First things first. Thank you to all of those who favourited, followed, reviewed, or simply read, this story. 'Pieces of a chess game' has reached 300 followers! I am so happy. I thought this was going to be read by no one because crossovers of minor pairings tend to be like that, but you have proved me wrong! Thank you so much.

I am also announcing a new series when this one is over. It doesn't have a name yet, but it's going to be Hermione's life from after the war up until pretty much the start of this story. It is in its infancy, and it still needs to grow into something I can work with, but it will come.

Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gattiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

NOTE 11/01/2021: Edited, unbeated.

Chapter 13: The Sign of Three, Act II: Interlude

It was the morning of the wedding, and Baker Street was buzzing with energy.

Hermione had not woken up as much as stopped having her eyes closed, too nervous and excited to get any proper sleep. And Sherlock probably never went to his own room, as she had heard him muttering in the living room for hours, and now was pacing incessantly. Downstairs, Mrs Hudson was blasting the radio. Hermione regarded the bag dangling from the wardrobe's door, the nude high-heels resting atop their box. She was about to get out of bed when Sherlock stormed into her room, dressed in slacks and shirt under his camel dressing gown.

'Sherlock!' Despite wearing a perfectly modest tank top, she automatically drew the cover up her chest. Sherlock did not seem to be faced by it, and in two quick strides, he was next to her bed.

'I need you.'

'I could have been naked here!' Sherlock's cheeks turned a cute pinkish colour, but he grasped one of her hands and tugged her to her feet. 'Oi! What's on with you?'

'I need you for road testing,' he said while dragging her to the living room.

'What?'

Sherlock left her in the middle of the room and went to the sound system on the table. 'The song. I need to be sure it can be danced.' From the speakers came the soft melody of a violin.

'Of course it can be danced! Sherlock, the car will be here in two hours—' Hermione tried to say.

'The sooner you stop complaining, the sooner we'll get dressed,' said Sherlock, and stood in front of her. Hermione sighed and held out his hand for him. Sherlock took a step forward, and as he intertwined his finger with hers, his other hand sneaked under her arm and landed on the centre of her back. Sherlock's thumb brushed the slightly thicker seam of the top. Hermione gulped and kept her eyes on Sherlock's chest while grasping at his bicep. Sherlock started moving around the room, guiding her in a perfectly executed waltz to the tune of his own composition. With every step his dressing gown flapped against her legs, the hands holding her in place seemed to tighten, pushing her closer to him. Sherlock's thumb was now on her skin and moved over it at their dance's same tempo. Hermione raised her head and found Sherlock looking at her. The waltz mutated to something slower, more intimate. Something shifted in Sherlock's eyes and imperceptibly separated from her.

'Shut up Mrs Hudson.'

'I haven't said a word.' Hermione saw Mrs Hudson entering the living room with a tray. Sherlock sighed.

'You are formulating a question. It's physically painful watching you thinking.' He let go of Hermione and stopped the music. While Mrs Hudson poured tea, Hermione took the throw over John's chair and draped it over her shoulders. She was unsure whether Sherlock had noticed the effect he had on her, but she did not need Mrs Hudson remarking on her bra-less situation or what could be deduced because of it.

'Why are you here?' asked Sherlock.

'I'm bringing you your morning tea. You're not usually awake, so Hermione and I enjoy a bit of mindless gossip,' answered Martha. Hermione flashed her a bright sitting on the arm of Sherlock's chair, while Sherlock sat on the chair.

'You bring me tea in the morning?'

'Well, where d'you think it came from?!'

'I don't know. I thought it sort of happened.'

'Your mother has a lot to answer for,' said Mrs Hudson, and looked at both of them. 'So - it's the big day!'

'What big day?' said Sherlock.

'Stop it, Sherlock.' Hermione winked at Mrs Hudson over the rim of her cup. Sherlock glanced at her.

'Two people who currently live together are about to attend church, have a party, go on a short holiday and then carry on living together. What's so big about that?'

'It changes people, marriage.'

'Mmm, no it doesn't.'

'Well, you wouldn't understand 'cause you've always lived alone.'

'I live with Hermione now, don't I?'

'That's not what she is referring to, Sherlock,' said Hermione.

