Disclaimer: Don't own, not claiming, not making any money!
Author's Note: This story is my gift to Bradspyjamas because right about now she will be walking down the aisle of a small French village church and getting married to the man who, in her own words, is the John to her Sherlock. I hope she thinks this is suitable way to mark the occasion!
John wakes slowly, unsure initially what has broken his slumber. The first thing he notices is the warm golden sunlight peeking through the wavering crack in the pale organza curtains. The fresh morning breeze makes the thin fabric dance and brings with it the sweet perfume of the yellow roses under the window. Then the lazy drone of the bees fills his ears and he sighs in contentment, wriggling his toes in the sumptuous sheets. It still all feels like the best kind of dream but he doubts that it's these obvious differences from a Baker Street morning that have woken him.
No, he's pretty sure it's the one thing that is exactly the same; the snuffling, grunting noises issuing from the still sleeping man at his side.
He rolls over as gently as he can and props himself up on one elbow, the better to observe Sherlock in repose. Considering the usual disparity in their sleeping patterns he doesn't often get to see the languid, placid creature sleep turns his own personal whirlwind into and he wants to make the most of this opportunity. Sherlock's face is relaxed, the sharpness brought to it by quick fire deductions and a mind that never slows down replaced by an open peacefulness that, under the tangled mess his hair has become in the heat of the French Riviera, makes him looks ineffably young.
John's chest constricts slightly and his hand starts to move, almost of its own volition, to brush an errant curl from Sherlock's forehead. Only he's pulled up short when Sherlock's eyelids flutter and he gives soft gasp before murmuring John's name.
'Sherlock?' John whispers but Sherlock's eyes don't open, instead he, too, rolls from his back to his side, grasping blindly for John at the same time. John goes into his arms willingly, allowing himself be pulled tight into the curve of Sherlock's body and very effectively spooned. It's early enough that it's merely pleasantly warm in Sherlock's embrace, so it isn't long before John's eyelids begin to droop and he falls into a doze, the memory of the moment that started them on the path to this day unspooling in his head as he does so.
oxOxo
John pauses in the doorway, smile creeping onto his face despite himself at the sight before him; Sherlock is sprawled across the sofa, sound asleep, breathing deep and slow and making snuffling noises that, every now and again, threaten to erupt over into full blown snores. His bare toes are flexing and tensing in time with his breathing and his hair is glowing like a halo of dark fire in the weird yellow light from the storm outside.
I should slam the door and damn well wake him up, John thinks, even as he closes it so gently that not even the click is audible. Buggering off without so much as an indication as to where he was going, leaving me to deal with an irate stable hand, a spooked horse and a furious Detective Inspector.
Sherlock shifts in his sleep, half turning and curling in on himself, murmuring what sounds like John's name. His hands flail for a moment but then encounter the Union Jack cushion which he swiftly catches up and clutches to his chest, in an odd approximation of child's teddy bear.
John shakes his head and starts the unpleasant process of pealing his sodden jumper off. He knows he lets Sherlock get away with far more than he should but then, he supposes, that's what love does to a person. He finds speech and actions that he'd never tolerate from anyone else only mildly irritating when Sherlock is the culprit. Besides, Sherlock has opened himself up to John in a way John doubts he's ever done for anyone else. If relationships were the sort of things that could be weighed in the balance in such a manner, then those things that Sherlock freely shares with him and him alone - soft smiles and gentle touches, heated looks and warm caresses, the way he sometimes orients himself round John as if John is the centre of his world, the sheer unguarded joy John often sees in his gaze since they took that final step and become lovers - more than make up for his more objectionable acts.
Not that I'm much of a prize, if we're going to look at it like that, John acknowledges as the wool releases its death grip on his head and falls, with a splat, to the floor. I'm a grumpy sod of an ex-soldier with a scarred shoulder, trust issues, and more failed relationships behind me than can possibly be healthy. Yet somehow, with him, none of that matters. Just like his social tone deafness and his habit of acting first and thinking later doesn't matter to me. We work. We've always worked. And I honestly can't imagine not wanting to be part of the 'us' we've created.
Catching sight of his reflection in the glass of the window he realises his smile has turned into a love struck grin and ruefully adds: And that's as sappy as you're allowed to get, Watson. Now go get yourself sorted.
Turning away from Sherlock he toes off his shoes and heads purposefully into the kitchen, intent on nothing more exciting than putting the kettle on for a cuppa and then getting out of the rest of his wet clothes.
Neither of which he does since he stops short three steps in.
The kitchen table is pristine. The surface so clean it gleams, the mess of the experiment Sherlock had been working on before they dashed out for the case three days ago gone and the microscope and other scientific paraphernalia neatly stowed away on the far worktop. The whole thing is completely clear.
