~ Wedding Pictures ~

For the "Black" prompt

-o-o-o-

Morning dress: grey pinstriped trousers, paler grey waistcoat, pristine white shirt, tie and pocket square in the bride's favorite aubergine. And the black coat over all, which struck him as weirdly symbolic.

He rarely permitted himself to think of Redbeard, but now he took out that final memory, still painful two decades later. Running away had not saved the dear friend he'd grown up with. It had, however, turned his own incipient cold to a severe pneumonia which, coupled with unbridled grief, had nearly killed him.

Caring is not an advantage.

Mycroft was never wrong. Sherlock had accepted his brother's maxim in order to survive. But for many years, he had not survived well.

All lives end. All hearts break.

Darkness always hovered close. To love, yet face that with eyes wide open, took a great deal of courage.

Fortunately Molly Elizabeth Hooper had enough courage to sustain them both.

-o-o-o-

They'd opted, in the end, for the Anglican rite.

Sherlock had shrugged his acquiescence, their own vows having been spoken long since…

What do you need?

You!

… and the traditional words would please their parents, and lend formality to the occasion.

But he'd asked, "Isn't there supposed to be an obey in there somewhere?" Only half joking. Being Mrs. Sherlock Holmes might, at some point, prove dangerous. "What if it's important?"

"I'll obey you when it's important, and you'll obey me when it's important," she said, amusement and understanding in her eyes.

After brief consideration, he'd nodded. "Fair enough."

-o-o-o-

John, as Best Man, took his place at the foot of the altar and kept a surreptitious eye on the groom as the rest of the bridal party slowly moved toward them in time with the music. Sherlock seemed to be holding up fairly well. A little paler than usual, perhaps, but who wouldn't be with nearly three hundred guests crowding the pews, and many of them relatives he'd not set eyes on in years. Still, Sherlock held himself together and even managed to give the ringbearer and flower girl an approving nod as they completed their journey with appropriate decorum.

But then the music changed, swelled, and the entire congregation stood as the bride appeared at the door of the church, her hand light on her uncle's arm. And, with a glance at Sherlock, John knew all bets were off.

Mary had gushed about Molly's gown.

Oh my God, I can't wait to see Sherlock's face! It's just perfect! Just a simple A-line with a round train and bateau neck, but the whole thing's the most gorgeous lace over satin with a sprinkling of pearls and just enough sequins to set it off.

Frankly, it hadn't sounded that impressive to John, and he'd even worried vaguely about the advisability of sequins.

But, watching Molly drift toward them now, subtly aglow in the rays of morning light, a half smile just discernable beneath her sheer veil, it was obvious that Mary had been correct: John had never seen a more beautiful bride, save for Mary herself (and of course he had to admit to extreme prejudice in that case).

And Sherlock…

Uh oh.

John quickly gave him a quick, sharp poke. "All right, mate?"

Sherlock, startled, glanced down and John met his eyes in silent, pointed communication. And apparently it worked. Sherlock pulled himself together, shifting, straightening, his extreme pallor easing to a more normal hue.

"It'll all be over soon," John murmured in his most comforting bedside manner. "Unto the breach, yeah?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, and to John's relief there was laughter in the low-voiced reply: "Indeed. The game's afoot!"

-o-o-o-

The solemn recitation of the vows, the exchange of rings… it all weighed on Sherlock far more than he'd anticipated. And that first kiss as husband and wife, before God and everybody. And then the recessional, feeling (though hopefully not looking) like some blushing, callow boy, the triumphal organ music reverberating in his bones, engulfed by the enthusiasm of the mob. When they finally reached the church doors and moved out into the sunshine, all Sherlock wanted to do was snatch up his bride (the one flawless feature of the whole event) and beat a precipitate retreat to somewhere entirely private.

This was, of course, out of the question.

Sherlock managed to smile and reply politely through the first greetings and congratulations as the crowd exited the church, milling about them. And then there were the endless - ENDLESS! - photographs. His one comfort, again, was his bride, balm to his soul in her beautiful gown, the veil a lovely transparent wisp about her shoulders (he longed to draw it aside and kiss the back of her neck, deliciously exposed by her neat updo).

