The Noble Bride

The day was rainy, a shadow specifically cast over the premises of 221B Baker Street.

John sat in his armchair, leaning forward to rest his forehead on his hand. Sherlock was ranting about how stupid Anderson was, following a rather ridiculous incident in which Anderson attempted to one-up Sherlock in what John would call an apparent suicide attempt. Sherlock, for the most part, had ignored him.

Up until the point where he pointed out that John followed him around like a puppy, finally sealing his fate when he suggested John was a "useless helper monkey."

Sherlock immediately turned and began to deduce that Anderson had just had a fight with Sally and was kicked out of her apartment the night before, an embarrassing rash in a place John was unwilling to imagine, then finally gave the loud announcement that he had not been sexually active with Sally in the last few weeks, suggesting she was not at all impressed in their preceding encounters.

The insulting detective was promptly kicked out of the crime scene, John in tow-but not without spotting the rewarding owl-eyed look Anderson gapped at him with.

It was doubly rewarding to know that Sally had been right behind him the whole time. Sherlock only wished he could see Anderson's face when he realized that lovely little tidbit.

Now they sat, Sherlock on a nonstop rampage of people's general idiocy, and John vaguely wondered if he could catch up on his latest blog post while Sherlock was invested in pacing and eyeing the drawer he knew John's gun was kept in.

The moment he actually began to move forward to said stashed firearm, John had had enough.

"Would you sit down? You had plenty of time at the scene, use your energy to figure out who killed the woman instead." He knew well enough that it would do nothing to stop him, but at least it diverted his thoughts towards him instead of pacing about the flat like a raving lunatic. The jury was still out on the raving lunatic label, but John didn't think this was really helping.

"Please John, I knew it was her step-father before we walked in the room." He waved the blogger off. "Easiest case we've had in weeks. She left a kettle of tea on the stove before she was murdered, a very specific blend of earl grey with a very distinctive smell imported from France. Meeting him outside the scene, there was traces of it on his suit. Then, you didn't even have to walk in the room to smell the tea on the counter."

"The tea makes him guilty." John raised his eyebrow, piecing together the next bit. "So, she had it over there for him, and made it whenever he came over."

"Gold star John. If only the idiots at London Yard would use a portion of their brainpower, then maybe they could get something done without calling me in for every stupid case they scratch their heads at." Sherlock mumbled something about resembling neanderthals, Anderson, and who the real monkey was. John supposed he should be a bit insulted by the monkey comment Anderson decided to toss at him, but this little mental revenge Sherlock was doling out was extremely amusing.

"Is there anything better to do than gripe?" John sighed.

"I do not gripe."

"You are griping."

"Nothing better to do."

Closing the laptop, the useless helper monkey stood and stretched before making his way to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, ignoring the jar of fingers floating in some unrecognizable fluid, and pulled out sliced meat and cheese for a sandwich. He would have asked Sherlock if he wanted any, but in his current state, he would only ignore his question. Besides, he was acting like a five year old.

He had just finished putting the mustard on, and was about to take a bite when his cell phone rang. John groaned, pulling the rude lunch interrupting phone from his pocket.

Harry.

He nearly groaned again, wondering what she wanted with him this time. One more set up date and she would be officially blocked from his number. The last incident involved a gay bar, an experience he did not wish to repeat.

"Yea?" He shoved a bit of sandwich in his mouth, determined not to let this phone call disturb his eating habits.

"John? John, something's happened." Her serious tone of voice cause John to immediately set his sandwich down and grip the phone harder in alarm.

"What is it? Are you hurt?" Flashbacks of Harry drinking herself into oblivion flashed in his mind. If she went driving after an episode of that...He'd kill her. His eyes flashed traitorously into his room where Sherlock had just been caught glancing at the gun. In retrospect, perhaps it wasn't a bright idea to keep a gun in a flat with a habitually ranting sociopath and a highly trained war vet.

"No, no. I'm fine. It's Lucinda. She's gone missing."

