The hospital discharged him after three weeks, whereupon Sherlock was put on strict bed rest. Emily kept fussing about him, making sure he was comfortable, getting him food, even stealing cases from work for him to read. Although the doctor had told her to, she did not move out of their bedroom because of his vehement protests and constant whining. He was slowly going mad from all the boredom of sitting in bed all day and he reasoned that if he was forced to be in bed, then he should at least get to sleep next to his fiancée.

When Christmas came around, Sherlock was up and about, having abandoned the doctors' orders after two weeks, though he still had to walk with a cane, reminding him of his dear, dear Watson.

After exchanging small presents on Christmas morning, Sherlock got down on one knee, wincing in pain, properly proposing to her in his own little way. He gave no speech, instead just simply asking, "Are you sure?"

She nodded her head, and then he took her hand, removing the ring from her left ring finger, holding it up. "Will you marry me?"

"You didn't even have to ask," she replied as he slipped the ring back on her finger, kissing her hand as she smiled down at him.

Over Christmas dinner, they agreed that they would get married in a small ceremony as soon as he recovered, only inviting "necessary people" as Sherlock put it.

As they planned, he wondered what John would say to the idea of Sherlock Holmes being a married man. He wondered if Mrs. Hudson would overdramatically sob like she did at everything else. He wondered if Molly would still flirt with him when he came back as a married man, or if she had finally found someone to make her happy as well. He even wondered what Lestrade's first name was.

By Valentine's Day, Sherlock was almost fully recovered. He could walk without a cane and he was raring to get back to work. In a week, he would be back, and Mr. Scott had already told him what a hero everyone thought he was. That part would almost certainly be unbearable.

But on that Valentine's Day, he got out of bed, Emily having been long gone. He made a few calls, bought a few things, put on a suit. At 14:00, he texted her.

"Meet me at the following address by 17:00. Bring a camera. Love, SH."

"Why, exactly?" she texted back.

"Trust me."

He texted her an address soon afterwards, and although she was confused, she went along with it.

She left work thirty minutes later, going home and showering and putting fresh makeup on, because to be honest, they could've been visiting the Queen for all she knew. It was all a surprise with Sherlock.

At 16:45, she knocked on the front door of a small yellow house in the suburbs, being greeted by an older woman. She was quickly shooed in, not even having time to ask where Sherlock was or if she was even in the right place.

"Hair and makeup looks good…" the old woman began. "Now, just put on this dress, dear."

She was handed a white, lacy dress before she finally figured it out. "Oh, God…" she mumbled. "He could have at least told me."

She put on the dress, half-excitedly and half-angrily. She was going to kill him, she was sure of it. Nevertheless, she took off her engagement ring, placing it on her right ring finger instead of her left.

"Now that's the spirit!" the woman encouraged, handing Emily a bouquet and giving her a little shove.

She went down a hall, straight towards the living room, where Sherlock waited in his usual suit, sans tie per his M.O. A man holding a Bible was upfront, waiting patiently. The older woman, perhaps the man's wife, was sitting at a piano off to the side, a handkerchief out and at the ready. Another man was there, stern looking and impatient, reading a newspaper.

She breathed in deeply, waiting for the music to start, musing on whether or not she should wait to kill him before or after the ceremony.

She heard the traditional wedding march play and started walking down the hallway before Sherlock stopped the woman.

"No, no, no. I requested this piece." Sherlock irritatingly shoved a piece of sheet music at the exasperated woman, promising her husband he'd pay extra. Emily backed up the aisle, noticing that the man with the paper was rolling his eyes.

"Sherlock, don't be stupid. It's your wedding day," the man noted sarcastically, flipping a page in his paper.

When the second piece started playing, something by Bach she thought, she walked once more down the hallway, trying to keep in time with the music. When she got up to the makeshift altar, she whispered in Sherlock's ear. "Smile now, because later you die," she hissed, making the paper man laugh.

"Love you, too," Sherlock replied, taking her hands and facing her, a strange combination of nervousness and excitement crossing his face. He made sure to study exactly how she looked in the dress, noting that it was a perfect fit, and how all the colors of her face – the dark, chocolate brown hair, the cerulean blue eyes, the rosy pink cheeks – all seemed to fit in with the pure ivory color. He was rather pleased with himself.

He said his vows quietly and very seriously, smiling shyly at her as he slipped a plain silver wedding band on her finger.

He remained silent for the rest of the ceremony until the "I dos," choosing to study her with a look of bemused amazement. He thought she looked beautiful standing there. He watched every twitch of her lips as she said her vows, following her eyes as they looked up at him from time to time, long lashes blinking and her cheeks flushing red every time her gaze met his.

When it came time to kiss the bride, he ignored his usual discreetness, pulling her in close and kissing her intensely, not even paying attention to their surroundings.

When he pulled away, he cleared his throat and looked at his flushed, smiling wife. The judge was grinning at what he'd just done, the man's wife was crying silently by the piano, and Mycroft hadn't even looked up from his paper.

As Sherlock and Emily took a few photos, Mycroft introduced himself to her, hastily signing their marriage certificate as one of the witnesses.

"You didn't even have to alter Mother's wedding dress," Mycroft observed. "What would Sigmund Freud have to say about that?"

"You've gained eight pounds. What would your personal trainer have to say about that?" Sherlock retorted, then smiled for a quick picture.

"How do you deal with him?" Mycroft asked Emily. "I'm 41 years old and I still can't manage."

"He's not so bad," she answered, looking up at Sherlock affectionately before kissing him on the cheek.

"I'm going to leave before you two start reproducing in the middle of the living room," Mycroft announced, looking disgusted. "Good to meet you," he addressed Emily. "And good luck. You'll need it."

After some more pictures and a piece of homemade apple pie each, they piled into Emily's car, Sherlock driving for a change.

