There was a post on Tumblr where it said, "during the wedding ceremony, when the vicar asks if anyone objects, mycroft looks over to sherlock and sees his lip tremble."
I was completely content with reading it, then going back to writing my TEH review. Later on, the same post appeared again, but this time with a comment that said, "*waits for all the angsty/unrequited fic*" and I couldn't even react so fast as my plot bunny was running.

Rated T


If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together – let them speak now or forever hold their peace.

There was, much to Lestrade's surprise, a moment in which everyone seemed to hold their breath. As if no one was entirely sure there wasn't someone around who would object. But who should? Family and friends of John and Mary had gathered to witness their wedding. They were an adorable pair, and as far as Greg had seen, everyone was delighted to be here. Except for maybe John's best man, Sherlock, who looked like he'd been dragged to his own execution, but that was just Sherlock disliking weddings and their sentimentality.

Earlier the detective inspector had been subjected to a listing of reasons why marriage was an unnecessary and antiquated institution - it had been the closest he believed Sherlock was ever going to get to ranting. Greg had just smiled and patted Sherlock's back; he knew that despite all his complaining, the younger man was glad to be here, and honored to have been asked to be John's best man.

The pause now worried him a bit; he'd been at several weddings, but he couldn't remember to have ever experienced a moment of quiet so long after that particular question he had never even fully understood.

With a slightly irritated smirk he dared to take a look around.

Molly was smiling serenely, smitten by the beauty of the whole scenery and probably imagining her own dream wedding. Her fiancé hadn't been able to attend the wedding; it was why she was now sitting next to Lestrade, who had offered to be her "date" for the day.

John's sister, Harry, a short blonde with a fierce attitude and very attractive brunette company, looked at her brother with a fond smile, but also a hint of doubt in her face; probably remembering her own failed marriage, a face Greg had learned about a little earlier before the ceremony when Harry made a comment about "not messing it up like she did" to John.

Mary's aunt, Annette, an almost regal lady with a fascinating kind of elegant cheerfulness about her, carefully brushed away a tear from the corner of her eye whole her features were adorned by a proud smile; Annette apparently was the closest Mary still had for family, and was like a mother to the bride.

And Mrs. Hudson was- oh. Lestrade frowned. Mrs. Hudson had competed with the sun itself ever since she had arrived; she was so happy for John and couldn't stop mentioning it, even though there had been one or two remarks to John as well as Sherlock Greg hadn't really understood. Now, however, the smile was gone and a sorrowful, sympathetic expression in place, while her eyes rested on...

Sherlock.

The detective inspector's frown deepened when he followed Mrs. Hudson's eyes and John's best man came into view, standing sideways to the guests. And if he hadn't looked happy before, now he was positively gloomy. Instead of paying attention, he was staring ahead, past the bridal couple next to him, his eyes empty, his features hard. He was pressing his teeth together so tightly that the light vibration the strain on the muscles caused Greg saw even from a few meter away. Was it really so hard for him to keep his opinions on weddings to himself? And why would the words of the vicar bring forth an impulse to speak up when he otherwise never cared about when and how he shared his opinions on something?

"Are you really sure, John? Now that Sherlock is back? Maybe..." - "No, Mrs. Hudson, I told you."

"Don't be sad, Sherlock. You will still have him as your friend, I'm sure." - "I believe I will."

The words, exchanges between John, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, suddenly floated around his memory. It hadn't made sense before. Now he looked at Sherlock, and his tenacious attempt to keep his mouth shut, and it did.

Let them speak now or forever hold their peace.

For a moment, Greg thought Sherlock would give in after all. But he didn't speak. He just relaxed his features, these fluttering muscles and almost-trembling lips, and looked down, with an expression Lestrade had never thought he would ever see on the face of Sherlock Holmes: defeat. And utter, utter sadness.

In that moment Greg understood that the man who barely made friends, who, to his understanding, has never known love, had just given up his heart's only true desire.