He stood on wobbly legs and, instead of going around the bed, just walked right over it, nearly getting himself killed when he got a foot caught in a blanket. He had planned on opening his bedroom door to let Gladstone out, but blood rushed to his head and left him dizzy and nauseated and veering for the toilet instead. Sherlock didn't notice the dog sneaking into the hallway, dry heaving as he was; but the bullpup came back minutes later with a wide-eyed John in his pyjamas.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John asked as he gripped the door frame.

Sherlock made a gross gargly noise in reply.

John disappeared and came back with a glass of water. He rubbed Sherlock's shoulder sympathetically until the detective felt stable enough to sit up. "Alright?"

Sherlock gulped down the water and shook his head. "No."

"What's wrong? Feeling sick?" John pressed a hand to his friend's forehead, tone going stern with worry. "You better not die on me now, tomorrow's my big day and you promised you'd be my best man."

Sherlock shook his head again. "Technically it's today, since it's two thirty in the morning."

"Sherlock." John grabbed the man's wrist. "You're shaking and look like you're about to pass out. And I heard you, ah, yelling. Tell me what happened?"

The detective chewed on his lip and avoided eye contact for a long while. "I… I had a nightmare."

"A nightmare?"

"Yes."

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose. "Just a nightmare."

"John—"

"You got me up at two thirty in the morning the night before my wedding because you had a nightmare."

Sherlock suddenly felt very tired. "I didn't ask you to come help me…"

"No, you just woke up everyone on Baker Street with all your screaming and trying to break a hole in the walls."

"Sorry. I'll try to keep it down next time." The bathroom floor was starting to look rather warm and inviting.

John sighed his I don't know why I put up with you sigh. "Alright, alright. Just… tell me what it was about so we can sleep."

Sherlock stared at John for quite a long time. "Lilith turned bad at the wedding and… hurt you. And I w-couldn't stop her."

John's eyes rolled so hard they almost fell out of his head. "Right. Okay. I'm going back to bed."

"John, I don't think you should get married tomorrow."

The doctor was already leaving the room. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"John, wait—"

The next thing Sherlock knew, he found himself pressed against the bathroom door with John's hands fisted in his T-shirt. "Look," John hissed. "I don't know why you're so hell-bent on ruining what little happiness I can get these days, but you need to stop. You aren't going to break us up no matter how hard you try. I know it may be a foreign concept to you, but Lilith and I love each other. Stop trying to turn this into a game of you-or-her." John shoved Sherlock away and stalked off down the hall.

"I'm not trying to turn this into me-or-her," Sherlock shouted after him. "Not like it's even a question—it's obvious she's winning anyway!"

John's door slammed closed upstairs. Sherlock took a whimpering Gladstone back to bed with him, though only one of them managed to get any sleep.

-x-

Sherlock stayed in bed staring at the ceiling and the wall and his blankets, trying not to think of what would happen today, for as long as he could manage. He only got up when he was on the verge of being late, and then he got eight minutes of avoiding his own eyes in the mirror and attempting to tame his hair into something respectable until he burst into tears.

"Oh, hell," he choked. Sherlock only gave himself a few moments of quiet sobbing before he forced a blank composure onto his face and continued getting ready. Shouldn't be so selfish, he thought tiredly as he brushed his teeth. He let Gladstone out to piss and then started throwing on the suit he'd picked out to wear—a regular black one, crisp white shirt underneath, and a dark blue tie to match the theme of the wedding. He was just adjusting his collar in the mirror over the fireplace when John clomped down the stairs into the living room.

"How do I look?" he asked, and spun around on one heel with his arms outstretched. He had chosen a black tuxedo with a grey waistcoat, and wore a white shirt and bowtie that matched the white rose in his breast pocket. The doctor had also neatly parted his hair, combed it back, and gelled it into place. Sherlock's stomach did something fluttery.

"You look amazing," he said honestly. He had no idea if he was smiling or not; his face felt numb.

"Great!" John grinned and bounded toward the door. "You look good too. Are you ready? Let's go, Mrs. Hudson is waiting!"

Their landlady was wearing a modest black and purple dress with floral patterns and heels, and had Gladstone (with a bowtie clipped onto his collar) under one arm—John had insisted upon the dog being at the wedding.Probably so it'll be harder for me to bring him home with me, Sherlock thought miserably. They still hadn't come to an agreement over who the pup would be staying with after John moved out.

The four of them squished into the back of a cab and rode to the church together, John nervously going over last minute preparations with Mrs. Hudson the entire trip. Sherlock kept himself busy playing games on his phone and staring out the window in the least depressing way he could manage. Once they arrived, Mrs. Hudson kissed them both on the cheek, slipped into the sanctuary, and took up residence beside Molly, who was in a very flattering blue silk dress and was more than happy to babysit the bullpup. John watched her go, peeking at the crowd through a crack in the door.

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Sherlock, talk me out of this."

"Um—"

"I was joking, don't do that." John sat back and took deep, calming breaths. Sherlock watched his chest rise. He wanted to touch the doctor's brow and press his nose against the man's neck, but he couldn't. It wasn't his place. They had proven time and time again that Sherlock's only purpose in John's life was as a good friend and colleague. Nothing more. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped up. "Hm?"

"Hey, listen." John put a hesitant hand on Sherlock's bicep. "What I said last night. That was… Well, let's just say I shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry. I don't want us resenting each other on the best day of my life, y'know?"

Sherlock wanted to cry. He shook his head and patted the back of John's hand. "No, I was out of line. I'm sorry."

John's smile was wide and blinding with joy. "Best mates, yeah? Come on, let's get this show on the road."

Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat, rummaged up a smile in return, and nodded.