Well, I meant for this story to be a one-shot, but apparently I forgot to mark it 'complete.'

Here's a little more of this story, since I made that mistake.

Thanks for reading, and I'd love to hear your comments! :) :)

Chapter two

It took awhile, but Holmes was nothing if not a perfectionist.

He made a duplicate of Watson's rugby ball.

It was not easy. For the task, he needed to cannibalize old balls and match the imperfections of Watson's rugby ball to perfection, reproducing the mud stains in the exact right shade—London mud, mixed with some dark tea produced just the right, aged stains to match the soil from Watson's Scottish childhood home.

He returned it on a very special day—for Watson, that is.

#

"Holmes?" Watson looked up from the present in his friend's hands, to check his face. He must have slipped in the back of the wedding somehow. He'd refused to be the best man. Not his sort of thing, he'd said. Confound him and his rudeness. After all the times John had been there for him…

An old army friend had taken the spot instead, and thanked Watson for the honor; but the snub from Holmes still rather hurt.

Now, John and Mary stood at the back of the church, greeting and shaking hands with their well-wishers.

Holmes was one of them.

He held a wrapped present under his arm. Convention called for gifts to be given ahead, placed on the pile and opened later.

Of course, any man who could show up for a wedding wearing that disreputable jacket should have no trouble flouting convention regarding wedding gifts.

"I brought you a present," said Holmes, the gleam in his eyes daring Watson to scold him. An argument in the middle of the end of his wedding? No thank you, Holmes.

"Lovely. Thank you. We'll just set it with the others…" He emphasized the word 'others.'

"Open it now." Holmes rocked back slightly on his heels. The challenging light was there again. He wasn't going to quit, was he?

"Holmes…" John began, ready to argue. Holmes wouldn't be the best man, wouldn't show up on time, and now insisted on holding up the whole line—

Mary's hand touched John's arm softly. "What a good idea."

Schooling his impatient irritation with admirable restraint (though certainly not unearned—he ought to be the most patient man in the world, by now—), Watson began to unwrap the round object. Under the paper, he saw—

"My rugby ball." He looked up smiling, forgetting he was annoyed with Holmes. "You found it."

Holmes smile came and went, a flit for convention, but his eyes smiled steadily. "Ah, just came to me." He waved a hand airily. "Best wishes, old man." And he leaned forward and caught John's hand and gave it a firm shake. "Ma'am." He nodded to Mary and raised his hat, then moved down the line, disappearing as quickly as he'd arrived.

John looked after him, but hard as he tried, he could no longer pick out that familiar set of shoulders from the roiling crowd.

Mary turned to John, eying the ball, and spoke softly, under her breath. "That's…your own ball, isn't it?" The unspoken echoed her words, almost painfully clear: That's not a wedding gift—or even a gift at all.

She seemed a little shocked, and John felt bad for her. She was trying to like Holmes, he knew she was. Holmes could make it easier for her, but that wasn't his way. If only he wouldn't try so hard to flout convention around her. Or deduce painful things about her, in public…

"Ah, well…" John patted the ball awkwardly, and tucked it under his arm. Here came more people to greet and give them congratulations. "It's…"

How to say it? All he had left of his boyhood? A sentimental object not easily forgotten? One he could never stand to lose?

"…rather a nice thought," he finished inconsequentially.

She stole a hooded-eyed glance at his face, and then smiled that enigmatic, Mona Lisa smile of hers. "I'll just set it with the other things, my dear."

She took it gently from him, and laid it on the pile, as if it had been made of the finest gold.

#

From the shadows, Sherlock watched. And smiled.

It had been worth it.

He turned and headed down the street, cursing himself again for being a sentimental fool.

In the end, he hadn't been able to give Watson the copy—even though he'd known the good doctor would never guess it wasn't the original. He'd been particularly careful about the heft, the stitching, and the stains.

But even though Watson would never know, Sherlock would. So he'd kept the duplicate and given back the real thing.

After all, what did he need with a rugby ball?

the end

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