Long chapter is very very loooong. ^_^ I can't promise they'll all be this long, but for the moment at least, my word count has gone up again. Welcome to just over 9,000 words!
To reflectiveless, dana-san, The Lord Writer, CrystalCay, Drunken Strawberries, ENTWolf, snapletonius, flyingmintbunnyisreal, Akochan97, TakingItOutOnTheWall, Ganondorf-Lover, MASHGIRL1001, Guest, Nami1415,and every person who followed/favorited this story, thank you very much for your support and encouragement. That support is what has motivated me to keep such consistent updates. I am so glad you have enjoyed the story thus far, and I hope you continue to enjoy it.
I like to thank my Beta, Helena Chauby for her editing skills.
I would also like to thank Lady of Clunn for her careful and informative Britpicking.
Finally, I must thank my flatmate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff. We are never getting the mountain of boxes out of our living room are we? *sigh* At least you don't put eyeballs in the microwave.
Chapter 12: Doubts and Dark Places
"Your cousins are fast," John breathed, slightly winded. Sherlock and he had just finished an impromptu football match with Sherlock's plethora of cousins, and they were making their way back to their own suite of rooms. This past week had seen a great number of wedding guests slowly trickling into the estate. John couldn't decide if he was more intimidated by the number of Holmes's, or the impossible task of trying to remember all their names.
It was hard to believe that they had been at the estate for an entire week; it felt longer and shorter at the same time. John's mind swam at the thought of all the last minute wedding activities they had managed to cram into only seven days. Were they really getting married tomorrow?John glanced up at Sherlock, and willed himself not to blush when Sherlock winked back at him.
"Yes, well, you weren't the only one playing football with them," Sherlock mused, "Lestrade was out there exhausting himself as well. Let's hope he put on a good show for my brother."
"Sherlock!" John scolded as they entered their set of rooms. There was a simple sitting room with a fireplace, a bedroom, and an attached bath. "Is that why you suggested the game?"
Sherlock shrugged. "The game involves a great deal of kicking, and I suspect my brother is, as they say, a 'leg' man."
John shuddered. "Stop that. Just stop deducing sexual things about your brother; it's creepy."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as he settled on the couch, across from the armchair John was currently occupying. "Would you rather I deduce sexual things about you?"
John shivered at Sherlock's deep baritone voice. He was suddenly desperate for a change of topic. "You could have informed me that you have twenty-eight first cousins, you know."
Sherlock's mouth quirked in a wry smile. "You never asked."
John rolled his eyes. "And that's only first cousins. How many relatives do you actually have?"
Sherlock shrugged again. "I deleted the number."
"Of course you did," John said, exasperated.
"It's not as if the church will be lopsided," Sherlock began, "we've made it clear in the invitations, and to the ushers, that there's no need to 'pick a side'. It's a ridiculous, outdated sentiment anyways."
"I don't care about seating arrangements, Sherlock." John was sulking now.
Sherlock stood, approached John's chair, knelt before it, and took John's hands in his. "Something has you upset," he stated.
John leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against Sherlock's, and took a deep breath. "Your family had been so welcoming," John began. "Not only that, they're loyal. It's easy to see where Mycroft and you get your possessive streaks from, you're whole family is like a pack of wolves."
Sherlock leaned back slightly and looked at John with a raised eyebrow. "And this a problem why?"
John shook his head, "...I don't like lying to them Sherlock. They let me into their lives, because you said I was trustworthy. What's going to happen when this is all over?"
Sherlock lips tightened slightly. "John, you, yourself, said that this family is massive. I generally avoid family functions, because I have other things to do. I doubt many of them will even notice. It would hardly be the first divorce or annulment that took place in the family." Sherlock lowered his head slightly to be able to look into John's downcast eyes. "My family has all types of people in it John. You remember my cousin Matthew? He's not related to any of us. My Aunt Patricia adopted him from his biological father, Brandon, because he was an unfit father. None of us had ever treated Matthew as anything but a relative. And you and I will still be as we were. There won't be...any hard feelings, so there won't be a reason for anyone to be upset."
John leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh. "That's just what I mean Sherlock, they're good people, just like you. When I agreed to marry you, I'm not sure I was thinking of how many lives this would affect. It just...feels wrong somehow..."
