John stared solemnly at his hands. "Do you think Sherlock will come?"
Greg stared solemnly at his feet. "Of course he will, John, he loves you."
John looked up. "What? Oh, I know that. No, I mean do you think he'll come here?"
DI Lestrade belched gently. "I would."
John nodded. "Me too."
Lestrade looked off into the middle distance. "He was taking off at speed though. He could be on Primrose Hill by now."
John tugged a loose thread on the hem of his dress. "I'm always impressed by how fast he can move in heels."
Greg nodded. "It's a gift."
"Didn't really have to hike the dress that high though."
"Not if he wasn't wearing panties."
"Easier to run though."
"Well, you're the one who sort of started it John. The no-panties thing."
John took that moment to shift his, um, uncontained lower contents in a moderately modest way. He wasn't going to think about having 'started it' or he'd have the intense desire to 'start it' again. "I know."
Greg looked around, unsure what to say next. Then inspiration struck. "The kilt looks fantastic."
John smoothed a hand over his satin-clad thigh. "Thanks. It's not really a kilt, though is it? It's a tartan evening dress."
"Well it suits you, John. So does the veil."
John looked at the pale tulle confection on the bench beside him. When Haddad brought the frothy thing over—"My sister's been 'white wedding' married three times; when I told her about the stag party she shoved this into my hands"—John had been delighted. He hadn't intended on wearing it or anything, he just wanted to sort of hold in his hands this clear and unambiguous Western symbol of getting married. He didn't even remember bringing it along to the opera house, but apparently he had.
Greg belched softly again and went pointedly quiet. Still staring at the veil it took the good doctor a moment to register this, but eventually he did. "Oh. Your dress is very pretty, Greg. The gathers at the waist really emphasise your shoulders."
The DI beamed in drunken serenity. "Mrs. Hudson did my colours a couple years ago. Otherwise I wouldn't have known cobalt blue suits me."
John sighed, stared glumly out the bars of their prison cell, and said. "So where do you think Sherlock is?"
...
This is the point where I pause dramatically so that you can absorb the words prison cell.
Are you with me? Good, thank you.
...
Greg sighed and wished he was in his own borough. He'd never have been arrested in his own borough. "Somewhere nearby, John. I'm sure. It's good he got away."
John nodded. He found he was thinking about Sherlock getting away. And of the really magnificent sight of a bodacious naked arse getting away at speed. It's jiggly. Succulent. It's—
"John."
John wondered if there was such a thing as naked jogging. If there was he and Sherlock should take it up. He'd be slightly slower than Sherlock. Just a little. As a matter of fact—
"John could you please stop."
The good doctor shook himself free of his daydream, looked down at the boner now forming a nice tartan bulge in his dress. He unhanded himself. "Sorry Greg. I'm drunk."
Greg thought back to his own distracted…rubbing. Was it just last night? "It's all right. Just, you know, maybe don't do that now?"
"Yeah. That's what got us into this trouble to begin with."
Greg did not add a comment. He'd been there, he knew how the trouble had started. He might have even said, "Uh, guys, you can't do that, we'll get in trouble."
But by that time Sherlock had gone partially deaf with lust, and John possibly half blind, and though it was the middle of the second act of Der Rosenkavalier, the boys of Baker Street had gone right ahead and done the thing Greg said not to do and indeed, trouble was had.
So, too, were John and Sherlock, but that is not the point I am making.
It wouldn't have been so bad really, if they'd just stayed within the confines of their box.
At first the lads had thought it unfair, eight of them in one opera box, John and Sherlock in their own, but the lure of free wine, cocktails, and hors d'oeuvres had gone far toward keeping the peace, so eight gowned man smoothed their silks, adjusted their opera gloves, and politely settled into one box, while just a bit up and to the right, two of their party groped their way to what would soon become their own little piece of heaven.
It started during the second act, when the tenor was taking a breath and the soprano was bating hers—the clear, unmistakable sound of a very deep baritone groan. It took but moments for everyone in that opera house to realise that sound sure as shit hadn't come from the stage.