Except for the far end, where there are three carefully placed items.
He recognises the bottle of his favourite Burgundy instantly but he's more intrigued by the small black box in front of it and the white square stuck between the two. Another few steps and John can see the white square is a note which bears, in Sherlock's unmistakable hand, John's name and the injunction to Read Me.
Briefly wondering, and then dismissing, the thought that Sherlock might be referencing Alice in Wonderland – if the solar system didn't survive the cull then a story containing grinning invisible cats and rabbits with pocket watches certianly wouldn't have had a hope – John instinctively tries to remember if today has any possible significance to either of them.
Drawing a complete blank - and with Sherlock still sound asleep and thus unavailable for questioning - John gives in to his curiosity. Walking up the table he picks up the note and, taking a deep breath without being sure why, he unfolds it and starts to read.
John,
The box is empty.
Well, physically empty at any rate.
What it contains is a promise.
My promise that, if you say yes to the next question I ask you, I will take you to Bentley & Skinner so we can purchase what it was designed to hold.
Sherlock
John realises the paper is shaking in his hand and he lets go, watching it flutter down onto the table with a vague detachment completely at odds with the maelstrom in his head.
Was this … What was this?
Snatching up the box he fumbles the top open with numb fingers to find two empty slots obviously meant to hold rings. The inside of the lid is adorned with the Bentley & Skinner crest and, even empty, it oozes discretion and the kind of quality you'd expect from the jeweller to the Queen of England.
This is Sherlock's way of proposing, John thinks somewhat frantically. He wants us to get married. He actually wants to stand up and tell the world that he loves me and he wants me to do the same.
The ring box goes the same way as the note, clattering loudly onto the table as John grips the chair back and concentrates on regulating his breathing.
He's never thought about them getting married. Not once in the last nine months has it ever crossed his mind. Mainly because, right up until this moment, he's thought of marriage as something enacted for everyone else. Viewing it as a way of labelling yourself for the rest of society rather than something you do either for your benefit or the benefit of the person you're marrying; a person who, presumably, knows how much you love them and how much they love you without requiring a piece of paper to confirm it. He's also never, in his wildest dreams, ever believed that Sherlock would even consider anything so … so conventional.
Yet everything in front of him is telling him, very emphatically, that not only has Sherlock considered it but that Sherlock wants it. And he wants it with him.
'John.'
John jumps, spinning round to find Sherlock leaning against the kitchen doorway, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He looks deliciously rumpled and John can feel the sappy smile fighting to return to his face. He doesn't let it have so much as a millimetre, adopting a relatively solemn expression as he looks Sherlock straight in the eyes.
'Sherlock.'
'You've read your note.'
Is that a hint of anxiety in Sherlock's voice?
'I have.'
'And?'
Yes, definitely anxiety. Not only did Sherlock's voice quiver on that one word but his pulse, visible in the hollow of his throat, is thrumming far faster than normal. John realises his own heart is hammering on his ribcage in sympathy.
'Is that your question?'
Sherlock wrinkles his nose in annoyance and stands straight, rubbing at his hair vigorously with both hands.
'I didn't intend to fall asleep,' he says abruptly as he lets his hands fall back to his sides. 'I was waiting to hear you open the front door and then I was going to watch from the bedroom.'
'So you could deduce what my answer was going to be before you asked?'
Sherlock gives a one shoulder shrug that is almost petulant and looks away. It's enough of a reaction to make John lose his internal battle with his happiness and let the grin break free as he walks over to Sherlock, running his hands down Sherlock's arms as he says, very firmly:
'Yes.'
Sherlock's head whips round so fast it almost makes John wince but then Sherlock's arms come up to band round his waist, pulling him in as Sherlock's eyes rake over him. The look in those eyes - with their pupils blown wider than the light level would dictate and the irises a stunning mix of deep gold and sea blue that Sherlock seems to reserve just for him - sends a tongue of fire licking down his spine. He feels his tongue flick out to wet his suddenly dry lips.
'You mean it.'
Sherlock's voice, low and rough as it is, is level and John knows he's making a statement rather than asking a question. He answers nevertheless.
'Yes.' John hears his own voice break as he adds, 'Now ask me properly.'
Sherlock's hand move from John's waist to his face, cupping the back of his head like it is something infinitely precious. Sherlock's lips part slightly, his own tongue mirroring John's motion from the minute before. John drops his gaze so he can watch that beautiful mouth frame the words that, until ten minutes ago, he had no idea he wanted to hear.
Sherlock doesn't disappoint, heaving in a shaking breath and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, saying:
'John Watson, I want to spend the rest of my life at your side. Will you do the honour of marrying me?'