'Her husband was executed for double murder.' Sherlock turned to his landlady. 'You're hardly an advert for companionship.' Hermione slapped him on the shoulder, and Mrs Hudson reiterated her point. Foreseeing the inevitable argument that usually followed Sherlock's interventions, Hermione excused herself for the shower. Between Sherlock's pre-wedding jitters and Mrs Hudson's insights on marriage, they had less than an hour to get ready. After doing her makeup and hair, Hermione unzipped the bag with her dress inside. Mary had accepted Hermione wouldn't be one of her bridesmaids long ago but had requested to choose the dress for the wedding, as long as 'it wasn't lilac, for Merlin's sake'. The result was a beautiful knee-length, fitted dress with an off-shoulder neckline. The eggplant shade Mary had chosen could be explained as a tribute to the wedding colour, a way of appointing her as an honorary bridesmaid. But the colour was too close to that of a very particular garment hanging in Sherlock's wardrobe to be a coincidence.

'Hermione!' Mrs Hudson called from downstairs. 'The car is here!'

Hermione twirled around in front of the mirror one last time and went downstairs. Sherlock was next to the open door, holding it open to Mrs Hudson and her massive hat, with his coat on one arm and the box with his top hat in the other. Hermione was lost for words to describe him, and all she could think about was how long it would take her to remove all the layers he had on him. His eyes travelled rapidly across her exposed collarbone, down her arms, and further down to her legs and heel-clad feet.

'Oh, you look lovely, dear, doesn't she Sherlock?' said Mrs Hudson. Sherlock pursed his lips and gave a curt nod before disappearing outside.

As Mycroft had promised, the car was spacious enough to have enough room for Mrs Hudson and Mr Chatterjee, her plus one, and Sherlock and Hermione. Hermione tried to keep up with Mrs Hudson's constant chatter, but her mind kept drifting to the man sitting next to her. Despite his seemingly composed exterior, he kept tapping his fingers against his thigh, and Hermione was no expert in music, but she could swear he was rehearsing his violin piece. He would now and then pat over his left breast, where he most likely had his written speech. Hermione wanted nothing more than to reach out to him and put a hand over his knee. Assure him he was going to do a good job. But Mrs Hudson was there, and whatever vulnerability Sherlock had shown to her in the time they've been living together, it was theirs, and private. So when she caught his gaze in the rearview mirror, she smiled, hoping it would be enough.

An hour later, the driver stopped at the small church entrance John and Mary had chosen for the ceremony. David, the usher, approached them - avoiding Sherlock and mostly talking to Hermione - and offered to accompany Mrs Hudson and her partner to the church, and pointed Sherlock and Hermione in the direction to the back rooms. He left them alone, with the background noises of the people taking their seats.

'Sherlock—'

'Stop doing that, it's irritating,' interrupted Sherlock. 'Yes, I'm fine. No, I'm not nervous. Yes, my speech is complete, and ready to be delivered. Now I suggest we go find John and Mary and get this wedding started.' Without giving her the chance to answer, he disappeared into the corridor to the right. Hermione would have followed him in any normal circumstances, angry and with a string of insults on the tip of the tongue. But Today was not normal circumstances, and as Sherlock had said, the wedding had not even started. She took the same corridor and soon she saw a big sign that read 'Bride' in glittery, lilac letters.

She entered without knocking. The room was filled with bags, the oyster-coloured wedding dress still in its bag, waiting to be worn. Mary was sitting in front of the vanity, with her robe on, while one of her bridesmaids, Lottie, curled one short strand of hair. Mary caught her in the mirror and smiled at her.

'Hermione,' said Lottie. 'What are you doing here?'

'Just wanted to see future Mrs Watson before the wedding.'

Mary looked at Lottie. 'Can you leave us five minutes?'

Lottie huffed. 'OK, but just five. We are already late. I'll see where Cath and Janine are.'

Once they were alone, Hermione closed the distance between them and took Mary's hands.

'I have an exquisite taste,' said Mary.

'That you do,' said Hermione. They looked at each other, and when Mary's eyes started to shine, Hermione wiped the unshed tears with her thumbs and cradled Mary's face.

'I just can't believe this is happening.'