That was when each gaze lifted heavenward and veered left. And there he was, a pale, dark-haired man, back and shoulders draped against the side of his box, arms spread as if crucified, head thrown back and pretty mouth wide to let out a series of frankly magnificent moans.
It wasn't until you blinked that you saw in the shadowy light that there was…there was…well there was a man standing deeper within the box, holding the dark-haired man's legs up and open, and that man was…he was…
Oh.
It might have been about then that Lestrade took off, yelling to his friends something about trouble, though why he bothered he couldn't say. It wasn't as if Sherlock—who might want to think about a stage career because the man can certainly project—could hear anything.
And John, though quieter, was pumping into his fiancé with such fervour Greg was sure he could've thwacked the man with a truncheon and he would not have registered a thing. Not until—
"Ooooh!" moaned Sherlock, pitching his head back further so everyone below could clearly see the extent of his bliss. "Ooooooh yes!"
—that.
"Oh god," said John, grinding away with great concentration, then suddenly catching his breath, going still, and sighing with such full-body relief that, hand-to-god, nearly everyone in that opera house suddenly felt post-coital.
Everyone except the front house manager.
Because the front house manager was angry. Absolutely pissed off. Finnemore Gates had already had a shitty day thank you for asking. He'd dealt with an egocentric millionaire, her two wildly incontinent dogs, and a just-sacked server dropping a tray of lemon-baked cod in the foyer, and god damn it he was in no mood for histrionic hanky-panky.
Which would explain why he arrived with police already in tow mere moments after Lestrade made it to the opera box of love.
A box which now contained only a sated ex-army doctor and, as of that second, the wrong detective.
...
"I'm really sorry, you know."
Greg knew.
"I didn't mean to get you arrested."
Greg knew that, too.
"And I didn't mean for them to think you and I had…and were…you know…"
Greg knew.
"I tried to tell them."
Yes, that Greg knew most of all. He could still here John scoffing, "Are you kidding? He's not my fiancé!"
And now, sitting in a jail cell with his not!fiance, John murmured contritely, "I really didn't mean it the way it sounded."
Greg knew he was being a big, inebriated baby. He also knew he should just man up, put aside his slightly hurt feelings, and make John feel better. "I know, you were drunk. And surprised."
The good doctor nodded. "I'm still drunk. And I just haven't ever thought of you that way."
Greg wondered if anyone thought of him that way.
"It's just…after two years with Mr. Crazy Pants, I can't even imagine being with anyone else."
Greg grinned. "Please tell me you don't call him—"
John giggled, pawed his bulge, "No I call him—"
The DI caught John's giggles and frantically waved both hands, "Don't tell me! I don't want to know!"
There were more giggles, then eventually both men mellowed into a companionable silence.
In it, Greg thought about whether he could get away with a dress in a nice dusky pink. Pink and grey (was he grey or silver?) were colours well-known to compliment one another, but the DI was pretty sure he didn't have the balls to pull it off.
John thought about Sherlock and getting married and how much he wanted to get married. He thought about how much he loved the love of his life and how unexpected that had been. Then John touched the veil on the prison bench beside him and to his surprise, it felt like someone had suddenly shoved a hot poker in his guts.
Like most of us, the good doctor had gone much of his life accepting convention. His father had served in the military; he would serve. Watsons stay in England; he'd traveled, but England was his home. He was a man; he would marry a woman.
For thirty-nine years these are the things he'd believed and accepted. And though not one part of him would change any of his present or his future, some small, strange part of him mourned for the easy certainty of his past.
Since humans have been marrying, humans have been nervous about getting married. It doesn't speak ill of the prospective spouse, it speaks of the human condition: Big commitments bring out big emotions. So as he held that veil in his hands, some nervous, human, tiny part of John Watson mourned for the 'normal' (not gay) life he'd never live, just as other prospective grooms and brides have mourned the 'carefree' single days they're about to surrender.
