The wedding night

„So why did you call me here with three messages saying Emergency Help Now?!"

Clara Oswald was still wearing her helmet, she'd left her bike outside carelessly and stood in the living room of 221B. „I have to write a speech!", Sherlock was walking up and down, several pieces of paper covering the floor. „John made me best man and I have no idea how to do it!"

She wanted to scream. The detective had seriously pulled her out of her English lesson because of a speech?! Last week Mary had asked her to help her with the layout and design of the wedding invitations only for her future husband to complain about the fact that his second name was on it. But just as she'd expected Mary was the boss and the invitations stayed just the way they were. And now it was only one week to go and Sherlock would have to write a best-man-speech. Clara set down her helmet and put it on the table. „Seriously?", she asked as Sherlock sat down on the floor, his legs crossed. „You're an English Major, aren't you supposed to know how to write a speech?".

She wanted to say that he just could have asked nicely for her help but she knew better. Sherlock seemed truly lost and overstrained with his task. So she got out of her leather jacket and crouched down next to him and looked through the pages. „Let's see it, then." Her eyes scanned Sherlock's messy handwriting. „They're all rubbish!", her best friend exclaimed and ruffled his hair in frustration. „Maybe in this order but...", she reached out for some other pages and found a book underneath them saying: „How to write the perfect speech". She held it up and looked at him. „Really?", she raised an eyebrow and Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders helplessly. „Okay, this wasn't very helpful, then."

About two and a half hours later, they'd produced a speech Clara was satisfied with and Sherlock had agreed after a few changes. When she made them a cup of tea and joined him back down on the floor she said: „You're not going to use any of this, right?" Sherlock sipped his tea and read the speech again. „Nope", he said and laid down on his back. Clara did the same and stared at the ceiling. „Good. You're welcome".

It was the great day and Clara discovered that she had nothing to wear and no escort. Danny was on a school trip and there was nobody else she could've asked. Well, she would be going alone, then. Nothing was wrong with that. If she was going at all! She sank down on her bed and looked through the clothes around her. She'd concidered her purple suit but what was fine for a date would clearly not be enough for a wedding! Same went for all her dresses and she had completely forgotten about shopping in the past weeks. Her phone already in hand she wanted to call Sherlock to excuse her for the ceremony when her eyes fell onto her closet again. Dropping the phone, she walked over and took it. It was the red dress she'd received from Mycroft for the charity event. It was stunning, almost to beautiful for today. Clara had never thought she would wear it again, she'd nearly buried it in the deepest darkest corner for she wanted to forget about the dress, the evening she'd been wearing it and especially about Mycroft Holmes whom she hadn't seen for almost three months now. Checking her watch, she found that she had about an hour left. She knew that he was not invited, so he would most likely not show up today. Nobody was to find out where she'd gotten the dress and she wouldn't have to feel...weird.

Smiling at herself she let her fingers ran through the fabric.

She'd made it to cut the fringe herself, so the dress ended just above her knees now. It was still beautiful but not too impressive and it didn't steal the show of the bride's dress. Clara had missed the ceremony in the church and appeared a little out of breath. Her hair was done in a half-up-half-down-do and she'd kept her make-up restrained. She gave her congrats to Mary and John, hugged them both and they made compliments about her dress, while Sherlock was deducing it without a word. Refusing to look at him, Clara stepped inside with a smile.

He'd finished the last files and decided to do work-out today. It was time to change his lifestyle if he didn't want to die at the age of 65. There would be no more smoking and no more alcohol. That morning after he'd devoured one bottle of whiskey on his own had been a lesson with a terrible headache. He had never been one to lament and he would not start it now. It was time to move on in the truest sense of the word. Mycroft didn't go out much and why would he run through the garden, ruining the perfectly trimmed grass when he had a treadmill? Running wasn't a bad thing when one was used to it, he found. It was distracting for a while and would hopefully have its desired effect of making him lose weight. He changed the feed and ran faster. He needed to feel his lungs burn.