John's answering yes is spoken into Sherlock's mouth, as John elects to show, rather than tell, Sherlock exactly how he feels about becoming engaged to the man he loves.
oxOxo
And it's a kiss that pulls John from his dozy reverie; Sherlock's lips warm on the back of his neck, the initial light brush morphing into something more heated as teeth become involved and he works his way from the nape of John's neck to the pulse point under John's jaw. He works his hands in tandem with his mouth, running his palm over John's bare chest and then swooping lower, fingers dipping teasingly into the waistband of John's pyjama bottoms.
'Good morning, love' John murmurs, arching into the contact.
Sherlock hums in response, then shifts. John suddenly finding himself flat on his back, pyjamas bottoms halfway down his thighs, and covered in a very naked, very aroused Sherlock who seems to be trying to kiss him with just as much as much fervour as he was kissing the Sherlock in his memory. John has absolutely no objection to these developments whatsoever.
Fifteen minutes and quite a lot of judicious wriggling later, John is fully naked too and Sherlock is pressing his face into the crook of John's neck and keening softly as they rock together.
'God, I love you,' John gasps as he squeezes Sherlock's arse with both hands and speeds up the rolling of his hips.
'Love … you… too… God, John! I'm …'
'And me … Oh … Sherlock!'
Sherlock collapses against John as the residual tremors shake through their bodies and then they lie there; a tangle of sweaty, sated limbs and heaving chests, revelling in the closeness. Eventually John turns his head and presses a kiss to Sherlock's temple. Sherlock tilts his head in response, brushes a kiss over John's lips and then moves so he's tucked into John's side, their foreheads pressed together.
'Good Morning, Mr Watson,' he says, his eyes losing their unfocused look and his mouth curling up into an impish grin.
'Good Morning, Mr Holmes,' John replies, an answering smile lighting his face. 'Have you anything planned for today?'
A look of faux concentration suffuses Sherlock's features as he taps his fingers on John's ribcage. 'Well ... I thought I might put on a suit, take a walk in the garden and possibly change my name. Nothing important really. Will you join me?'
John laces his fingers into Sherlock's and briefly rubs their noses together. 'I can't think of anything I'd like more.'
oxOxo
Fortunately, or unfortunately, and John can't decide which, the next few hours are something of a blur. Mrs Holmes – do call me Mummy, dear, it will be true in a couple of hours and whilst Mrs Holmes is much too formal for my son's fiancé to use I can't abide being referred to as Violet – bustling into their room approximately two seconds after they've got up. John doesn't even have time to properly wonder how long she's been outside the door, listening for an appropriate moment to enter, before he's being hustled out of the room – thankfully he's already put a dressinggown on – and sat down in front of more food than one person could possibly want. At which point Mrs Hudson appears and proceeds to organise him more effectively than any Army Major ever managed.
The only solace he finds, as he's pushed from pillar to post in between trying to shower, shave and get himself into his pristine white morning suit, is that Sherlock is suffering a similar fate. Only Sherlock has Mycroft as a companion, rather than Greg.
'It looks good on you,' Greg says when John turns round, having finally got the blasted bowtie done up. 'You remind me of a shorter Fred Astaire.'
'Fuck off,' John says genially, grateful for the teasing. An entire kaleidoscope of butterflies seem to have taken up residence in his stomach since Mrs Hudson left Greg and John to get dressed and trying to find a suitable retort at least stops him regretting that last piece of bacon.
'I'd say your suit made you look like Gene Kelly,' he says after a minute. 'But hell, Gene Kelly was handsome.'
Greg smooths down his dove grey waistcoat and then pats John on the shoulder. 'You really are nervous, aren't you? That come back was pathetic … but at least you tried.'
John's still trying to think up a stinging response to that when he sees Greg looking at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
'Time?' Oh great, he's been reduce to single word sentences.
'Yes, it's time. Are you ready?'
John nods, not trusting himself not to embarrass himself if he tries to speak again. They're half way down the corridor before he remembers himself enough to ask, 'Ring?'
Greg doesn't even break his stride as he produces a small velvet bag from his pocket and opens it enough for John to see the plain but glossy platinum circle within.
And then they're at the doors to the garden and one of the cousins is fastening one of the garden roses into his button hole. Greg claps him on the shoulder, murmurs something that sounds like 'break a leg' and then strides off towards the rose arch and the susurrus of voices in the centre of the beautifully manicured laws. John looks past him, straining his eyes until he sees Mycroft walking a mirror path from the other side.
He sucks in a deep breath, lets it out slowly and then sucks in another, before briefly closes his eyes. He pictures Sherlock, standing in the summer house on the opposite side of the lawn, poised just as he is. Waiting. Listening.
Then he hears it, the haunting melody Sherlock composed himself, sounding slightly wrong being played by someone else.
Nonetheless it is their cue.