"Shit."
John looked up. "Hu?"
"Mate, you look like shit. And like you're about to throw up or cry or both."
John huffed out a noisy sigh. As unexpectedly as the strange mood struck, it was gone. John smiled. "This'd look good on Sherlock."
"Everything looks good on Sherlock."
John grinned, lofted the veil, as if to place it on a tall man's head. "Don't you hate him for that?"
Lestrade blinked and thought about it. "No, not really. I was very pretty once. It wasn't as useful as you'd think."
"Wait, you were—"
"Now, if you want to know what I hate him for, I could give you a list, but being pretty all the time and in everything isn't on it. Neither is being slender and tall with a voice that should be a misdemeanor if not an outright crime."
"Um…"
"No, what I'd put on my I Hate Sherlock Holmes list is the thing with the warrant cards. Do you know they've started charging me to replace them? I'm a well-respected detective inspector, and they're docking my pay to cover new warrant cards every other month. I don't even know why he still does it. It must be like a nervous tick or something."
"I know where—"
"I'd also put you on the list of reasons I hate Sherlock Holmes."
John closed his open mouth. He decided he wanted to hear this thing through.
"In case it's not obvious to you how obvious it is to us how much you obviously love him, let me be the first to tell you: It's obvious. You could be walking through a graveyard and it'd be obvious to the dead guy on whose grave you just trod how crazy you are about him."
Lestrade sighed and scratched his neck. "Yeah, if I was going to hate Sherlock Holmes for something, it'd be for having someone love him as much as you do. That doesn't happen often, you know? I guess most people aren't really worth it. I don't think he thinks he's worth it. S'sad."
Both men sat there thinking about that for a minute. Then John held out his hand. "Want to try on my veil."
Lestrade perked right on up. "Oh yeah, give over."
Despite what TV will tell you, men think about getting married. Some men, like women, are keen on keeping things low-key. Something at the registrar's office, a few witnesses, lunch after. Others are two thumbs up for a grand occasion, the church, limo, gown and garters, all of it.
John didn't at first realise that he was one of those.
The pomp and circumstance made his heart thrum faster. He groused about the fittings and the flitting from place to place, but he realised belatedly that it was the hurry of it all that was irking him, not the minutiae of this butter cream or that one? Pearl grey tux or slate? An organ and procession or something brief and to the point?
John held out the veil. "Be gentle."
Lestrade frowned. He was drunk, he wasn't careless. "Of course," he said, gingerly plucking the frothy confection from John's hand.
And then there was the passion. They'd always had a rather eventful sex life but dear god—John crossed his legs, uncrossed them, recrossed them much, much harder—John was pretty certain his pants were on fire. He could barely keep his hands out of them. He could barely keep his hands out of Sherlock's.
"The veil's much softer than I thought it'd be," John said around a burp.
Greg nodded. "Of course. Tulle isn't by nature scratchy unless you buy cheap." Obviously Greg had vastly more experience with the material, having already been married once.
"I was married once," he mumbled by way of explanation, his own burp echoing John's.
"Greg, are you gay?"
You know how when you're pregnant suddenly everyone's pregnant? About a week after starting to shag Sherlock, John suspected that just about every other person he knew was gay. He outright started asking, but he hadn't gotten around to Greg as the DI had been quite married, to a woman, at the time.
"Yeah."
They bonded over a simultaneous burp.
"You know Mycroft's single, right?"
Greg blushed right on up to his hairline and petted the veil in lieu of speaking.
"Anyway, try it on."
Greg blinked at the veil, and thought about the British government, completely forgetting where he was and what he was doing. Then John reached out to reclaim the confection and Lestrade focused fast.
Squinting hard in concentration, Greg slid the hair combs into his getting-long grey-silver mop and seated the froth and fuss around his shoulders.
The media rarely bother to tell you that men can look just as good in frilly things as women. But it's fine. It's all fine. Eventually some men learn it for themselves.
