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-XXX-

I end up selecting a pretty silk coral shift about three days before the wedding, spotting it while on my way to work. It ends up backstage, hung up beside the line of guitars, where my co-workers admire it. Harry is especially impressed, and he and Tiana badger me on what accessories I'm planning on.

"It's in the country, right?"

"Still very formal," I assure them. "Hats and heels, tails, the whole nine yards."

"Speaking of hats, do you have one?" Harry asks critically. "I'm usually not for it, but if it's something you need, getting one dyed to match will be difficult this soon. And shoes!"

"I was going for nude kitten heels," I tell him. "And I'm not going to wear a hat. It would mess up my hair. Just some pearls, I think, and a nice clutch."

The pearls were a combination of things left by my mother (necklace) and sixteenth birthday gift from my grandparents (simple drop earrings). I rarely have the occasion to wear them, so I am happy to have the chance.

"Oh, that little gold one?" Tiana asks brightly. "That would be lovely clutch!"

"I'd say more champagne," Harry says. He runs a hand over the length of the dress. "And it will look lovely. What about a belt? Do you have a thin little champagne one to match?"

"No, but I can keep an eye out."

"Oh, I have one!" Tiana says. "I'll bring it in tomorrow!"

I thank her, then Harry suggests we start warming up. As we all move to take our places, Harry passes by me. "Is the boyfriend looking forward to your weekend away?" His brows rise up and down suggestively.

Nearly everyone at Pinstripes knows that the famed detective is my…boyfriend-person. He's often the object of staring when at the bar. Marion titters anytime he pays her the slightest bit of mind. Harry is a little less-impressed with Sherlock, but he is interested in the goings-on of our unorthodox relationship. It's his lack of impressed-ness that allows for a more reliable critique.

Settling at my bench, I smile lightly. "He's not, actually. Turns out I am not his one-plus."

Harry's jaw drops. "Oh, love. You've over?"

I snort. "Hardly. Sherlock simply doesn't want to go with me. I would be a 'distraction.'"

"Well, he's not wrong there." Harry smiles. "In this dress, you'll be killer. But still…not cool. Not classy. But you're still going?"

"Yes." I shake my head, chuckling. "He can't stop me. Mary and John want me there – they're as scandalized as you. So, I'll be there, just not with Sherlock."

"Awkward."

It will be. While I like Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade is relatively unknown to me, and Molly I've only heard about. It shall be all kinds of award. Still, John promises me that they are all good people, all kind and just the slightest touch quirky. "Perfect for you," he had said. I wasn't offended, more so amused than anything.

"I'll deal," I say with a sigh. "At least I'll be dressed to kill, right?"

"Make him pay for it."

-XXX-

The day of the wedding arrives. Mrs. Hudson and I travel up together with Greg Lestrade, taking his car to the little country hotel, then the church. On the ride I get to know the detective quite well – he is a good man, solid, loyal. He, too, is surprised to find that I am, as Mrs. Hudson puts it "Sherlock's lady."

At the pre-wedding cocktail I find myself mingling with a mass of people – mostly John's friends, curiously enough. It seems as though no one is here for Mary. I do not remark upon it. When I tired of meeting new people, I go to Mrs. Hudson's side. She's on her first brandy, still, thankfully. Greg is also standing with her, holding a beer.

"When is this supposed to start?" he asks after a sip. Greg strikes me as a causal sort of man. On the two hour-drive I felt myself growing quite akin to the man. Down-to-earth and noble, he's been nothing but kind.

"Two," I answer. "We should probably start for the church within the next couple minutes."

It's a short walk, thankfully. On our way there we come across Molly and her fiancé. Introductions are made. She's a nervous young woman with an equally nervous partner. I do not know what to make of the massive yellow thing in her hair.

"Oh you're Sherlock's –" she begins before stopping herself, biting her lip. "You're his girlfriend! Viola."

"Yes," I say, surprised. "I'm…yes. Hello. Molly, right?"

She takes up my hand, squeezing it. "He's not said a lot about you, to be honest. But I can tell you're pretty special to him."

"Oh, well, thank you?" I reply, embarrassed. "He speaks highly of you."

She knows I am lying. But she smiles, nonetheless, then introduces me to her white-wash fiancé. Tom is a blank sort of man. Uninteresting. Likely an accountant or insurance man.

