Major James William Sholto sat stiffly erect, at attention; his brass buttons gleaming like newly formed stars. Surveying the room, a habit he picked up in the Army, he noted the movements and facial expressions of the people in it.
He hated being out in public. Out of the protective shell of his home, thrust into this unfamiliar, gaudy public place. The canary yellow walls, stencilled with blue sparrows, or were they swallows? he'd never been much of a bird person, screamed at his senses. The area was cluttered with tables and chairs which blocked the exits, and the people…well, there were people everywhere. He was bumped and jostled with alarming regularity.
Weddings were not his strong suit. The idea of linking himself to another human being for the remainder of his natural life span was abhorrent. Still, this one was a necessary evil. Captain John Watson. His best, if he was honest, ONLY friend in the world. A few hours of torture and he could escape from the din after having served his duty to his friend.
He found his seat, near an exit, table not too crowded. He could sit away from the table and observe. This suited him nicely.
On his right was a woman in purple: older, glasses, long brown hair; here with her partner. Not a threat. He was assessing the woman in gold, next to the woman in purple, when he felt a jar to his knee. He quickly spun to identify the cause. Another woman, young, perhaps mid thirties, short brown hair piled on top of her head. She was chubby, perhaps even running to fat but had a stately elegance and timeless beauty that some women could never hope to achieve. She was wearing, there could be no other word for it, a jaw-dropping dress. It was royal blue, silk with a peacock's head nestled beneath the woman's breasts. The peacock's back continued around the back of the dress and ended in a train of real feathers. Intentionally or not, this woman was well on her way to upstaging the bride.
She noticed him looking at her and smiled. He smiled, more of a grimace really, and nodded in her direction. Fortunately she didn't attempt to engage him in conversation…until she did.
"Hi" She said, holding out her hand.
He sighed inwardly, shook her hand and replied, tersely: "Hello." He was not in the mood for small talk. The inanities, 'the weather', 'who's sleeping with who', 'politics'. None of it interested him.
"It's a shame that old man decided to marinate in his cologne this morning eh?" She said conversationally.
He laughed in spite of himself and found himself nodding as he agreed.
He could see that she was drinking in his scars, mentally assessing his face, neck and, probably, surmising that the burns mostly partial but some full thickness, covered more than was on display. He was grateful for the high neck of his uniform jacket and shirt but found, to his surprise, that he wasn't offended by her gaze.
"So, if you don't mind my asking," she began, tentatively, "how did you come by your burns?"
He didn't feel put off by her question, though in normal circumstances he would have been mortified and, thus, angry. He looked her in the eye and saw no mawkish curiosity, simply an attempt at understanding.
No one had ever asked, point blank, how he had come by his injuries. People skirted the issue. "How did you?…" with a vague hand wave in the direction of his face.
He felt compelled to answer her. "A grenade went off. I was too close."
He expected her to look awkward, perhaps to say (as others had in the past) "oooh, that must have been so terrible. You poor thing".
Instead she said…what? He had been steeling himself for 'you poor thing' and had almost misheard her. She read the obvious confusion on his face.
"It's probably good advice NOT to be too close to those." She said again, smiling.
He laughed in spite of himself. "Yes. Good advice in deed. Where were you when I was in Afghanistan. You could have saved me some trouble."
She raised an eyebrow, as though not sure if he was joking or not then, apparently deciding that he was, held out her hand again. "I'm Lucy. I'm a friend of Mary's. I take it you're on the groom's side?"
They chatted, yes, Major James William Sholto, quite possibly the most anti social man on the planet, chatted with a beautiful woman during dinner at a wedding.
By dessert, he was quite certain he fancied her. After Sherlock Holmes' interminable speech, he fancied her a lot and he was fairly certain she fancied him.
They danced together at the reception and, as 2:00 am rolled around he walked her to her room. They paused on the threshold and suddenly he was 15 years old, taking his first date home from the school dance. He was shy, he was clumsy and unworthy and she was impossibly beautiful.
She kissed him, standing on tip toes to do so. She tasted like the songs of love and he relished the softness or her lips against his. It was a perfect way to end a perfect evening.