That gave Sherlock pause. He swallowed, and stared up at John. "Do you want to call off the wedding?" John looked down at him in surprise. "We can find other ways to close this case," Sherlock pressed on, giving John's hands a squeeze. "I won't risk our partnership over any case."
John closed his eyes for a moment, and smiled. Opening his eyes, he leaned down, and pressed a small kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "No. I promised you we were in this together. It's a good plan Sherlock, I just don't want to see any more people getting hurt. You say your family will be fine, they'll be fine. You're right, I have only just met most of them."
Sherlock searched John's eyes for a moment, before reaching up, and pulling him down for a kiss. John really was too good. Even now, Sherlock was using him, using their arrangement to satisfy his own secret feelings. Sherlock pulled away gently, pressing another kiss to John's cheek as he did so. "We will catch this killer John," he promised. It was about the one good thing he could promise.
John nodded and gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze. "I know."
Sherlock forced himself to let John's hands go, stand up, and return to the couch. "I will be in my mind palace tonight," Sherlock informed John, assuming his usual 'thinking' pose.
John's brow creased. "You've been doing that every night this week. Is everything okay?"
"Of course," Sherlock said, "Just reviewing clues, and making plans for the honeymoon."
"Make sure you get some sleep tonight, okay?" John said, standing over Sherlock for a moment. "The wedding's tomorrow."
Sherlock smiled despite himself, and nodded. "I remember. You should get some sleep as well."
John nodded, his hand hesitating over Sherlock's nest of curls. It was strange to think how quickly he'd gotten used to having Sherlock in his bed...and how much he missed the lanky consulting detective when he was gone. John rested his hand lightly on the top of Sherlock's head for a moment and said, "Goodnight," before making his way into their darkened bedroom.
Sherlock's pale eyes watched John's retreating form and he sighed, closing his eyes against the uncomfortable truth of their situation. While this current 'plan' was a very good way to help them close the case it was far from the only way. Sherlock may, or may not be playing with fire when it came to his heart and his blogger...but there was no doubt that he was hurting John... Sweet, simple, perfect John who probably had intended to only marry once in his life.
John wanted stability in his life; he exuded it. Beyond all sense and reason John had even managed to bring a sense of stability to Sherlock's particular brand of chaos. And here Sherlock was, wrecking that sense of stability for John, drastically changing the dynamics of their relationship, and pushing the good doctor well outside his comfort zone. John didn't love him...not like that. And while most humans were statistically at least somewhat flexible in their gender preference for a mate, John preferred women. This was hurting John; Sherlock was hurting John.
And still, every time Sherlock considered another way of solving the case his traitorous heart would present many useless but infinitely persuasive reasons why he should stay the course. It would be exceedingly difficult, and complicated, to pull back from this plan now, the night before the wedding...
Guilt was not an emotion Sherlock indulged in often. What was the point? You did what you had to and if, along the way, someone's feelings were a bit hurt, they were still likely better off than they were when you started...but not John. Sherlock wasn't just doing what he had to...
Sherlock's hands slipped out of position, up his face, and his palms pressed firmly into his eyes. He may just have to retire after this case, because Mycroft was actually right about something. Sherlock had been using John... Not that he didn't normally use John. Sherlock knew he'd been using John since the first day they met. For entertainment, for backup, to have someone pick up after him...for friendship...and now...
Sherlock pulled in a slow, uneven breath, pulled his hands back and blinked at the ceiling. His hands were shaking as he pressed them together, and he knew his current position was a poor imitation of his usual thinking pose; he was losing control mentally and physically. He was on uncertain ground... For once in his life he had no idea, absolutely none, about what to do.
What possible futures were there? As much as he wanted to consider the possibility of John staying with him, the possibility of John actually choosing Sherlock as his partner... Sherlock couldn't think that way. John had not chosen him...Sherlock had manipulated him...The probability of John choosing to be with him... was zero. It would not happen.
Sherlock's eyes burned, so he squeezed them shut. His breathing was barely regulated, but he had to stay quiet... John was sleeping just a room away. Sherlock was very, very good at controlling his transport, at bending it to his will... but his current...feelings surged violently, fighting for command of his body. Sherlock was never one to take orders. He forced his transport to comply, to fall into place... but just barely. He was certain he looked the picture of quiet contemplation, despite the swirl of his thoughts, the racing of his heart, and the slight uneven pace of his breathing. For once, he was completely unable to reign in the direction of his mind. There were too many viable options, and none of them were good...
