A/N: Mamma Mia, here I go again! This one is a little more Warstan heavy but fear not! There will also be plenty of Sherlolly. Dedicated to my favorite Warstan shipper and writer, Quarto. Take a chance on me?
"Lestrade's son is getting married."
Sherlock waves the pair of invitations over his head so John can see them and (as expected) snatch up the one addressed to him with a huff of annoyance. "The bride-to-be is Greek, judging by the name on the return address," he continues as John rips open the envelope. He of course hasn't bothered; why open an invitation to a wedding he has no intention of attending? It would be a destination wedding, probably in Greece if not in Australia, where Lestrade's son had settled after his parent's rather contentious divorce ten years prior.
A conspicuous silence from John brings his attention to his flatmate; he's frowning over the opened invitation, brow wrinkled in the way it does when he's particularly troubled (or confused) about something. "Problem?"
John jerks his head up, staring at Sherlock as if he'd completely forgotten his presence. He makes a ghastly attempt at a smile. "No, no problem," he lies - interesting, why is he lying? - before crossing back to Sherlock's side and plucking the second invitation from his fingers. "Not going to attend, I'm guessing? No? Good, I'll just-" he gestures vaguely toward the unlit fireplace, hesitates, then makes a rapid exit from the room. "I'll just toss this for you," he calls over his shoulder as he hastens up the stairs to his room.
Interesting. What about the invitation has John so spooked? Not the usual level of mystery he's inclined to investigate, but what the hell. Things have been quiet lately, and he's sure Mrs. Hudson would appreciate him snooping in John's room rather than, say, shooting a smiley face into the wall. (Honestly, you'd think he'd shot her neighbor or dog rather than the wall that one time!)
Sherlock waits until John hurries back down the stairs, pauses on the landing to oh-so-casually call out that he has an errand to run, then waits a moment longer until he hears the front door slam shut. Then he shoots to his feet and peers through the window, taking care not to be seen as John casts about for a cab.
As soon as his flatmate (and, difficult though it is to believe at times, best friend) enters the (third) cab he manages to flag down and vanishes down Baker Street, Sherlock dashes up the stairs two at a time until he reaches John's bedroom. Picking the lock is child's play, and proof that John hasn't taken the invitations with him, else why bother locking the door? Within seconds he finds his, stashed under John's neatly folded (all white, the man is dead boring when it comes to things like socks and shorts) under things.
He takes it down to the kitchen, keeping an ear out in case John realizes his mistake and comes back to the flat, and starts the kettle boiling. Carefully he steams open the envelope, after first making certain his personal supply of stationery glue hasn't dried out (he hasn't had cause to use it for almost six months), and slides out the invitation, bypassing the usual deductions of the quality of the paper and likely amount of money spent on it.
Instead, he immediately reads the embossed invitation, eyebrows rising in astonishment at the name of the bride-to-be.
Rosamund Mary Morstan.
No. It can't possibly be...her. She's far too sensible to marry a man half her age, isn't she? But the mother's name is shown as Mary Morstan, no father's name listed...and Sherlock feels his heart lurch in his chest and his knees go just wobbly enough that he gropes for a chair and sits heavily in it.
The Rose Morstan he'd known twenty years ago had never done or said anything to indicate that the name she'd given him wasn't her own. But then, he'd been young and high and willing to take her at face value, uncaring if Rose was a pseudonym or her own name or a variation thereof. Variation, he now deduces, still feeling more than a little dazed. Rosamund Mary Morstan, now with a name-alike daughter.
A daughter who is getting married to Detective Inspector Lestrade's son. What are the odds that the girl is approximately twenty years old, less, say, nine months? Oh, his devil-may-care Rose, is this her way of obliquely letting him know that he has a daughter as well? But why the return address under the name 'Leto' - OH!
He springs back to his feet, snatching up his mobile and rapidly entering the name and searching for its possible meanings. "Leto," he reads aloud, "meaning 'hidden' or 'woman'."
Or, in this case, hidden woman. An admiring grin splits his lips; that's his Rose, he thinks fondly, clever enough to offer him multiple mysteries to solve at the same time.
In his excitement and, frankly, nervousness at the idea of meeting a grown daughter he'd only just found out about, he completely forgets John's own odd reaction to the invitations. He thrusts it back into the envelope and bellows down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson that he's leaving for an extended period of time on a case, then rushes to his bedroom and digs his suitcase out from under his bed. The wedding is in less than a week; just like Rose to wait until the last minute to invite him, he thinks abstractedly as he pulls his best suit from the wardrobe, along with a selection of shirts and socks and underclothes, his shaving kit, toothbrush, whatever else he needs - focusing on the needs of the moment to still the nervous fluttering of his heart.
He's a father, how could he have not known, why had she waited all these years before telling him? Yes, their affair had been short-lived (explosive and passionate but definitely nothing meant for the long term, they'd both known it even before Mycroft had shown up to drag him off to rehab), and he certainly has no interest in rekindling things at this late date (he pushes aside thoughts of the new pathologist as St. Bart's and how his heart tends toward a different sort of fluttering in her presence), but why tell him now? Was he to be Rosamund's wedding present, a surprise from her mother to make her special day even more special?
He has the vaguest of ideas that a surprise like that would actually be more of a bad idea than a good one, but he's not about to question how Rose does things; she never was one for conventional, well, anything, he thinks in fond remembrance.
oOo
By the time John returns, barely an hour later, Sherlock has already left, and in his relief he forgets to make sure the invitation is still where he'd stashed it. Instead, he hurriedly packs his own suitcase and rushes right back downstairs to let Mrs. Hudson know that he's going to be gone for some undetermined period of time due to a family emergency (allowing her to faultily believe it has to do with his sister Harry).
It's not until he sees Sherlock boarding the small launch heading for the island where Mary Morstan now lives that he remembers that blasted second invitation and curses that particular oversight. "Following me, are you?" he demands.
Sherlock being Sherlock just looks down his nose at him "Hardly," he sneers. "I was invited too, after all " He gives John the fakest of fake smiles. "Wouldn't want to disappoint Giles, after all."
"It's Greg, you git," John corrects him, still suspicious. "I thought you told Mrs. Hudson you had a case."
"Hmm, yes, the case of the disappearing flatmate," Sherlock replies. "Mrs. Hudson called to tell me you were visiting your sister, and in light of our mutual absences she was having the building fumigated." He waggles his mobile accusingly. "I had no idea Harry was invited to Daniel Lestrade's wedding."
They've been so involved with their argument that the new voice catches them both off guard. "Oh, are you here for the wedding, too? Friends of the groom, I take it?"
Both John and Sherlock look him over and dismiss him in one glance. Still, he persists. "Hullo, I'm David, David Greene." He beans at them both impartially. "I'm an old friend of the bride's mother, haven't seen her in ages, was pleasantly surprised when I got the invite."
One look at his hopeful, eager expression and John knows, he just knows, that this..this..wanker is Mary's rebound boyfriend, the one she ditched him for after that disastrous phone call with Sarah Sawyer.
He has enough to deal with at the moment so he focuses his growing irritation on Sherlock. "Is that really why you're here, as a friend of the groom's side, or are you just sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?" he demands.
Sherlock studies him through narrowed eyes, and John's irritation grows. "Oh no you don't," he growls. "Stop deducing me."
"Interesting," Sherlock breathes, and with a sick feeling in his stomach John realizes it's too late; he's already been deduced. "The question isn't what I'm doing here, it's what are you doing here?" He takes a step closer, scanning John as intently as any suspect in a murder case. "So, John, care to tell me how you know Rose Morstan?"
