A/N: It's been months. I'm so sorry. I haven't responded to all of your lovely reviews yet either ahh. I think updates won't have such a huge gap between them now since I've graduated (finally) (eff yes) (bring on the future) so that's a bit of good news! :P I've edited all previous chapters; they are now less cringe-worthy in my eyes. So yes, I hope you enjoy this chapter and tell me what you think! I really love hearing from you guys. :) x

Chapter 7: The Preparation

"My name is Daniel. I'll be doing your reading this rehearsal and on the big day. Shall we begin?"

Sherlock gives a nod and walks towards the altar.

"Sir?"

John looks up at the man. He's grey-haired, has a beard like some half-hearted Santa impersonator and the dorkiest glasses John has ever seen.

He feels his hand twitch, but he follows without a word.

Arriving and standing at the altar, the man gives them a quick run-through of how the ceremony will proceed – both on the actual day and during the rehearsal. He outlines the music, the decorations, the order of readings and the reception and John couldn't be more bored. He thinks he prefers anxiousness over this.

Neither Sherlock nor John decide to have a best man and parents are ruled right out, so it's just Molly and Lestrade, and some reliable (Sherlock insists) homeless network will be in attendance on the day. John doesn't doubt for a second that Mycroft already knows what's happening, but he can't help but be glad of the man's absence. He just hopes Mycroft will be too busy taking over Korea or stopping World War III to attend on the actual day as well.

Sherlock is soaking up the dreary information Daniel is throwing up like a sponge. His face is still, lighthouse gaze intent on Daniel, interrupting often to ask questions.

John can't help wondering what Sherlock would be like if he was really getting married to his significant other. Would the other person be female, or male? Would he look like this: focussed, intent, interested? Or would he look different – would his eyes light up differently – not with realisation at something deduced, but with warmth, with happiness?

"John?" Sherlock cuts through his thoughts.

Sherlock glances at John, and then does a double take for a long moment. John deliberately makes eye contact and nods. He knows he's an open book, but he thinks that maybe, possibly, he has a slim chance if he acts as much like his previous ignorant self as possible. Then he'll go home and mull over this gigantic thorn in his chest in his room. Probably forever. Or at least until he feels he can face anyone without giving himself away completely.

He has a chance, right?

After a quick glance between them, Santa starts reading out the vows. Molly and Lestrade have taken their seats as directed by Daniel, and are watching on in something like fascination. John's doing his solid best to ignore this.

Sherlock and John are facing each other. They're both so blank that words would have to be written on their faces in marker pen for anyone to be able to get a reading of either of them. It's almost like they're having a competition. Who can stay stoic the longest: the ex-army doctor or the self-proclaimed sociopath?

There's a bit of a pause where Daniel falters, as if the complete, apparent nothing of a stare that Sherlock and John are in becomes too absent of warmth for him to handle.

John can't tell what Sherlock's thinking, and he doesn't know what to think. But what is Sherlock thinking? This case is obviously not just about the case. He's not sure it ever was. This whole – thing, the marriage, the decorations, everything, it just feels to John like Sherlock is dragging it out unnecessarily, like he's adding layers to what's happening that John can't discern the justification for. He's logically presented why he's doing this, but something seems to be missing from the picture.

The rehearsal flies by. Daniel finishes his reading with little enthusiasm, and following that, John and Sherlock make no move to kiss. Daniel doesn't look surprised; instead he's eyeing them both like they're ticking bombs and he can't find the blue or the red cable.

When it's over, Daniel goes over a few things with the four of them to make sure they know exactly what to expect on the actual day and how things will proceed. Sherlock's not listening, and John's pretending to. Molly and Lestrade have shared more than a few baffled looks.

Sherlock turns to John and says, "There are some tests I need to run at Barts."

John says, "Do you mind if I head home? I feel like a bit of a kip."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow briefly.

"Not at all," he says, "I'll text you any developments."

"Right. See you later then."

–––

Back at 221, John finds himself roped into a conversation with Mrs Hudson.

"… taking milk and teabags. It's ridiculous." Mrs Hudson says, "I'm not your housekeeper after all."

They're sitting at Mrs Hudson's dining table in 221A, tea cups in front of the both of them. John's been wading through his own thoughts, so there's a pause as he returns to shore.

"I – what?"

Mrs Hudson gives him a concerned look, "Something on your mind dear?"

"Sorry, no, just a bit tired."

Mrs Hudson gives him a small understanding smile, "What's Sherlock gone and done now then?"

John looks at her for a moment, opens his mouth to ask how she can tell and is it really that obvious? Instead he sighs, resting a hand on the table.

"I don't know if he is doing anything, Mrs Hudson. One second I swear something's different, but... I don't know. This is Sherlock, and he can be a confusing bastard as it is."

Mrs Hudson tuts disapprovingly.

"Sorry," John says, staring at his cup of tea.

They sit in silence for a moment, lost in their thoughts.

Mrs Hudson leans forward and takes John's hand in hers, "Now, John, I don't know what this is about but let me tell you something. That silly bugger cares about you a great deal, even if he has a funny way of showing it. Whatever he's gone and done to upset you, he probably hasn't thought it through. He does that, you know – thinks with his head and not with his heart. His heart, oh, he has a bigger one than he lets on. That's what he needs you for, dear. To take care of the heart business."

John's eyes crinkle at the ends as he smiles, "Thanks, Mrs Hudson."

"No worries, dear," she pats his hand and gets up to put their empty mugs away.

–––

John trudges up the steps to 221B with his stomach full of tea, biscuits and moths.

Not butterflies, because butterflies are colourful and pleasant and pretty. What he's feeling is not pleasant – it's lacking anything to do with sunshine and flowers and he thinks he's going to be sick.

He needs to talk to Sherlock. There's no way they can just leave this – whatever is or isn't going on – hanging in the air between them.

But by God, he's bloody terrified.