If John stayed as just his flat mate? The pain that spread in Sherlock's chest felt so real, his fingers clenched in response. No. This was surely his best option, and yet, everything in him rebelled against it. It felt like going backwards over broken glass.
Slipping into a disguise for an hour, a day, even weeks on end; that was easy. But for the rest of his life? Sherlock's hands would clench every time he wanted to reach out and touch John, Sherlock would never be able to keep the worry out of his voice if John was hurt, and if John found someone else...
Sherlock was instantly torn, part of him wanting to rip this imaginary rival from the face of the earth, and the other part unable to keep John from anything that would make him happy. ... God, he'd spend the quiet times between cases tying himself up in knots. The cases might not be any better, because now it would feel like something was missing...
John was smart too. He'd figure Sherlock out one day, and then...Then it would get impossibly worse. They'd lose all of the ease with which they'd worked together for so long. John would be double thinking Sherlock's every word and gesture, wondering when Sherlock's unwanted affections would make themselves known again... And then he would leave. John would leave, if he wasn't driven out the first time he saw and understood the hunger in Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock forced his breathing to remain even, but if felt like he was breathing fire, and it stung in his nose and throat like the coldest winter air. The thought of John leaving, however he left...it was a dark, terrible freedom.
Most people only thought of the upsides of freedom. The freedom to chose ones profession, the freedom to live where one wanted, the freedom to chose one's mate...although Sherlock was still dubious on how much choice one had in falling in love in the first place...But there were twisted, painful forms of freedom as well.
Sherlock could almost see it, breathing in 221B, knowing John's scent would soon fade, pacing the flat with no one to complain about the odd hours Sherlock kept, no one to force him to eat...In some ways it would make him more dangerous because he would truly have nothing to lose. What would it matter, then, if his next tumble off a roof was real? Oh, he would've jumped off Bart's for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade alone; they were Sherlock's true friends. John was the real reason that Sherlock had began to slowly claw his way back home; John was worth coming back for. John would always be worth coming back for...
And here Sherlock was, taking the one person he would always care about, and dragging him through a dangerous case that had to be making John uncomfortable in every aspect. John would keep his word, yes, but was it worth it? Nothing was worth hurting John. There had to be a way to back out of this wedding; there was always a way. If only Sherlock could bend his unwilling mind in that direction, he might be able to find the way out...
John turned over in the bed that Sherlock and he were supposed to share, and sighed. He wasn't getting any sleep tonight. Or, if he did, it wasn't coming anytime soon. The drapes were drawn over the windows to their bedroom, but John could see the moonlight framing the edges of the fabric. It was a full moon tonight, and the light was bright.
With another sigh John heaved himself up, out of the bed, and he tugged on a robe. He knew it was late, but Sherlock must still be in the sitting room, thinking.
John wrung his hands in front of him as he paced the room, his fingers absently running over the space where his wedding ring should be. He'd worn it for what? A month? He'd only given it to the jeweller for final alterations a week ago. Still... it felt...wrong to be without it. Probably he'd just gotten used to it. That had to be it.
Sherlock had been focused and attentive during the days, but this last week he'd spent almost every night in his mind palace, thinking. John was sure it was something to do with the case, but Sherlock wouldn't give him the details. That worried John. And the pressure of their current situation worried John. And, if John was being completely honest, his own feelings worried him as well.
Turning, John opened to door to the sitting room and strode inside. Sherlock was laying on the couch in his 'thinking' pose as John had suspected. "I'm going for a walk," John said, not sure if Sherlock could even hear him. "I need some air." Then John leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, before making his way out of their rooms altogether.
John was on the stairs before he realised he'd kissed Sherlock at all. With all the 'couple' stuff they had been doing it had become instinctual, natural. John bit his lip to keep himself from making a noise of frustration. He suddenly understood Sherlock's contempt for 'feelings'. John felt awash in strong emotions that darted out of his grasp when he tried to put a name to them... he was so confused.