'I wish you all the happiness in the world, my love,' whispered Hermione, and Mary's arms encircled her waist, hiding her face in Hermione's body. Hermione sniffed and laughed. 'Well, enough of that. Lottie and Janine will have my head if your face bloats. I think I might go to check on your future husband. And keep an eye on Sherlock. I'm afraid all the love and chit chat might give him an aneurism.'

'Oh, Sherlock,' Mary had gone from emotional to having that particular glint in her eye. 'What has he said about your dress?'

Janine opened the door in that instant, and Hermione excused herself out of the room. Walking across the stone hallway, she found a room with a simple black sign taped to the oak door which read 'Groom'. Following her knock, Greg opened the door. 'Hermione! Wow,' he said. 'Sorry, please, come in.'

'You look very dashing yourself, Detective.' Hermione smiled at him. John was in front of a large mirror, fumbling with his tie. His hands were trembling. Sherlock was typing on his phone to his right, his suit as perfect as when they had left home. Hermione took John's hands, steading them.

'Let me.'

John sighed with relief and let his arms fall to his sides. 'You look fantastic.'

'Amen to that.' Greg had served himself a glass of whiskey. Probably a must-have in the groom's chambers.

'Thank you. Although I don't look half as beautiful as your bride, John.' Hermione finished with the tie and continued with the lapel flowers. With the small white bouquet in place, she took the second one and approached Sherlock. Hermione was fully prepared for him to stop her and tell her he could do it, but instead, he pocketed his phone and opened his jacket. Hermione put the reverse of her hand over his heart, grasping the jacket and the safety pin. John and Greg were talking, but she felt Sherlock just staring at her. She felt Sherlock's breath on her forehead and the steady beating beneath her hands. The impossible warmth. The pin finally slid in place, and Hermione looked at Sherlock.

'Oh my God, I feel like throwing up,' said John. Hermione broke away from Sherlock and turned to John.

'You'll be fine.'

'How long now?' asked Greg.

'We should be ready briefly.' David's voice from outside announced John could enter the service anytime. Hermione hugged John. 'Into battle, Captain.'

'I know I should be gushing over my husband, but Sherlock looks like a proper gentleman, don't you think?'

Hermione did not answer to Mary, her eyes elsewhere. On the other side of the yard, Sherlock and Janine talked, and by the looks of it, very amicably. Hermione observed Janine's body language, the disposition of her arms, the angle of her shoulders. Since the ceremony had ended twenty minutes ago, Janine had been joined by the hip to Sherlock. What made Hermione uneasy was that Sherlock seemed to be perfectly fine entertaining the young chief bridesmaid.

'Janine seems to think so,' commented Hermione.

'Well, you heard her,' Mary continued. 'She wouldn't mind the traditional bridesmaid-best man romp in a cupboard.'

Sherlock Holmes' sexuality had been one of Mary's hen do's main topics, and Janine had been the leading voice. After Hermione had clarified that they were 'flatmates, I don't know if we are even friends', Janine had started hatching a plan to get Sherlock in her bed. Undeterred by the warning that Sherlock had shown no sign of being attracted to women, Janine had kept asking questions all night long. Hermione had become more annoyed with each question, not only at Janine for being relentless but also at herself because she could understand entirely why she was so persistent. That man, in all his arrogance and social awkwardness, had the sex-appeal of a god. It wasn't like he was conventionally beautiful. In fact, his overall features weirdly resembled that of an otter. But his presence, with the gorgeous eyes, the chiselled cheekbones and the firm body beneath the tailored clothes, was enough to make any heterosexual women's blood boil. Hermione knew that. She was very aware of how sexually unavailable Sherlock was every morning when she felt her stomach do somersaults after Sherlock would bid her good morning with the low rumble of his deep baritone voice. Then Janine took Sherlock's arm, and Hermione saw with ruthless satisfaction Sherlock frowning.

'Sherlock doesn't seem the type,' said Hermione.

'Well, Janine rarely fails,' quipped Mary, and gestured to the photographer to take a photo of them both.

