A Bull in a China Shop


"Which one do you like, John?" Mary asked. John looked up from trying to discreetly check his watch.

"Whichever one you like."

It was the safest fiancé response in the book.

Usually.

"John," Mary complained. "Don't tell me that. I want you to like the dish pattern we pick so which one do you like?"

"I'm sorry, Mary," John said. "But I don't really care what plates we use."

Mary sighed and John cringed. That was her annoyed sigh … her I'm-going-to-get-angry sigh.

"Fine, then go. I'll finish here."

"Mary," John started.

"No. Go." Mary interrupted. "If you can't be bothered to give me an honest opinion, your time is better spent elsewhere. So go."

"It's not that I don't want to give you an honest opinion," John said. "I just really don't care."

Mary glared at him. Obviously, this was the wrong thing to say.

"Then go." Mary repeated, turning back to the different displays of dishes. "I mean it, leave. I'll do it myself."

John sighed. It wasn't that he wasn't excited to be planning their wedding … it was just that he really didn't care about the china patterns or if the candles were pink or white or if the chairs should have bows tied to them. He really couldn't care less about anything besides his beautiful bride-to-be coming down the aisle and saying 'I do.'

John knew Mary well enough to do as she said – she would cool off eventually – and he left the store. The sales clerk gave him a sympathetic smile as John passed him and John got the distinct impression he heard this type of argument before.

Out on the sidewalk, John pulled out his mobile.

Where are you?

St. Bart's lab. Experiment. SH

On my way.

John pocketed the mobile and set off to the old hospital, finding Sherlock bending over a Petri dish of something that was bubbling.

"I thought you and Mary were picking out china," Sherlock said without looking up.

"We had a row," John said shortly. "What are you working on? Is it for the case?"

"No, solved that about an hour ago. I'm testing the acidity of stomach acid after over dosing on various medications."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

John sighed. He hated this question because it was never obvious.

"To see what drug they over-dosed on?" John guessed lamely.

"Right."

"What?" John exclaimed. He was never right. "Why? Couldn't you just use a standard toxicology report?"

"Records can be changed, John." Sherlock said. "No one ever thinks about the stomach acidity on a post-mortem report. Except me, of course."

"Do I want to even know how you're testing this?" John asked. Surely Sherlock hadn't found volunteers to be experiments.

"Use your brain, John," Sherlock answered. "It's not hard. Find stomach acid that has a normal pH balance, dissolve various medications in it, wait a few minutes, and test the pH again. Simple."

"Right."

It was rather simple, John had to admit.


John's hope of Mary coming around soon did not work out as planned. John spent the afternoon with Sherlock and they went back to the flat after getting some take away. John reckoned he ought to call Mary so he did, only to be told she was busy with wedding details.

He tried again the next morning and got the same answer.

Three days passed, then a week.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asked one morning as he came into the sitting room. John was slumped on the sofa, looking tired.

"Couldn't sleep. Mary won't talk to me."

"And that kept you up all night?" Sherlock asked.

John scowled at him and Sherlock sighed. He sensed this was one of those be-a-good-friend moments and he asked something he didn't particularly want to get involved with.

"What did she say when you last spoke?"

"That I wouldn't care about what she was working on."

"Which was?"

John shrugged.

"Something for the wedding, I'm sure."

Sherlock sighed again. This was all so stupid. Why bother a big, white wedding anyways? And their wedding was going to be big – over a hundred and fifty guests – and well, black rather than white. Black tie, to be specific.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and sent a text, sliding the phone back into his suit pocket before he picked up his violin.


Mary pulled her mobile from her purse when it vibrated. She glanced at the text, not recognizing the number. However, she opened it and read:

John seriously ill. Baker Street.

Mary quickly left the stationary store and got a cab to 221B and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson let her in and, feeling rude, Mary quickly said hello and ran up the stairs.

"John?" she called as she entered the flat.

"What are you doing here?" John exclaimed, sitting up from his slouched position.