John had intended to go for a stroll in the gardens, the night was certainly warm enough, but a soft glow from the kitchen caused him to veer off course. John rounded the corner just as Greg closed the refrigerator door. "Feeling a bit peckish?" John asked. The ex-army doctor held back a snort of amusement as Greg started, bumped his head on the side of the fridge, cursed, and turned around.
"Oi, John, give me some warning the next time you sneak up on me, mate," Greg said, setting down a carton of ice cream with one hand while rubbing the top of his head with the other. "What are you doing up then? Pre wedding nerves?"
John flushed and ducked his head. "I was going to go for a walk when I saw the light from the fridge."
Greg had begun scooping the ice cream into a bowl. "Yeah I spent so much time playing with the younger kids today, I didn't eat much."
John looked up and smiled, making his way over to the island where Greg stood. "They sure have taken a liking to you." John had enjoyed watching Greg play with the youngest of the Holmes; he knew Greg had always wanted a large family...maybe the divorce would've been easier on Greg if he'd had children.
Greg's smile widened and he nodded. "I figured I would need a lot of energy to keep them entertained during your reception tomorrow. Care to join me?"
"Please," John said, sitting beside Greg on the high stools. The Detective Inspector reached for another bowl and continued scooping ice cream. They sat together in silence for a few moments, eating. John closed his eyes and focused on the heat he could feel radiating off of Greg's body. He didn't want Greg in any other way then as a mate, a good friend. Still, it was nice to enjoy the company of someone he didn't feel so confused about.
It wasn't that John felt bad about what he was doing with Sherlock, it was that he felt good. It was all too easy, too natural, and it felt too right. John had to wonder, if he ever had the chance to marry for love, would he take it? Could it measure up to the giddy joy that was danger and Sherlock and these cases? John didn't think so.
It felt as though he was on a precipice, staring down an impossible distance, and whirling with vertigo. But Sherlock was his best mate. He'd asked John's permission for this ruse, and John had promised he'd be there. He would never, could never leave Sherlock out in the cold like that. John was a soldier, he knew he could quiet his mind and focus on the task at hand...but what happened when the dust settled?
Earlier in this case John had endlessly picked his feelings apart and now...now he was scared to look at them too closely. What if it meant the end of everything?
John could not, absolutely could not, bear that.
A snort of laughter from Greg finally broke John out of his existential internal monologue. "Sherlock is right," Greg chuckled, "You do think too loud."
John glared at him over his ice cream. In that moment, he was more than a little tempted to help Sherlock in his grand escapade to bring Greg and Mycroft together; let Greg feel a little of what John's inner turmoil was like.
Greg chuckled in the chair and swivel to face John more directly. "Relax, you've got a lot going for you. Sherlock adores you, and you clearly adore him."
John 'hmmed' and took another bite of his ice cream.
"You do," Greg insisted. "Remember earlier in the week, when I was teasing you about being madly in love with Sherlock?"
John rolled his eyes. "I seem to recall something of that nature."
"Well those signs of affection are good things!" Greg insisted. Then he swiveled back to face the island counter and stared morosely into his bowl of ice cream. "I knew I was in trouble with Rebecca, when I stopped seeing little signs like that from her.
John glanced over at his friend and sobered a bit. He was hardly the only one in the room with emotional turmoil to deal with.
Greg stabbed at his ice cream. He lifted a spoonful and stared at it, thoughtfully. "It was when she stopped talking to me altogether that I knew it was over..."
John grimaced in sympathy for his friend. The divorce had been final for three years now, but John could tell Greg was lonely.
Greg glanced at John with a watered down smile and said, "So there's a bit of pre-wedding advice for you, always tell Sherlock what you're thinking. As long as you're honest, I think you two could work out anything."
John nodded. It was good advice...Advice he was already ignoring. Outside of what Sherlock may have already deduced, John had told him nothing of his...crush...or any of the other confusing/conflicting emotions. Without any answers for himself or for Greg, John did the only thing he could think of; he reached over and gave his best friend's hand a squeeze.
John took in a slow, deep breath that turned into a yawn. His body felt heavy, and his mind felt fuzzy; still, his internal clock insisted it was time to be awake. John blinked up at the ceiling and wished he could roll over, go back to sleep. He wished he'd been able to get to sleep sooner...