The reception started with the appetiser round in between the table, with people still sober and doing their best to be polite with people they had no desire to talk with. Hermione had been rounded at the beverages table by one of John's cousins and her husband, who seemed to have been looking for someone to vent about everything she had not liked: Mary, the venue, Mary's dress, the weather, Mary's makeup. Hermione smiled and relied on her wine to carry her through Despicable Cousin Number One. Finally, excusing herself to the loo she had no intention of visiting, Hermione made her way towards Mary, who was looking at the entrance, at the same time as Sherlock. She saw John speaking with a man in uniform, badly scarred.

'So that's him,' said Sherlock, narrowing his eyes, his voice dripping disapproval. 'Major Sholto. If they're such good friends, why does he barely even mention him.'

'He mentions him all the time. Never shuts up about him,' said Mary, and took a sip of her wine. 'I chose this wine, it's bloody awful.'

'The options weren't fantastic, Mary,' said Hermione.

'Remind me to check the wine list before settling on a venue the next time I get married.'

Sherlock looked at them, confused, and then turned back to the two men in the distance. 'It's definitely him he talks about? I've never even heard him say his name.'

'He's almost a recluse. I didn't think he'd show up at all. John says he's the most unsociable man he's ever met.'

'He is? He's the most unsociable?' Sherlock sounded affronted, and Hermione chuckled. 'Ah, that's why he's bouncing round him like a puppy.'

Mary grinned and hugged Sherlock's arm. 'Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know.'

"Stop smiling."

"It's my wedding day!"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pulled free and walked away, engrossed in his phone. Hermione smirked and clinked her glass with Mary, who gagged again on her wine. Hermione stopped a server and took a glass of water for Mary, and told her to not to punish herself if she did not like the wine. And after all, water was less dangerous than alcohol.

Hermione was enjoying the wedding more than she thought she would. Tom had bonded with Mrs Hudson over Miss Marple, Greg had been retelling some of his most compelling cases. Even Molly had shared some of the most food-friendly causes-of-death she had seen. Everyone was having a good time, and Hermione pipped in with some of her own stories, but part of her attention was on the top table. Mary and John were completely engrossed with each other, leaving Sherlock without his personal buffer for social occasions. He had barely eaten or drank. However, judging by Janine's smile, he was holding a normal conversation with her. On her Janine's plate, the food laid forgotten. The prospect of having a piece of Holmes was much more appealing than steak.

Soon after dessert, the master of ceremonies called everyone to attention for the best man's speech, and Sherlock raised to his feet while buttoning his jacket. Hermione saw him taking a deep breath and slowly letting the air out of his lungs. His gaze roamed the room, shortly settling on her. Hermione gave him a nod of encouragement and smiled as the clapping subsided.

'Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends ... and ... erm ... others.' Sherlock stopped. By Hermione's side, Greg shifted in his chair. 'Er ... w... A-a-also…' Mary lifted a thumb to her mouth, rubbing her top lip. Hermione twisted the serviette on her lap. She should have made him rehearse the speech with her. At the table, John muttered something, and Sherlock cleared his throat.

'First things first. Telegrams.' He picked the cards from the table. 'Well, they're not actually telegrams. We just call them telegrams. I don't know why. Wedding tradition... because we don't have enough of that already, apparently.'

John narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock started reading the telegrams. It was a bit hilarious, and so every thought, seeing him trampling over the most common terms of endearment.

'Mary – lots of love…' Sherlock let out a silent exclamation and added, despairingly. 'Poppet. Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from Cam. Wish your family could have seen this.'

John reached out and took Mary's hand, who sent him a tense smile. Hermione felt a cold shiver down her spine. They didn't know anyone named Cam, as far as she was aware, and Hermione knew all Mary's friends, at least by name. Not to mention to everyone else, Mary's was an orphan. Mary had settled on her parents dying in a car accident when she was sixteen and had no other family, and had never strayed from that narrative. Hermione doubted anyone who knew Mary would bring up her family in a moment like this. Sherlock, unaware of the confusion in Hermione's head, continued with his speech.

'Um, 'special day'... 'very special day'… 'love '… 'love '…' Sherlock dropped on the table one card after the other without reading them. 'Bit of a theme – you get the general gist. People are basically fond.'