"Are you okay?" Mary exclaimed. "I got a text saying you were ill. What's wrong?"

"I'm fine," John retorted. "Who was the text from?"

"Me." Sherlock said, standing from his chair.

"How did you get my number?" Mary asked as John exclaimed,

"You? What were you texting her for?"

"From John's mobile, obviously." Sherlock answered. "Although I was rather hoping to avoid this situation. I don't want to receive texts from you at midnight wondering where John is. I won't respond so don't bother."

Sherlock turned to John.

"And I texted her because you won't and I'm sick of you pouting all the time."

John stood up indignantly.

"I'm not pouting and I have been trying to talk to her. She keeps hanging up on me."

"Only because I'm too busy trying to plan our wedding," Mary exclaimed. "And you find that boring!"

"I didn't say that! I said I don't care what the china patterns are. And I still don't."

"But how am I supposed to decide by myself? It's our wedding, John, not just mine. I want your opinion on which design you like best. It's not rocket science telling me if you like the white china with silver trim or gold."

"Okay, okay, okay," Sherlock said, stepping between the two lovebirds – or so they were supposed to be called. They weren't very lovely right now.

Sherlock turned to Mary and spoke bluntly.

"Look. We're men. We don't really care what dishes you pick or what kind of flowers you carry. All John probably cares about is what happens after the reception is over, anyways."

Sherlock then turned to John, who looked annoyed at what Sherlock just said.

"And while I completely sympathize with having to look at every colour swatch possible, she is your bride to be so make her happy. Tell her what plates to use even if it doesn't matter."

Sherlock sighed, pushing past Mary again and settling back to his chair.

"For two people who claim to love each other, you're getting caught up on pretty small details so quickly."

While Sherlock's advice had been a bit crude, John glanced at Mary with a sheepish smile on his face. He was relieved to see it mirrored on Mary's face.

"I'm sorry." John said.

"Me, too." Mary replied, giving John a hug. John put his arms around Mary, keeping one of them over her shoulder as she pulled away.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Mary said. "We're lucky to have you."

"I'd better not be getting any texts about marriage counselling, either." Sherlock mumbled. Mary ignored what Sherlock said and continued.

"Actually, John was going to ask you something …"

She looked up at John, who glanced at Sherlock.

"I was wondering if you'd be my best man."

"Your what?"

"Best man … you know, stand beside me at the alter and sign the marriage register?"

"And give my written consent as you do the stupidest thing of your life?"

It was – and had never been – a secret of what Sherlock thought of this marriage.

"No, thank you."

"Please?" John asked. "I want you to be part of our day. You're my best friend."

Not for long, Sherlock thought, but he sighed. This was another one of those social conventions that dictated him to agree and pretend to be happy about his newly assigned role all because John had called him his 'best friend'.

"Fine." Sherlock said. "But no speeches."

He wasn't sure if he was supposed to give a speech as the best man but it seemed like a good precautionary clause.

"That's fine." John said, smiling. He honestly thought it'd take more to convince Sherlock to take the title but this had been fairly simple. John turned to Mary.

"Did you decide on a dish pattern?"

Mary shook her head.

"Then let's go … just let me change."

John dashed upstairs, leaving Mary and Sherlock. Sherlock did not like the arrangement.

"Thank you for agreeing," Mary said. "It means a lot to him."

"I know." Sherlock said. He did understand and, although he would never tell anyone, this would be his grand finale in John's life … he had always had a flair for the dramatic.

"Ready to go?" John asked, coming down the stairs. Mary nodded and smiled.

"See you later, Sherlock," John called as they started down the stairs. Sherlock didn't mutter a response – John was already gone with his bride-to-be – although he did pull out his mobile and opened a message to John.

Not that it matters or that I care but tell her you like the silver lined plates. It's much classier. SH

Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for the encouragement … it's more than I expected, honestly. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and reviews are always appreciated! Thank you =)