John scrunched his eyebrows in confusion, only vaguely noticing that Sherlock had gone mysteriously quiet. Probably listening in on a hacked phone. "Alright," he focused first on an impromptu interrogation. "Who in the world is Lucinda?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "She's my friend. She was getting married her fiancée, Daniel. The wedding was last night, Lucinda had been there the whole time. At least, until the reception. Oh John, she just disappeared and no one's seen her since!"

"Harry, calm down. Where did this happen?"

She coughed before answering. "Texas."

The blogger whacked his head against the wall. Why couldn't it have been a quick jaunt to Dublin? Moscow? Who has a wedding in Texas?

"And you called me to ask for help."

"Please. I know your flatmate is the best at this sort of thing, and everyone is borderline panic here."

John sighed. Again. "Look, I can't make any promises."

There was hardly a chance that Sherlock would leave London just for a missing person case, but John would drag him onto that plane if it killed him. Another glance at the gun before he rolled his eyes at himself.

"Police have any leads?" He tapped the kitchen table, still stained from Sherlock's last experiment.

"Nothing. Just that she acted strangely during the wedding, but it could have been nerves you know?"

John leaned against the counter and glanced into the living room. He couldn't see Sherlock from here, but he was sure that he already knew what was going on. If he was lucky, he would come to the States willingly. Hopefully he was that bored.

The phone was suddenly torn from his hand with an accompanying "Nope," and the phone was hung up on Harry.

"Sherlock!"

"Dreadful place, the States. They are their own breed of stupid."

"But you can help her." John reached out for the phone, only to increase in the level of frustration as Sherlock held it high above his head.

"I don't help, I solve. This was obviously a case of cold feet, bride running away right after the vows to dwell on the horrendous decision of getting married. Really a bad idea, selling your soul to someone else for the rest of your life. How boring."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, not prepared to get into the very lengthy conversation that would be needed to attempt to get Sherlock to understand the concept of love and marriage. Not that he would care anyway.

"I'm booking a flight out tomorrow morning, I don't care if you come or not." He rarely used this tactic on Sherlock, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It was a bit mean spirited, suggesting to leave him behind, but if he was going to act like a grade schooler, than so would he.

"Fine. Good luck finding the runaway bride." Sherlock went to the couch, flopped onto his side, and stared into the back of it.

"Not a runaway Sherlock. Missing person case."

"If that's what you'd like to think."

John didn't even bother replying. Shaking his head, he went to his room to pack. He and Harry had been on better terms recently, her alcohol problem was more or less better, and they had begun to talk via email every once in a while. Besides, he had a moral duty to help people in any way he could. That much could not be said for Sherlock however, who apparently only helped when it suited his tastes of interest. John also had the slight inkling that he liked to stay as far away from weddings as possible. The declaration of love was not exactly a shindig demanding Sherlock Holmes' presence.

His cell phone rang again, John belatedly realizing Sherlock still had it. The childish detective immediately answered it. "Go away."

Then the phone went flying across the room.

"Grow up Sherlock. Whether you come with me or not, I'm going and that's that."

"I don't care."

"Fine." At this point, John was honestly getting cross with him.

Dark hair pressed against the edge of the couch, silk robe crumpling in disarray, almost as much as Sherlock appeared to be in. He continued to stare at the side of the couch, though John swore he saw him shift positions in a telltale sign of uncomfortableness. That was good. That meant John was close to getting to him.

"If you don't help Harry, I'm flushing the cigarettes," John threatened.

This time, Sherlock did sit up. "You wouldn't."

"I would."

A few second stare-off between the two men, and the detective threw a pillow at John. He crossed his arms as it hit him, daring him to explain what was so wrong with going to the States. Sherlock glared at him, kicking another pillow off the couch in an unhappy fit, but otherwise staying silent.

John took that as a sign of compliance. "We leave in the morning."

So, first fanfiction... Let me know if you liked it! The action will pick up in the next chapter or two. I absolutely love writing their characters, so there should be another chapter posted tomorrow. Thanks for reading!