John

He practically jumps a mile when his mobile vibrates. It's a text from Mycroft.

I'm here.

Puzzled, John replies,

Okay. Why are you telling me?

You know this is difficult for Sherlock.

What are you on about?

Don't tell him I'm here.

He'll know you are. He can tell.

Not when he's emotionally distracted, like he is now.

Are you going to do anything shady?

No promises.

Just kidding. I want to make sure he's ok. Lestrade never responded to my text about how Sherlock's been, though inside sources inform me that he's been quite maniacal about this business.

It's my wedding, why do people keep calling it 'this business'?

Because it's directly affecting Sherlock. Do try to keep up.

John represses the urge to chuck his phone at the wall and instead shuts it off. He is goddamn sick and tired of people criticizing him for getting married, ostracizing him for his life decisions, acting as if he should care first and foremost about what Sherlock thinks...

It is possible that he is over exaggerating. Ever so slightly.

He sighs. He's been sighing a lot lately, a considerably disturbing habit that makes him feel like an old man in a nursing home. Also swearing. Swearing has gotten noticeably worse. Sherlock is definitely responsible for that. Always getting on his last nerve, generally to the point where the most vulgar words can't even begin to express his anger. Stupid.

It's half an hour until he's needed in the chapel. He tries to massage his leg, which is predictably cramping up, to no avail. Sherlock would probably make some snarky remark if he were here, force John to snap out of it just to spite him.

There is a knock on the door. Can't people just leave him alone?

"Who is it?" he calls.

"Greg."

"Ah." Why? Why on earth? Why does everyone suddenly have to give their two cents about his own fucking wedding and yammer on about how it affects his friend so badly, blah blah blah?

He adds catastrophizing to his growing list of bad habits. Also thanks to Sherlock.

"Come in."

Greg pokes his head in. "May I?"

"I believe my exact words were, 'Come in.'"

"Touchy. I don't blame you."

"What is it, Lestrade?" Don't sigh.

"Er, this is actually a little silly, to be honest, but Mary's caught up at the moment and I –"

"If it's about Sherlock I swear to god I will –"

"What? No, no, not at all." He pauses. "Wait. What about Sherlock?"

"Nothing. What are you talking about?"

"Are you alright? You look a little... more nervous than usual."

"It's my wedding day."

"Yes, but..." He quells at the expression on John's face. "Never mind that. Do you know all of the guests?"

"I don't have the list memorized."

"Do you know who would?"

"A certain mule-headed detective."

"You can forget that then. He's going crazy out there."

"Sorry. You can try me. Who are you looking for?"

"Er... just a last name will suffice." He looks embarrassed.

"Is this for a case?"

"Not really, no."

John is getting impatient. "Just shoot me a name, I'll see if I know them."

"Alright. Ahem. Lucy?"

Comprehension dawns. John starts laughing.

"What?" Lestrade crosses his arms defensively.

"This is about a girl?"

"Yeah, so?"

"This is – Christ, Lestrade – you're really – you need my help to pick up a girl at my wedding?"

"Hey, we met like an hour ago, she went off with some friends, and I don't know how to reach her." He holds up his phone. "Thought I'd do some, um..."

"Stalking? God, you're crazy."

Lestrade is blushing. What has the world come to? "Not stalking, I just figured I'd try to, like... friend her on Facebook?"

"Friend her on Facebook. Because she'll definitely be Facebooking at this exact moment."

"Please. I really like her."

Don't sigh, don't sigh, don't sigh. "Fine. Lucy, huh?"

"She has dark hair and she wears glasses. They're an interesting shape, sort of rectangular but with a flare out on the edges, if that makes sense?" He clears his throat and starts over. "Imagine combining half of an almond shape with half of a rectangle. And attach spectacles to them. It."

"Please stop. Lucy's a friend of Harry's from uni. I don't know her last name, but I just so happen to be friends with her on Facebook, so if you had any sense at all you could've gone to my friends list and done your stalking there."

"It's not stalking."

John pushes him firmly out the room.

–––––

Sherlock

He knocks, feeling unusually courteous (normally, he would take the liberty of barging in. This time, permission seems necessary). Heart pounds. Deep breath. Oxygen, the final electron acceptor, filling his lungs. Mind still spinning from his conversation with Molly, his altercation with the florist, and everything in between.

John takes several moments to open the door. Sherlock waits, until footsteps make him turn around.

"Sherlock. Oh."

"That's a ringing endorsement," he says dryly. It's Mary, and she's dressed in an absurd white pastry-reminiscent affair. Still, he can't help but feel a gut-wrenching punch called reality. This is happening. For whatever reason, this absurd attire marks Mary Morstan as the one, the woman designated to spend the rest of her life with John (unless they get divorced, but Sherlock is not one to get his hopes up).

"Sorry. Wrong floor."

"Congratulations," he says tightly.

She casts him an odd look. "Thank you. I'll see you down there."

Elevator dings, Mary's gone. Sherlock waits some more.

The door swings open. John. Sherlock, breathless, takes inventory, filing the sight away in his mind palace. Tuxedo, tie, anxious, a crumb of toast flecking the corner of John's bottom lip. He wants to swipe it away, feel that mouth beneath his trembling fingers. In the glow the sun casts from the window, his best friend is beautiful. Forget how to breathe.

"Well?" John's voice, husky with emotion. "Do I look alright?"

Words, phrases, superlatives catch in Sherlock's throat. You're majestic, you're flawless, please god call it off I beg of you. Kiss me, touch me, hold me. Christ. Instead, "Yes."

"So this is it."

They stand. Tension juxtaposed with calm. Listening to each other breathe.

Breathing: the basis of life, so fragile, so easily forgotten, especially in the presence of John.

"Your tie's crooked," Sherlock says.

"Right. I'm not good at..." His sentence peters out at Sherlock takes a step closer, wraps a hand around the knot, tugs it into place. Fingers, warm, pressed against his chest. He can feel John's heartbeat. Five points of contact that feel far more intimate than they should.

They stay like that, inches from each other, for a solid minute, until John says hoarsely,

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"I don't... is it... Molly."

Sherlock's heart breaks, a slow and excruciating process. "It's fine," he says. "You don't have to."

"But I – I need you to know –"

Fear, a sharp dagger, stabs Sherlock in the solar plexus. "No," he says quickly. "This is your wedding day. You will enjoy it. I can guarantee that you'll appreciate the –"

John suddenly bridges the gap between them, tilts his head up, presses his lips against Sherlock's. Once, twice. Sherlock is terrified to move, his mouth going slack against John's, arms frozen at his sides even as John's come up to grip his elbows. He returns the gesture on the third try, tiny explosions of light and overwhelmingly saturated shapes blossoming in his mind's eye.

And then the groom – Mary's groom, not his, never his – pulls away, anxiety, but no trace of regret, in his eyes.

"Thank you," John says. "I love..."

Sherlock is transfixed, lips hypersensitive to the breeze ruffling the curtains through the open window, and John is the only person in the world who exists. "Yes?" he whispers.

John backs away, realization clouding his features. Oh, John. "I love... I can't..."

"Me too."

John can't do this. Sherlock can't do this. Not now. Not like this. Not standing in the building where John is about to marry another person.

"Your tie's straight now," Sherlock says softly. He musters a smile that isn't quite a smile. "Go get married, John."

And John does.