And then at last it was over (for the moment), and he gratefully followed Molly into the back of the limousine that would carry them to the reception. The door was closed, and they were alone.

Sherlock sighed, and slouched wearily on the leather seat. "The things I do for you, woman."

There was a rustling, and from somewhere about her person Molly produced an elegant little silver flask. His brows rose as she silently presented it to him.

"Thought you might need it," she said, both laughter and sympathy in her voice. "For medicinal purposes,"

He opened it and took a swig. Brandy. Of the best. Oh, the heavenly, fortifying heat of it…

He took another, then handed it back to her, quite willing to share. He said to her, "Have I told you lately that you're the best wife ever?"

She chuckled, nearly choking. "No! This would be the first time, actually." She took one more sip, then returned the flask to him.

"Well, it bloody well won't be the last," he assured her and, snaking an arm about her slender waist, he slid her close for an extended, brandy-flavored kiss.

-o-o-o-

"Sherlock actually seems to be enjoying himself," Mary observed as she and Molly made their way back from the very elegant ladies lounge, adjacent to the hotel's ballroom where the reception was being held.

"Yes, though he didn't much like the receiving line," Molly chuckled. "You should have seen his great aunt speaking to him as though he were still a grubby schoolboy. I thought Mycroft was going to burst a seam, trying not to laugh - but then he was felled by her wit, too. "

Mary grinned. "No respect for the British government among great aunts. But Sherlock's not much more than a grubby schoolboy, except when he's all posh condescension. But you'll keep him hovering in the middle. He seems almost human today, for example. The dancing! You must have practiced for hours!"

"We did. Sherlock loves dancing! It's the musician in him."

"Ah, yes. One tends to forget about that."

"Forget about what?" Sherlock demanded, coming up behind them. Molly whirled with a smile, and Sherlock caught her hands, his eyes warm.

Mary shook her head. "That you are an incurable romantic, Sherlock Holmes. But we're on to you, now."

Sherlock sniffed - "Ridiculous!" - then straightaway said to his wife, "Will you come dance with me, Mrs. Holmes?"

"I will, Mr. Holmes," Molly said happily.

Mary threw up her hands as Molly was led away. Then she looked about her. Sherlock's parents had barely left the dance floor since dinner ended. Mycroft was standing about, glass in hand, looking oddly pleased with himself. Greg Lestrade was chatting up a chic, dark-haired young woman who had been introduced as one of Sherlock's French cousins. Anderson and Sally Donovan were giggling over a bottle of champagne. And just behind the still uncut cake (several tiers of white topped by a mountain of fresh mixed berries) the flower girl could be glimpsed licking frosting from one small finger.

Mary's eyes narrowed. First that rascally Rose must be nipped in the bud and then she needed to find John. The new Mr. and Mrs. Holmes weren't the only ones who loved to dance!

-o-o-o-

"You were right, you know," Mycroft said. "That night two months ago. I was envious. I still am."

Straightforward honesty was so rare a thing between them. Sherlock, appropriately shocked, asked in a wry tone, "Have you had too much to drink?"

Mycroft lifted his brows, and then his glass, examining it. Half empty. "Perhaps so.."

His brother smiled. "Well, you've good reason to be envious. Wish me happy?"

Mycroft peered at him. "I've always wished you happy, Sherlock. Since the day you were born and your nappie leaked onto my trouser leg when I held you that first time."

Sherlock gave a shout of laughter,

Mycroft, fighting down a grin, added, "But in this instance I feel it's almost a given."

He nodded toward Sherlock's bride, standing some distance away across the wide, crowded room. She was speaking to their mothers and some of the older women, a small, winking flame of white against the others' more colorful hues. She was laughing in apparent delight, and looked very beautiful.

Mycroft noted his brother's besotted expression and said. "Care for her well, brother mine."

And Sherlock replied, "I will," serious for once. "To the best of my not inconsiderable ability."

~.~