The ceremony is lovely. Afterwards, I slip outside, just managing to make it past the photographer. I watch, standing with Molly and Tom, as the photos are taken. The wedding party, then bride and groom, then the maid of honor and best man.

Sherlock forces a smile while standing next to the maid of honor – Janine, I think – as the photographer angles himself. He's got his "I'm-not-even-enjoying-this-a-smidge" face on. I hide my smirk behind my hand as I listen to Mrs. Hudson and Molly discuss how beautiful everything was – the flowers, the bride, the music. They decide that the weather is perfect and that groom looked appropriately excited.

We move to the sunroom for the reception. I'm seated with the group I'd sat with in the church. Greg sits next to me, looking around curiously.

"This must be mostly John's crowd. I've met a lot of them before, at his birthday."

"There's no one here for Mary?"

"There may be," he allows. "But…a good majority are friends and family of John."

Something strikes me. "Is Harry here?"

"No." A slight frown.

The food is served. From where he sits at the head table, Sherlock is as stoic as ever. He's scanning the room, letting his gaze linger on a person occasionally. We're both firmly ignoring one another. His eyes only flicker towards me once or twice. I remain focused on Greg, who is more than pleased to hold my and Mrs. Hudson's attention.

It's time for speeches. And that's when everything goes to hell -

-XXX-

Hell, it seems after the fact, is a bit of an exaggeration. Not being a part of the wedding party, we don not get full details of what, precisely occurs once Mary, Sherlock, and John left the reception, but it's without a doubt quite exciting. Greg returns to the table in a high energy, the same kind John and Sherlock get when they've successfully resolved a case. We all prod him for details.

"No more fussing," he scolds. "Let's enjoy the rest of the day. It's John and Mary's wedding, we can get into the gritty bits later. Let's just say we've prevented a murder."

"Murder?" Mrs. Hudson gasps.

Lestrade casts a worried eye around. The general discourse of the room, however, has muffled Mrs. Hudson's shock, so we go unnoticed.

"Everything is fine," he insists. "Let's just go on. Enjoy the wedding. Look, the cake is about to be cut."

Everything else proceeds as normal. There is the usual checklist of traditions – tossing of the bouquet and garter, the silly cake and wine exchange, toasts. I pull reluctantly into the bouquet toss crowd by Mary, who pointedly eyes Sherlock as she tugs me forward with an iron grip. I manage, thankfully, to avoid catching the flowers.

Sherlock plays his composition. It's familiar to me – I'd heard him working on it for the past few weeks. It's strangely sad for the occasion, yet, as I'd told him, hopeful.

"That is an odd adjective to apply to a waltz," he told me, brows raised.

"Well, it's the feeling I received. Somber…yet with great hope. Wherever did this come from?"

He had shrugged. "It was simply all that I had been feeling for the two of them. Put into notes."

Everyone applauds. There are a few tears among the group. John and Mary simply lean against one another, perfectly content.

Soon it's evening, and Mary and John are sharing their first dance as husband and wife. From where I stand against the wall, I watch them dreamily sway in time with the music. John's quite awkward, really, but his wife evens him out with her good humor. Despite their less-than-graceful combined manner, the look of sheer love they're sharing is enough to make them the most handsome couple.

When everyone is allowed onto the dance floor, Greg takes Mrs. Hudson out for a spin to a fast-paced tune. She's still got the moves, to our surprise, and nearly wears him out. After, he finds me and asks for a dance, which I grant him. He's quite good - not exactly graceful, but light on his feet. It probably helps that he's a trained detective used to running after crooks. We find ourselves near Molly and Tom, then the bride and groom. Everyone is in high spirits. It's a wedding. Who couldn't be happy?

Apparently Sherlock. Glancing around, I see him edging his way through the crowd. Moving, I think, towards the door. I pause, craning my neck to see him.

"Should you go?"

I look up, startled. Lestrade is peering down at me, amused.

"Go on," he says, nodding towards the garden. "He needs you now. His best friend has just gotten married."

"If it were anyone else that'd be a good thing," I say dryly.

"Yes, but this is Sherlock," the detective replies simply. "Go on."

I slip through the crowded hall, pushing past the other party-goers, smiling as easily as I can. Finally, after much twisting and turning, I make it outside relatively intact. He stands on the path, past the fountain, beneath the big tree. I smooth my skirt as I approach.

"The party is inside, if you didn't notice."

"Is that what that atrocious noise is?"

"You'd know if you stuck around long enough. Why are you out here?" I lean against the trunk of the tree, observing his profile.