John steps onto the grass and starts walking.
oxOxo
When John finally unwinds enough to take stock of everything the sun is low on horizon, Mummy is ordering more champagne to be opened and he, Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg have managed to find a quiet spot on the southern edge of the lawns. The ceremony itself, and the reception up to this point, are just so many disjointed images in John's head.
He remembers the look on Sherlock's face as they walked toward each other and met in front of the registrar.
He remembers the rustling of the rose bushes as they took their vows and the way the sunlight played over Sherlock's hands when he slid John's ring onto his finger.
He remembers their too-brief kiss and the polite clapping of the guests, and seeing Mycroft discreetly wipe his eyes.
He can't really remember anything of the meal or the toasts, not even his own speech.
He'll remember the first dance forever though; Sherlock sweeping him off without so much as a by your leave and revealing that whatever else he's deleted to keep his mind palace uncluttered, waltzing certainly hasn't been discarded.
'Earth to John!' Greg waves the hand he isn't clutching his drink with right in front of John's face. 'Care to join us? It is your wedding, after all.'
'It all went so fast,' John says, wondering if he's somehow got squiffy without actually consuming any alcohol.
'You'll remember the important bits,' Greg says sagely. 'Now for goodness sake have some champagne.'
John nods and complies. It's cold, crisp and wonderfully biscuity. Combined with the comforting pressure of Sherlock's hand on the small of his back, it relaxes him enough to actually listen to what Sherlock and Mycroft are talking about.
'… may have been made by Monsieur Remy but that doesn't mean you need to eat three pieces of it.'
'Just because you're worried you'll ruin your suit if you have any, Sherlock, doesn't mean you can take your frustration out on me. This is my first piece, as you very well know.'
'Your second.' Sherlock fires back.
'I'll tell Mummy what you said to Cousin Sherrinford.'
'I'll tell her what you did with the cat!'
Greg's mouth twitches up at the corner. 'Nice to see marriage hasn't changed him yet,' he says, sotto voice.
'I'd be horrified if it had.'
Sherlock doesn't say anything but John knows he heard the exchange because his hand slides up John's back and onto his shoulder, squeezing lightly. John still finds the fact that Sherlock has started to physically display his affection in public both wonderful and surprising, and he can't help leaning into the caress.
Content to just listen to Sherlock and Mycroft bicker he and Greg turn their gaze outward across the gardens. Everyone seems to be having fun, the guests – all of whom, other than Molly, Mike, Harry, Bill and Mrs Hudson, seem to be related to Sherlock in some way – glittering and sparkling in their wedding finery like tropical flowers sprouting from the lush lawn. Wondering whether he ought to jot that description down for use on the blog John takes another sip of his drink, only to be transfixed by the evening light glinting off his wedding ring.
To have and to hold, he thinks with awe as Sherlock squeezes his shoulder again. He is mine and I am his. Forever. For all the world to see. I may never stop smiling.
A click and a camera flash tell him the moment has been recorded for posterity and he's absurdly pleased at the thought.
'What?' Sherlock rumbles, turning away from his continued baiting of Mycroft and his cake. 'What are you thinking that's made you so happy?'
'I'm thinking about a cottage with a garden full of roses and beehives in the orchard beyond. I'm thinking that the picture whichever cousin it was just took will be sitting on our mantelpiece, reminding us of today when we're too old and grey for parties.'
'You complete and utter sap,' Greg says, his grin threatening to split his face.
'Yup,' John agrees, 'I doubt I could be sappier if I tried. But, today at least, I think I'm allowed.'
'From this day forward, actually,' Sherlock says, much to John's astonishment. He turns, wanting to check Sherlock's expression, only to have his glass plucked out of his hand and then his lips captured in a kiss that sends heat rushing through his entire body.
Winding his arms round Sherlock's waist and neck respectively, he ignores Mycroft's cough, Greg's wolf whistle and the cheers from the rest of the guests. He concentrating solely on Sherlock, wanting to show him exactly how much today has meant to him and exactly how happy the thought of their future, together, truly makes him.
When they finally break apart, to a rousing round of applause from everyone, John is certain that Sherlock knows exactly how he feels about being Mr Watson-Holmes.
He's equally as certain that Sherlock feels exactly the same way.
Author's notes:
Firstly, this is filled with details that bradspyjams has shared with me about her engagement and her wedding plans.
And I would apologise for the fluff except that fluff is obligatory for weddings, as far as I'm concerned.
Secondly, the "photograph" I have in my mind at the end is actually one of Reapersun's amazing drawings which you can find a link to on my profile.
Lastly, a little message for the beautiful bride who inspired all this:
Darling, I hope your day is unutterably wonderful and I wish you both, from this day forward, all the happiness in the world!