Hermione heard laughter around her, and she could not help but feel relieved. Sherlock's usual aloofness from people's lives seemed to have the opposite effect it typically had and was seen as some sort of comic relief.

'John Watson. My friend, John Watson. John.' John smiled at him and then Sherlock addressed the audience. 'When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused…' Understatement of the century, something she was sure Greg would agree on. Sherlock started to explain how that conversation she had not witnessed, but John was frowning as if he could not remember that this actually happened. '... and indicated that I was, in some ways, very close to being ... moved by it. It later transpired that I had said none of this out loud."

She and other guests joined John's laughter. Even being uncomfortable, he seemed to have grasped what the speech was about. Sherlock then reached into his jacket pocket, clearing his throat, and took out a handful of cue cards, looking at each one and putting it on the table as he talked to himself.

'Done that. Done that ... Done that Bit…Done that Bit... Hmm …' He looked up at the guests again, then turned to John. 'I'm afraid, John, I can't congratulate you.'

And here we go. Hermione tensed in her seat, observing Mary and John's surprised look. Sherlock apparently couldn't care less about them.

'All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Today we honour the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time–one feels certain–our entire species.'

Nothing escaped Sherlock's particular view of the world: nor John, nor the poor bridesmaids, nor God. All of it strung together in a perfectly formed run-on sentence, during which Sherlock did not take a single breath. Mary hid her face between her hands, and John was trying to disappear behind his clasped hands. At Hermione's table, Mrs Hudson was seething. Hermione kept thinking where she had bought Sherlock in the book and found a chapter about humiliating the happy couple and alienating the guests. Finally, Sherlock paused.

'The point I'm trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous…unaware of the beautiful…and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.' Mary beamed at her husband, and Hermione saw people starting to relax.

'John, I am a ridiculous man redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I'm apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.' Sherlock smirked. 'Actually, now I can. Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss… So know this: Today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.'

Sniffles and coughs were the only things that could be heard around the room, and at the top table, there weren't any eyes that weren't shiny and teary. Oblivious, Sherlock had returned to his cards.

'Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John…' Sherlock trailed off but stopped as soon as he saw so many guests crying. He focused on Hermione for a moment, maybe thinking she would be the one acting normal, but frowned when he saw her smiling proudly at him and dabbing the corner of her eyes with her fingertips. 'What's wrong? What happened?' He asked, still looking at her, and then turned to John. 'Why are you all doing that? John? Did I do it wrong?'

John pulled Sherlock into a tight hug, and the guests broke into applause. Sherlock stood still, still confused. John muttered something to him and clapped him on the shoulder before sitting back down.

'So, on to some funny stories about John. If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would ... be better. On we go. So, for funny stories—' He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. '—One has to look no further than John's blog. The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticise things a bit, but then, you know ... he's a romantic. We've tackled some strange cases…'

Sherlock was in his element now, and what a beautiful thing it was. Hermione could not help but stare at him, and she did every time he explained one of his cases. Even an unsolved case turned captivating when retold by him.

'…The best and bravest man I know – and on top of that, he actually knows how to do stuff.' John lowered his head and chuckled. 'However, I'm not just here to praise John – I'm also here to embarrass him. Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course, there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits.'

Greg leant towards Hermione. 'This should be fun.'

'So, stag do tonight. Big plans?' Hermione asked from the bathroom. She had planned Mary's hen do the same night as John's if only because Mary had bet with her future husband, she would arrive later and drunker than him.

'Yep,' said Sherlock from the living room. Hermione finished applying the mascara and entered the living room. Sherlock was engrossed in his laptop and ignored her. 'John and I are going on a themed pub crawl.'

Hermione snickered at that. 'Sherlock Holmes, pub crawling? I'd pay to see that.'

'We are going to drink at every street where we've found a corpse.'

'Lovely.' Hermione left for her room to get her coat, and when she came back, Sherlock had closed the laptop and was now on his phone. He lifted his head, and his eyes fell to her chest. 'You have forgotten your shirt.'

'No I haven't, I saw this at the Golden Globes,' said Hermione. Her form-fitting tuxedo had a modest cleavage if it wasn't because it was obvious there was nothing underneath. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and the only jewellery was a pair of dangling earrings. Paired with the sky-high heels, she looked as good as the actress she had copied the style from. A single doorbell rang. 'Any way, I'm off. Have a good night Sherlock and don't get too pissed.'

