The bride is luscious in twelve metres of ivory silk by Caroline Castigliano and the groom wears a Savile Row suit of velvety black which makes his eyes seem very pale and bright. He has a gold pin in his lapel, and he is wearing a shirt with an elaborate ruffled collar (obviously not his decision). He is wearing a new, chunky watch. And the grey signet ring, John sees as Sherlock walks past.
Nobody gives the bride away and Sherlock has no best man. John is hurt but not as much as if someone else had done it and this is Sherlock and of course his wedding would be different.
Mycroft is there, in his pinstriped suit, inspecting his own watch which he then replaces in its fob pocket. He does not seem to be looking in John's direction but soon appears at his side, murmuring, "They'll make a handsome couple, Dr Watson. The groom is a vision as I know you'll agree - Mrs Watson," he adds, but the remark was directed at John. Then, leaning closer so that only John hears, Mycroft continues, "I advised against this particular step, John. So hard to untangle. But you know Sherlock. He can be very stubborn."
Mycroft gazes into John's eyes for a moment and John gets chills: the brothers have never seemed alike to him, but here is Mycroft teleporting information into John's brain just as Sherlock does, except that John cannot mind-read Mycroft and does not know what the message is saying.
"I hope he'll be happy," John says. He has already decided that if he gets the slightest, faintest hint from Sherlock that anything is wrong, then he will say something, do something, tell Sherlock ... something. He will act, anyway. He ought to have acted last winter, if only to ask what it was that Sherlock wanted. He will not allow Sherlock to make the mistake that he did. And if there is no sign that it is a mistake? Well, good, he supposes. Good for Sherlock. John does, in fact, want Sherlock to be happy.
"Oh, he will be," Mycroft says. "He usually gets exactly what he wants. Even if it takes longer than he wishes." He flicks a mysterious eyebrow at John, and glides away.
Mycroft takes his seat at the front, frowning archly, shaking hands with Sherlock as the congregation (audience, John corrects in his head) applauds at the end of the brief ceremony. Mycroft even, in a surreal moment, kisses the bride. Liesl purrs at him and he recoils, hiding it well but John sees and Sherlock must.
The whole thing took less than fifteen minutes. John could barely hear Sherlock's vows, although Liesl, professional actor, declared hers in clear sharp German.
John stands and claps with the rest as the bride and groom walk past but there is no eye contact, nothing, from Sherlock, and John is alone.
The guests and press mingle on the lawn in late afternoon sunshine while the bride and groom have their photograph taken in numerous configurations. When the guests are allowed back inside, there are white-draped tables around the edges of a gleaming wooden dance floor, a small orchestra at one end, and a very small top table which is in essence a table for two, plus Liesl's dress. Sherlock and Liesl have vanished after the photos, and a giggled rumour runs around the room that they are already stress-testing the bridal suite upstairs. John and Mary smile stiffly as this notion reaches their table at the back, and it is hard to know who is more uncomfortable.
They are, however, briefly united, in awe at the wedding. They marvel at the paired opulence and simplicity: no expense has been spared. (How? wonders John: Liesl is rich but Sherlock is not. Did he allow her to pay for everything?) The final effect of all the spending, however, is luxury rather than ostentation. Sherlock has style in spades, when he chooses to apply it. John thinks of him up to his elbows in entrails, or sitting at the kitchen table in a gas mask, wordlessly handing one to John as he arrives home, because Sherlock is concocting something which could theoretically, or actually, kill invisibly. And the disguises-! Sherlock and style are not synonymous.
The bride and groom reappear and take their places at their intimate table.
There is food – cured ham and pork and wurst of many artisan varieties, plus pale but delicious vegetable side dishes and creamy sauces. Neither Sherlock nor Liesl appears to eat. There are no speeches, but the couple stand at the end of the meal and silently raise their glasses to all in the room. Then the orchestra strikes up and Sherlock, smiling darkly, leads Liesl to the centre of the great hall.
The bride and groom dance slowly, to a piece which John recognises from an advert, and look ... happy. Liesl is glowing, and Sherlock is smugly satisfied. He holds her possessively, never leaving her side. His hand is on her constantly, John notices.
Mary looks as if she might faint, and John feels a little light headed too. He actually grins painfully at Mary, and feels a weird empathy, but not their former empathy born of love: this is spawned from their shared fascination with Sherlock. They watch him, Mary with her champagne flute against her mouth, John with one hand splayed flat on the table cloth. Sherlock moves smoothly and is certain of the position of his hands and feet at all times. Liesl clings to him, her bosom against his chest, and lets him lead. John watches Sherlock's elegant hands, forever in motion on the silk of Liesl's gown. He wonders if Mary is in the midst of some similar fantasy. A half-second glance at her parted lips and enlarged pupils is enough to know. She sees John looking and they share a moment of ... guilt, of confession. It is sick and wrong, but they are, to an extent, acknowledging this thing.
A queue of guests forms afterwards, organised by the staff, to congratulate the happy couple. John and Mary are near the back, with some of Liesl's acquaintance, giggling German women and their mildly embarrassed and openly lecherous husbands.
The Watsons are introduced and John find himself in the peculiar position of congratulating his best friend on a marriage John cannot believe is real, except that it does now appear to be so, while simultaneously trying to appear himself happily married, for the sake of the occasion, when he and his now ex-wife are completely aware that they are not.
