John woke around 5 am, jerking and sitting up sharply.
"Shh, shh." Sherlock was there in a second, helping him out of his slumber. "Bad dream?"
John nodded, rubbing his eyes. "It's been a long time since I had that one," he whispered.
"The war?" Sherlock asks, worry crossing his face. "Or the...the building...St. Bart's...?"
John flinched as he heard the second option.
"Sorry. Shh, I'm sorry." Sherlock pulled John close. "Which was it?"
"Bart's," John whispered.
Sherlock held John with all the force he could muster, trying to reassure him wordlessly that he was still there, wasn't going anywhere, that St. Bart's was behind them now. More than four years ago. It was all going to be okay, he tried to tell him. Today was going to be perfect.
John still hated going to St. Bart's. He avoided it whenever he could, even taking a longer taxi or tube ride to avoid it. As Sherlock recalled this, John slowly relaxed into his arms, trying to convince himself that it would never happen again,
"It's still early," Sherlock murmured. "You can go back to sleep if you like. You don't have to be back at the flat to get dressed until eleven."
"I can't sleep now." he whispered. "You haven't slept yet, have you?"
"No," Sherlock said. "I couldn't."
"Come on, lie down."
"I'm too nervous to sleep," Sherlock protested, though he did as John asked.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
John stroked Sherlock's cheek. "Shh. It's okay." He began to sing softly to Sherlock, his sure-fire way to get his darling to sleep. John's voice was deep and surprisingly fantastic, and it had a nearly instantaneous effect on Sherlock, who felt his worry ebb away gradually as he settled against the mussed bedsheets.
John smiled softly as he sang wordlessly, making up the tune as he went. He stroked Sherlock's hair softly, helping him relax. And Sherlock fell, very softly and sweetly, to sleep.
When he woke, John was already gone, and it was near half eleven. There was a note on the table beside Sherlock's bed.
Sherlock, it read. If you're reading this, I'm off and didn't want to wake you; you deny it, but you look like an angel when you sleep. Anyway, I've gone back to 221B. Chapel at two-thirty. I can't tell you how much I can't wait. Remember to smile. Love, John.
Elsewhere, John smiled as he fit himself into his clothes for the day.
Mycroft came over at noon to find Sherlock staring at the suit he was supposed to wear, a cup of steaming tea in his hand and an expression of pure terror on his features. Mrs Hudson was already there with Lestrade.
"Come now, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson cooed. "You wouldn't want to leave poor John at the altar on his own, now, would you?
"No," Sherlock said, "of course I wouldn't. But what if everything goes wrong?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "If you let John down, it will all go wrong. You've got an hour, Sherlock, wake up! This is important!"
"I am awake! I'm just terrified!" Sherlock snapped at him. "It's not as if your marriages have gone particularly well."
Lestrade winced. Sherlock's phone rang.
"What?" Sherlock said sharply into the receiver, not bothering to look who was calling.
There was a pause, then John's nervous voice. "Sh... Sherlock?"
"Oh. Oh!" Sherlock sobered immediately. "Sorry, John. Sorry. Are you alright?" Lestrade's small laugh sounded from somewhere to his left, and Sherlock gave everyone in the room the two-fingered salute with no fanfare.
"I-I'm fine, but I'm a little worried about you now."
"Fine. I'm fine. People are annoying me." Sherlock's voice softened. "Why are you calling? Is something wrong with the food? The flowers?"
John chuckled quietly. "No, love. Everything's perfect." His voice is warm and hopeful, and something about it melted Sherlock's heart. "I was just making sure that you weren't, you know..." John's voice became frightened. "Getting cold feet."
"Not at all," Sherlock said, though that wasn't completely true. Not cold feet exactly, more like Oh-God-what-if-everything-goes-wrong kind of feet. "And you?"
John paused. "You are, aren't you?"
"No! Not like you think. I'm just worried things won't go right and then you'll get angry and everything will be ruined and you'll leave or worse and now everyone in this bloody room is laughing at me and I know it's pointless to be anxious but I can't help it." Sherlock said this all in one breath.
John's voice softened. "Sherlock, sweetheart, it's okay to be nervous. I am too."
"That's...er, good. I think?"
John chuckled. "Sherlock, you have half an hour. Please get ready? Please?"
"Nearly there," Sherlock said. "Everything but the jacket."
John sounded relieved. "Really?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "It fits well. Molly did quite well on the clothes, I think."
Sherlock could hear John's smile through the phone. "Yeah, she did."
"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the quite bawdy jokes emanating from the other people in the room.
"Yeah. Already at the Chapel."
Sherlock smiled. "Be there within the hour," he said, closing the phone. Mrs. Hudson was smiling at him, her eyes filling with tears.
"So sentimental," Sherlock murmured to her, pulling her into a comforting hug. "It's not as if we're leaving the flat or anything."
"I know, dear," She whispered. "I'm just so happy for you two. Poor John was such a wreck when you left, and now you two are getting married." She sniffled. "It's just such a happy change."
"I know," Sherlock soothed her. "And you'll be right in the front row. Are you going to cry then, too?"
Mrs Hudson laughed. "Of course I will, dear."
"And John will, too, I expect."
"And I might, as well," Sherlock laughed. "Oh, this could be fun."
"We'd best get going, Sherlock." Lestrade put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Don't keep your bride waiting."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock agreed. "Mycroft, I assume you've a car waiting?"
Mycroft nodded, smiling at his brother.
"Shall we, then?" Sherlock pulled on his jacket, tucked John's note into his inside pocket, next to his heart, and held the door open for his companions. They followed him out, and Mycroft led them to the car.