"Wow. That looks really good. Is it supposed to?"
Greg squinted again. "I don't know. It does feel nice."
"Would you get married again, do you think?"
"In a heartbeat."
John's brows did a surprised samba. "Why?"
"Because I love the declaration of it. The shouting-from-the-rooftops of it. Because I think it makes people try harder, dream bigger, it makes them a single unit of measure instead of separate variables."
Greg blinked rapidly at John. John blinked right back.
"Did I just channel Sherlock there for a minute?"
John shrugged.
"Your turn."
John frowned at the veil. Suddenly he sort of didn't want to touch it. It seemed to be making the entire cell sad.
He glanced around.
Well, it seemed to be making the only two people that were in the cell sad.
"Okay, give it here."
Gregory Lestrade did so.
John perched the thing on his head and instantly felt like a fool. Greg got up, managed to trip in the space of two feet, righted himself with a hand to John's shoulder and an elbow to his ear, said sorry five times, and then with a deep, steadying breath he adjusted the veil on John's head, fluffed the flounce, glanced side-long at his handy-work and then ran a quick hand under his nose.
"Don't cry."
Lestrade blinked glassy dark eyes at John.
"I'm not crying John. I'm…" Greg swayed woozily. "I'm…" He touched his left eye. "…crying. That's different."
John didn't like the weepy-sads everyone was getting. He started to remove the veil.
"Don't!"
He stopped.
"Why?"
Greg sat back down on his nice prison bench and began listing to starboard. "Because you look sweet."
John frowned. He's okay with the metrosexual, blurring of gender lines stuff, but sometimes he wonders if he and Sherlock are maybe heading the entire parade in this regard. But whatever. It was good. It was fine. Besides, he was too drunk to get the veil off anyway.
"Why does getting married make people sad?"
"I don't know. I guess it's happiness. And it's a milestone. They're always sad and good and weird. Like the end of the year. I think you think about all the things you thought you'd do before you got to this point and sometimes you've done them and sometimes you haven't and…and…" Greg gestured randomly. "…all I had at my bachelor party was greasy food and bad music. Gay bachelor parties are better, don't you think?"
John sobered long enough to tug the veil off his head without tearing the tulle. He handed the contraption back to Greg. "Where do you think everyone else is?"
Greg held the veil to his chest. "Still at the opera? Dead from alcohol poisoning?"
"I'm glad you're not dead Greg."
"Me too," Greg murmured, accidentally stabbing himself in the temple with a veil comb.
John was too busy watching Greg's manhandling of the veil to say anything else nice. "No, turn it—no, it goes on the—it—no—"
Exasperated, John stood, tugged the veil out of the DI's hand, muttered, "Holy shit, sit still you silly git," then reseated the gear on his friend's head.
After they both fussed with the frills awhile, draping the tulle just so across manly DI shoulders and around a scruffy-bearded face, John leaned over and kissed Greg's mouth. The tulle tickled.
For about ten second afterward they were super-cool-fine with this. Then they both realised that they were not engaged to each other.
"Um."
"Hey."
"Uh."
"Well."
And that's all they said about it.
At that time.
And then it happened. The ambient temperature of the room seemed to drop ten degrees, putting pause to the awkward silence of both DI and doctor.
They looked at each other. They stood. They lifted their evening gowns a little to allow free movement toward the bars of their prison cell. Then together they whispered, "Mycroft's here."
I've no idea if this is on the rails, off the rails, or has become an AU; I'm now simply holding the reins lightly and letting the story have its own head; we'll see where this goes together. Snogandagrope requested something to do with a kilt, so she got a tartan evening dress; also, reader words used include opera gloves, but I'm sorry I lost who gave me that prompt. My thanks to Diane Duane who helped me understand a bit about opera when we both presumed I'd actually write about the opera. Thank you Diane, but you see what happened: Jail time. *Shakes head* You just never know, do you?