He gave her one last self-sufficient smirk. 'I have that covered.'

Hours later, Mary had swallowed her pride and call it a night at around four in the morning, arguing that John was most likely passed out on their sofa by then. When Hermione arrived at Baker Street, the first thing she noticed was Sherlock's coat. Or rather, the lack thereof in the coat rack. In her tipsy state, she felt affronted by the fact that a hermit and a retired doctor could party for longer than a group of single women who had been drilling about going out for weeks. But the thought did not last for long, as Hermione fell asleep as soon as she touched her bed.

At ten minutes to eight, her phone awoke her on a Sunday. She took it, and when she saw Greg's caller ID, she immediately understood why Sherlock was not home.

'What have they done?'

'Morning to you too,' said Lestrade. 'I have them here, sleeping it off. Can you come pick them up?'

Half an hour later, Hermione pulled over Scotland Yard, the spitting image of hungover, with yoga pants, messy hair and a bottle of water in her hand. She walked to the main reception, flinching at the noise.

'Good morning, detective Inspector Lestrade called me about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I believe they are being detained here.'

The man revised his paperwork. 'We have a John H Watson, and a William Holmes.'

'Richard, stop being a dick,' Greg appeared with a steaming styrofoam cup and handed it to Hermione. 'I'm sorry about calling you, but we need someone to sign the release papers. Rough night?' Greg asked, looking at the bottle.

'My body cannot handle a party as well as it used to.' Hermione took a sip of the coffee.

'I'll go fetch them.'

Hermione spent the next five minutes filling the release papers. Then Greg came back, followed by a very embarrassed John and a very pissed Sherlock.

'There you have them, Hermione. Two lightweights.'

Hermione finished her coffee and pointed at the entrance. 'I have a cab waiting outside. Let's just go.'

John scurried away, but Sherlock was looking at the cup and did not make a move.

'Where did you get coffee from around here?'

'Sherlock, get in the cab,' said Hermione, pushing him.

'Did Gavin give it to you? Why hasn't he given us one?'

'It's Greg!' Lestrade shouted from the other side of the desk.

'Sherlock, get in the cab or I swear to you,' Hermione grabbed his arm and lowered her voice. 'I'll hex you.'

'Sorry,' John appeared at the entrance. 'The cabby wants to know if it's going to take long. He also might be worried we are criminals.'

Hermione pulled Sherlock towards the exit. 'Thank you, Greg! And thank you for the coffee!' Hermione finally managed to leave the building, all the way arguing with Sherlock until they got in the car. She pushed him into the seat while she took the one in front. John opened his eyes as the door closed.

'Hermione—'

'Shut it, John,' said Hermione. 'How on Earth have you ended up in jail?! You were supposed to go out for a few drinks!'

'Things got out of hand,' said Sherlock.

'Next time you are going out with a chaperone.' Hermione took out her phone and snapped a picture of the two men. 'Wait until I tell Mary.'

Despite people laughing at the story — which Hermione had to admit, was quite hilarious in hindsight — Sherlock realised that the most plausible scenario, a married man cheating on his spouse, was probably not the best for marriage. Luckily he found his way back to the speech and John, without causing too much trouble.

"…I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that's what made me special—quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise: should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that—I should know. He's saved mine so many times and in so many ways. This blog is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures of murder, mystery and mayhem. But from now on, there's a new story—a bigger adventure. Ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding." Sherlock picked up his own glass and raised it while the guests did likewise and stood up. The photographer walked forward with his camera. "Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is ..."

Sherlock froze and stared blankly at the guests. The photographers seized the opportunity to take several photos of him, with his arm outstretched and his champagne glass raised. The camera's flashbulb popped. Sherlock's fingers loosened and the glass he was holding crashed against the floor. Sherlock moved his head and apologised to the master of ceremonies.

'Thank you, yes. Thank you, yes.' Sherlock took a new glass being offered, but left it on the table instead of finishing his toast.

'Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech – get off early, leave 'em laughing. Wise advice I'll certainly try to bear in mind. But for now…' He put one hand on the table and quickly jumped over to the other side. The guests gasped in surprise, and he walked down the central aisle between the tables. '... Part two. Part two is more action-based. I'm gonna ... walk around, shake things up a bit.' He moved around the people. 'Who'd go to a wedding? That's the question. Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding? Well, everyone.' He clapped his hands. 'Weddings are great! Love a wedding.'

Hermione looked at John and gestured to him that something was wrong. Sherlock was slipping into his detective-self while straining to keep the speech going. He started bumbling about John, clearly trying to make sense of the things that came out of his mount while his mind was elsewhere, working a thousand of revolutions per second.

'Geoff, the gents,' said Sherlock abruptly, jerking his head towards the door.

'It's Greg.'

'The loos, please.'

Greg's phone on the table beeped, and he reached and read a text message. He mumbled something and went in the direction of the loos when Hermione heard her phone this time. She opened her clutch and saw the screen showing a single word from 'SH': 'Photographer'. Hermione also excused herself and left the room quietly, closing the kissing doors. Once she was in the hallway, she found Greg with the phone in his hand.

'Where is the photographer?' Hermione asked.

'What?'

'We need to find him, the photographer.' Hermione turned to Greg. 'Was has he told you to do?'

'Lock the place, wait for instructions. What is going on?'

'I have no idea, Greg.' Hermione heard Sherlock still talking inside the dining room and walked to the reception. 'Make sure no one leaves the building. I'll be back.'

When Hermione found the receptionist and the head of security, she asked them about the photographer. The head of security said that a man with that description had left five minutes ago, but it would be registered in their logs if he had come in his own car. After writing the plate number, she raced back to Greg.

'Greg!' She gave him a piece of paper, trying to catch her breath. 'I need you to find this. It's the plate number of the photographer. Find him and bring him here.'

'I need to have cause to bring someone here, Hermione.'

'When is Sherlock wrong?'

Greg doubted for a second. 'Fine. Mary ran upstairs. I'll bring him here.'

Greg ran towards the exit. Hermione saw everyone crowding at the doors and fled upstairs, following the noise of voices.

'—break it down.'

'—won't have to.'

Hermione reached the hallway as the door to room 207 closed. Sherlock stood with his hand on his back.

'The photographer?'

'Greg is chasing him. What happened?'

'I solved the case.' Sherlock looked at her, smiling. 'And John is inside, saving a life.'

After all the fuss of attempted murder, the ambulance, and the arrest, the wedding went back to normal. The tables had been cleared away in the reception room, and the guests were arranging themselves around an imaginary circle. In the middle, Mary and John stood, talking quietly. Hermione observed from near the entrance. On a low stage at the end of the room, Sherlock was getting ready, setting the orchestra violin, obviously displeased with the instrument's much lesser quality. He had made that perfectly clear in the rehearsal two days ago, when Hermione had gone with him to see the place, but he had flatly refused to let his violin out of his flat. Although she had not voiced her concerns to Mary, she knew Sherlock would get restless as the hours passed. She had shared enough time with him to know he did not do well surrounded by people, even if he actually liked those people. The adrenaline of a solved case had carried him through much of the afternoon and early evening. But then he had extricated himself from Janine, and he had been studying the doors as if looking for an easy exit. If she were him, she would use the door behind the improvised stage. And as Mary's best friend, she could let nothing ruin the night.

Taking a cigarette and a lighter and putting on her coat, she went out to the cold at the same moment the violin started to play.

Notes:

This was a very dense, difficult chapter to narrow down. I hope the way it is portrayed makes sense. This is one of the few I might revisit at some point, because probably when I upload it I will think there are things still unconnected.

The next chapter is SMUT. Almost completely. If you don't want to read those parts, I will make sure to put special characters when it starts and when it ends, so you can follow the story. I´ve tried to make it as in character as I could. I think they are still Hermione and Sherlock at the end of it.

Also, the next chapter will be up in a week or so. It's mostly finished.

This leads me to the next 3 chapters, covering His Last Vow. I have bits and pieces of them but chapter 3 needs a complete re-arrangement, and the two others still have some pieces I am not sure about. So those might take a while to write.

As always, thank you for reading.

Beth