"Where are we going now?" she wondered as he started the car.

"Honeymoon. Isn't that what people do?" he responded, confused.

"Most people generally tell their wife when they start planning a secret wedding," she reminded him.

He shrugged. "It was more fun the way I did it."

"Even your brother knew. You hate your brother."

"I needed a witness, and he was in the area."

"Was he really?" she questioned.

"No," he admitted. "But he helped with the legal paperwork and he got Mother's wedding dress for me. Besides, would we really have wanted to invite our 'friends' from work?"

"How am I even getting out of work for this long?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"Mr. Scott said it was the least he could do. Our bags are already packed and in the boot of your car."

"You did think of everything," she conceded.

He took his eyes off the road for a minute. "You can't be that mad at me, can you?"

"I suppose not," she smiled. "We are married now, after all." She took his hand and squeezed it. "But I expect it all to be made up to me on the honeymoon," she said pseudo-seriously.

"I've been thinking about that for months," he said, his mouth turning up into a devilish grin. Since his accident, they had not been intimate at all except for some kissing here and there. Whenever they had tried to do anything more, he was in too much pain, but recently, the doctor had told him he could get back to his normal routine, which he hoped meant that he could touch his pretty wife again.

By the time they got to the small cottage he had rented in some unpronounceable town, she was sound asleep in the passenger seat, her head on his shoulder. After he had carried their bags in, he picked her up, bridal style, and carried her into their bedroom, gingerly laying her on their bed, waking her up with a few gentle kisses on the cheek.

"Hello," she greeted him drowsily, yawning and stretching.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb. "Do you want to just go to bed?"

"No!" she quickly answered, now wide awake. "Just let me freshen up a bit…"

She had him unbutton her dress, him planting kisses down her neck and back as he unbuttoned slowly, his hands lingering on her waist when he was finished.

"I'll be back," she promised, ducking into the bathroom with a bag.

After he had taken his jacket, coat, and shoes off, he sat on the edge of their bed, thinking, absentmindedly twisting his new wedding band around and around on his finger.

She was combing her hair, silently going over what she should wear. She knew he had probably packed every single piece of lingerie she owned as a small, subtle suggestion. She finally decided on a black chemise, something short and silky yet still quite modest, secretly knowing it was Sherlock's favorite.

When she reentered their bedroom, she saw Sherlock sitting on their bed, waiting patiently. She sat down quietly in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. He looked at her silently, his head too full of thoughts that he didn't even know how to begin to say.

All he could manage to stammer out was "You…look nice."

"Thank you," she replied, resting her forehead against his. "I love you," she whispered.

"As I love you." He grabbed her face with his hands, drawing their lips in closer together as he sighed in relaxation.

They exchanged another tender smile before leaning in even closer, lips parting and finally meeting in a kiss.

They both proceeded to undress the other slowly, savoring the moment. She starting kissing down his neck, feeling his arms, noting he was still just as muscular as when they had first met. She eventually made her way down to his healing wound, now merely just a scar. She ran her fingers across it lovingly, silently blessing each scar and blemish that decorated his body. As she moved lower and lower with her mouth and hands, Sherlock stopped her, beckoning her to come back to his level. She did so hesitantly, and right as she came face to face with him again, he silently and delicately flipped their positions, putting himself on top.

He began tracing her body with gentle yet confident lips and fingers, listening to the moans and gasps he was getting in reply. He could feel her physiological responses: the tension in her muscles, the way she gripped his hair and pushed and pulled him to do what she wanted.

As he kissed the inside of her thighs, she tilted his head up to address him.

"Sherlock…it's been too long. Please," she pleaded, waiting for his response.

He simply looked down, pretending to think, then rammed two fingers inside of her, looking at her smugly.

"Sherlock!" she gasped. "Oh," she moaned, "you're such a bastard."

"That's no way to talk to me, Mrs. Holmes," he pretended to scold. "Now your wait will just be longer." He proceeded to put his mouth on her, knowing she would not object. Instead, she simply pushed his head further into her, figuring she might as well enjoy the next best thing.

When he was finished, he slowly made his way back up to her lips, kissing her and letting her taste. This time, she gave him no option, slipping him inside her while he was busy kissing her neck, watching his every facial movement as he propped himself up on one elbow and got on with the act, looking down at her intensely.

She watched the quivering of his lips and the way he closed his eyes as she kissed his shoulders and chest – anything she could reach. He felt fingernails digging into his back, his wife's face contorted with pleasure as she matched each thrust of his hips, each sound coming from her lips becoming more and more frantic, pleading, almost whimpering.

Afterwards, they both leaned up against the headboard, sheets covering their waists as he grabbed her hand, affectionately squeezing it as he slowly took a drag off a cigarette.

"God, we're so cliché," she laughed, reaching over him and holding her hand out, silently asking for his cigarette.

"You don't even smoke," he pointed out, not wanting to share.

"I used to, and it's my honeymoon," she shrugged as he gave it up, looking at her while she inhaled as if to remind her of the cigarette's rightful owner.

"Here," she said, handing it back to him, coughing. "Now I remember why I quit."

"Beginner." He finished his cigarette, putting it out with his fingertips and tossing it to the side, not even aware of the potential fire hazard.

"I'll go put that in the sink under some water before we burn the whole place down." Emily began to get up but was stopped by her husband, clutching her tightly against him.

She didn't object, smiling as she nuzzled into his neck.

"Do you know," he began, "how absolutely beautiful you looked today as you walked down that aisle?"

She gave him a peck on his cheek, feeling his whiskers rubbing against her lips, noting how much she enjoyed his five o'clock shadow.

"I'll have to keep that then," Sherlock mumbled.

She said nothing, simply smiling against his cheek and closing her eyes.