It was the 21th of March, John Watson's wedding. Most likely, Clara Oswald would be there. Most likely in the company of Mister Pink. They would give their whishes to bride and groom, drink champagne, and laugh. They would chat and cheer. They would dance. He would take her into his arms, her temple would rest against his jaw, so close he could feel her sweet breath against his neck and she would breathe in his scent, feeling his warmth. They would gently sway to the rythm, their bodies close, getting closer with every movement until the remaining space between them was burning hot. She would look up at him through her eyelashes and smile and he would have no other chance than smiling back at her. Shaking his head, Mycroft ran harder. He had to forget. It had been the right thing to do. His future was his work, his life for queen and country. It had been logical, he was not sentimental. The politician closed his eyes and when he opened them again, his view had changed into black and white. Clara Oswald was sitting in the armchair in front of him, being the only item in colour. She was looking exactly the way she had been looking that night of the charity event. Of course it had to be this dress. There was no other way she could've possibly memorised herself in his mind palace.

He was running, running and running even though his lungs screamed at him. He was sweating and barely properly breathing. „Mycroft", mind-Clara rose to her feet and stepped closer, holding out her hand. „Go away", he panted and tried to focus on something else. Everything was still turned grey. Laughing, she spun around and looked back at him over her shoulder. „Mycroft", she said again and he cursed his brain. „Come on, dance with me". She turned and held out both of her arms. „Go. Away!", he almost spat and shut his eyes tightly. And when he opened them again she was gone and his view normal. Then he heard his phone rang.

The speech almost turned out to be a complete disaster but somehow Sherlock saved it in the end. Afterwards there had been an almost murder of course but John, Sherlock and her had saved the man who turned out to be one of John's closest soldier friends. In the end it had been alright and a great party was coming along. Clara danced with Sherlock a few times and then with Lestrade and John. It was the most fun she'd had in the past weeks and she drank a lot more than she possibly should have.

It was half past one in the morning when Clara found herself in the garden in the cold night. She needed some air and slowly she was getting tired. Leaning her back against the door frame, she closed her eyes and shivered slightly. Her dazed mind wandered off and somehow found itself at Mycroft again. Why hadn't he come? She'd heard Sherlock phoning him earlier, not wanting to eavesdrop. She would have loved to dance with him, she realised. Having no doubt that he definitely knew how to dance she imagined them swaying on the dancefloor. They would be close. Close enough for her to feel his breath and practically hear his heartbeat. She would touch her hand to his while we'd bring her closer to his chest, holding her by her waist. Hold her so tenderly. It would feel natural and right. They would move. She would close her eyes and lose herself in the music with his smell surrounding her. Time and space would stop in this very moment. She sighed when inside they played one of her favorite songs.

Hey now, hey now, don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now, when the world comes in
They come, they come to build a wall between us
We know they won't win

It would be all she'd notice. The beautiful notes and his steady breath. Breathing the same air as she would. But not a word would be spoken. There would be no need for one syllable to be uttered between them. She would want him closer. Her hand would slide beneath his jacket, feeling the soft material of his shirt. His breathing would speed up in response, only the slightest bit, nobody but her would notice. They would dance. It would be somehow in disguise yet it would be obvious to everyone around them. They would see. And she would not care.

Now I'm walking again to the beat of a drum
And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart
Only the shadows ahead barely clearing the roof
Get to know the feeling of liberation and relief

They would dance on and on while everything around them would stop. One moment, frozen in time, closer than ever and yet too far away. He would not risk to give himself away in public. His eyes would stay open but wouldn't see anything while hers would be closed. He would guide her. And she would follow wherever he'd lead her. She would feel that he was beginning to let his armour down with her. Only with her. She'd let go of her fear and rest her head against his chest and he'd let her. It would be hypnotising. Hearing his heartbeat and feeling his chest raise and fall under his breath. The heat radiating from his body would burn her skin, making her shiver and her breath falter. It would be over too soon and she would not be willing to let go.

They come, they come to build a wall between us
We know they won't win
Don't let them win
Hey now, hey now

The song ended and she opened her eyes again. She took a deep breath and the cold air brought back her senses. A glance on her watch told her that it was way too late and she would have to leave now. Clara shook her head and straightened her back before she stepped back inside to fetch her jacket.

Note: The song is „Don't dream it's over" by Crowded House