Mary is entranced. She kisses Sherlock on both cheeks, hanging on him familiarly, Liesl too. Mary gasps her congratulations. Sherlock accepts Mary's kisses, looking at John with expressionless eyes.
John shakes Sherlock's hand and says, "You seem very happy."
"Of course," says Sherlock, giving him a hard stare - offended. "My wife."
John forces a smile at hearing that phrase in Sherlock's voice. "Those words take a bit of getting used to."
"I am already enjoying them," Sherlock says and puts his hand on Liesl once again, this time on her waist. She is engaged in platitudes with Mary, but glances at Sherlock with tolerant affection, matching his proud attachment. John reflects that it is hard to be pleased for others when your own relationship is in shreds.
"Well done," John says then, chiding himself for meanness when Sherlock has never shown him any. He embraces Sherlock, with many claps on the back, as Liesl is assaulted by Mary. "I'm glad for you."
But as John's cheek is close to Sherlock's he hears Sherlock hiss, "Don't be an idiot," and Sherlock's fingers dig painfully into John's shoulders.
Sherlock pushes John away before John can speak again, and turns to the next people in the queue.
John and Mary rejoin their table, and a waiter brings them champagne. Mary gulps at hers. John sips, it goes up his nose as it always does, and he requests a beer instead. Mary begins to jabber breathlessly about meeting Liesl and how she is not as thin as she seems in the photos, but how Sherlock is just so, amazingly, unbelievably -
- And John sees Sherlock disappear through a side door, and excuses himself abruptly, leaving Mary to swap superlative impressions with the German acquaintances.
John follows where Sherlock exited, and finds a corridor with two discreetly labelled restrooms. He goes into the Gents and Sherlock is there, alone, washing his hands very slowly in a marble lined room with low voltage lighting and gold taps.
John stands, the door closing behind him, and Sherlock lifts his gaze from the running water. Sherlock's eyes light up and his face grows momentarily young.
For a second, or seven, they gaze at each other. John sees Sherlock taking in his blue tux, the cufflinks, his hands, his feet in shiny black brogues. The armour-piercing look, except that it isn't deduction, just appreciation. Sherlock smiles, primarily with his eyelashes.
John elbows the restroom door, holding it shut.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
"I kissed you on my wedding day," John says. It was not where he meant to start but there it is.
"Don't kiss me on mine," Sherlock tells him, drying his hands on a fluffy white towel taken from a stack in a wicker basket. "My wife would kill you." But now he is doing the laser look, the Sherlock scan, and John, for his part, can clearly see Sherlock's deeper breathing and darkened eyes.
"I feel like I - want to," says John. The truth, leaving his throat at last, feels like stepping from a smoke-filled nightclub into the cool moist air of a pine forest at dawn. Pure oxygen and calm. He leans back on the door in relief.
"Not here," Sherlock says at once.
John looks at him.
Sherlock rolls his eyes in disbelief. "For god's sake, the gents' toilets, what is this. Come outside."
They run up three flights of stairs and duck into a corridor.
John thinks Sherlock is going to kiss him, and his heart is beating faster at the thought, but Sherlock just hunkers down against a wall, runs his hand through his hair and says, "There is a reason for all of this which I will tell you very soon but for now please trust me and do what I ask when I ask it. Will you do that?"
"Of course," John says instantly. He crouches down in front of Sherlock. "What do you mean, what's going on?"
"You always say Yes before asking questions," Sherlock tells him. His lips curve upward for a second and John realises what has been missing from this wedding thus far: any kind of genuine smile from the groom. Sherlock has been acting, and only someone seeing him now, his expression warm and relaxed, could know that.
"There is a file which Mrs Hudson has," Sherlock says. "Open it, read it. There's a lot of nonsense with it, ignore all that, read the stuff in the blue file. Do you trust me?"
John sees the cleverness behind Sherlock's eyes, and the tough, defiantly isolated person behind that, who has never let him down. "Yes. You know I do. Are you all right, what can I do?"
Sherlock regards him seriously. "When I message you, as soon as you can, come and find me in a suitable place," he says. "That's all."
"Ok," says John.
Sherlock nods. "Good. Thank you." He frowns, massages his temples, then lets his hand drop.
He is obviously not going to make a move so John does. He puts his hand to the side of Sherlock's head and runs it down through his hair, soft curls parting around his knuckles, the heel of his hand stroking Sherlock's smooth cheek.
Sherlock shuts his eyes and sighs. He leans into John for less time than it takes John to process that fact and then pushes him away. "I can't tell you anything now," Sherlock says. Eyes open, moving away.
"You just did," says John. "And I didn't need that to agree to help you." It is true. Their friendship is older than this, is stronger than this, will outlive this.
John gives Sherlock his hand and raises him to his feet. "Congratulations," he says. "On your wedding day." Then he does kiss him, on the jaw, just below his right ear. Sherlock's skin is warm. He smells of tobacco and an unfamiliar spicy cologne. John never took the lead before, never showed what he wanted from Sherlock, and maybe that was one of his mistakes.
Sherlock stays frozen, gives no reaction at all. John accepts the disappointment. This is not the moment. But one day, he thinks, the moment will come.
Then John sees Mary over Sherlock's shoulder.