He grunts.

Digging in my clutch, I withdraw a fresh pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Want one?"

Glancing at the pack, he lazily extends a hand. I give him a lit cigarette, then light one for myself.

"Want to walk?"

We begin taking a turn about the garden, silent. I have not smoked in a long while. It was something I tried quite a bit in my youth, but the novelty wore off soon enough. It was lucky I'd thought to bring a pack at Mycroft's suggestion.

"No doubt," he'd drawled when he had "spontaneously" met me in the park last weekend. "That he'll be needing them."

We've stopped before the roses. I examine the full summer blooms, while Sherlock seems to look on, through the plants. Both of us taking long, heavy drags, we alternately release streams of silvery smoke. They drift upwards, fading into the night like thin ribbons sinking in black water.

After a time, I venture to ask, "Are you alright?"

A frown, though he does not look at me. "Why should I not be?"

"I'm sure it's been quite the day for you." I drop the filter, stamping out the glowing red tip. "It's okay. You don't have to…tell me anything. I just wanted to make sure that you're…if you need me, or anything, let me know. Sherlock."

He looks at me, still frowning, though it's a touch softer now. "I assure you, I am fine."

With a purse of my lips, I lightly touch his elbow. "I believe you."

He allows my touch. Without a word, he drops his smoldering cigarette, backing away from the flowerbed. I watch as he steps away. Pausing in a half-step, the detective turns back, gesturing. Needing no further invitation, I follow.

We move back into the hotel, past the party, into the lobby, up the stairs, down a corridor. I've no clue where we're going. Sherlock soundlessly produces a key when we stop before a door at the end of the hall. He opens the door swiftly, motioning for me to move inside.

Once in, I curl upon the bed – king sized – toeing my shoes off. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I can hardly believe you're tired," he says, crossing to the window to peer out. "After a day of sitting."

"I've been dancing the last hour," I say defensively, though I have little energy behind me.

His lips curl. Sherlock replaces the curtains, turning to me, brows raised. I sit up, yawning, holding out a hand. He comes to me, standing at the edge of the mattress. Hands go to my hair. No doubt mussing up my chignon. I place a hand on his waist, closing my eyes as I lean into his stomach.

"Was I such as distraction?"

"Yes," he assures me lowly. "Absolutely."

I tilt my head upwards, smiling softly. "Good."

He cups my face, bending to kiss me. Deepening the kiss, I scoot backwards on the bed, allowing Sherlock to climb onto the mattress after me. My fingers sink into his curls, massaging his scalp as his nose skims my collarbone and neck. When he reaches the spot where my neck and shoulders meet, he tenderly bites the flesh, withdrawing a breathy noise from me. I can practically hear him keen with smugness.

The positive thing about sleeping with a high-functioning sociopathic consulting detective is that he's absolutely brilliant at reading preferences. Being observant is put to good use between the sheets. I'd never openly compliment him, though – he's got a big enough head. I can already imagine his smug smile.

Soon enough, clothes are being clumsily removed. I nearly hit myself in the head removing Sherlock's belt, forcing me to break out into muffled giggles. He almost strangles himself in the haste to remove his lavender tie – "Fetching," I'd said snidely, and he snorted in between trying to disentangle himself. Later, my zipper gets stuck, leading to a five minute solving session. Sherlock nearly breaks the damn thing before I realize the old trick of pulling it back up, readjusting, then trying again works. Though frustrated, we somehow manage to laugh when it's all over.

Laying next to him, I ask, "Are we truly this inept?"

"I don't know about you, but I would hardly describe myself as such." His brows rise.

I press my forehead to him. "As graceful as you can be, Mr. Consulting Detective, that was a positive train wreck."

"Graceful?"

Rolling my eyes, I kiss him. "Yes, yes, don't get a big head over it. You're still not completely forgiven, you know."

"Pity," he says dryly. Hands move to my waist, turning me closer, locking me into place. They're warm hands. Firm. Like roots, they anchor me to him, keeping me against him. The familiarity of skin is simply…enough. I don't know how else to describe it. "Whatever shall I do to reclaim myself into your good graces?"

I grin. "I could think of a few things."

-XXX-

Thoughts? I thought it might be nice to give Sherlock a little comfort after the Watson's wedding.

If you're a LOTR fan, I've also been posting another piece, Keeper. Give it a look-see if you're interested!

Reviews would be grand!