John drew in another breath, squirming, tensing, and lengthening his body until he could feel the stretch everywhere. He held the stretch for a long moment, until his muscles began to shake with the strain, then he rolled over, snuffling into the bedding once more. John smiled when he smelled Sherlock on their sheets. The consulting detective had still been 'thinking' when John trudged up from his midnight snack; it was nice to know he'd got some sleep.
John lifted his hand, running it along Sherlock's pillow, wishing he was still in bed. John's eyes flickered to a fading bruise on the inner part of his elbow and smiled. In addition to everything else they'd needed to do to make their wedding official with the government, Sherlock had insisted they test each other for STD's and other blood-borne pathogens.
"We're going for realism right?"Sherlock had insisted, "Do you honestly think I would marry someone without getting and providing proof that we are both clean?"
"I have a hard time believing you'd trust anyone enough to have sex, knowing the limitations of protection." John knew the importance of protection, and he'd used it diligently in every sexual encounter he'd had. Going through med school and seeing the affects of the STD's that could be cured, never mind the one's that couldn't, he'd never trusted anyone enough to risk going bareback. One of the assuredly many reasons for John's failed relationships; trust is not optional.
Still, as many lives as it saved, and as many pregnancies as it prevented, protection wasn't foolproof. Knowing how hard it was for Sherlock to make friends, John had a hard time picturing Sherlock trusting anything that wasn't 100% effective.
"I haven't," Sherlock confessed, wrapping a tourniquet around John's arm to prep him for a blood draw.
Even with his earlier assumptions about Sherlock's lack of trust, John stilled in disbelief. "Never?" he had asked before he could stop himself.
"No," Sherlock drawled in that same slow drawl as when John had asked him, so long ago, if he had any pants. John jumped when the needle pierced his arm, overwhelmed. "Watch it," Sherlock insisted, grabbing John's arm to steady him. "You'll get a bruise now."
"My fault," John said trying to gather his thoughts. He knew it was his fault if he got a bruise, Sherlock was better with a needle than some doctors...which lead to another uncomfortable thought. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Sherlock deduced John's thoughts before he could decide if he even wanted to ask.
"I manipulated people, John, I've always been good at it." Sherlock's lips were pressed into a thin, unhappy line and John rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to offer comfort. Memories of the drug days were never easy for Sherlock, despite whatever casual mask he'd tried to put on.
John had winced when Sherlock drew the needle out, and stilled again when Sherlock pressed a bit of cotton to his arm. In retrospect, John really wished he could've blamed the loss of blood on his next question. "So you've never...not anything?"
Sherlock had rolled his eyes before sitting down and smirking up at John. Sherlock rolled up his shirtsleeve, and waited for John to draw his blood continuing his explanation in his slow, posh drawl, "Going without protection is trusting someone with your life unnecessarily. While risks are vastly diminished, if not mostly eliminated, with protection, one is still vulnerable to one's partner. Being alone made more sense." And there was another bloody smirk. "I am, however, familiar with a plethora of masturbatory options, and have tried all of them at least once."
John had forced a breath out through his teeth then, and tried desperately to focus on keeping the needle steady. Thank God Sherlock had waited until blood was collecting in the tiny vial before speaking again. "Well, not all of them..."
John glanced up at him, wondering exactly what he meant... He couldn't help thinking about their first night at Angelo's when John had asked Sherlock if he'd had a girlfriend...'Not my area...' John swallowed, pulling a full vial off of the needle and pressing an empty one in. These tests always needed a handful of vials. John knew there were...toys out there meant to simulate a woman, and he couldn't stop himself from wondering if that was one 'masturbatory option' that Sherlock was unfamiliar with...did that meant he'd tried dildos and vibrators? Did he prefer them? John swallowed again, the image of Sherlock laying back, impaling himself with toys dancing, unbidden, through John's brain.
"Vial is nearly full," Sherlock's baritone voice broke in, and John jumped.
"Right, sorry," John had said, pulling the vial free, then carefully removing the needle from Sherlock's arm. John pressed a cotton to Sherlock's arm and held it there a moment, counting his breaths as he tried to calm himself.
"You jerked the needle a bit," Sherlock observed.
John frowned and murmured, "I'm sorry," running his thumb lightly over Sherlock's skin in apology before he moved the cotton away.
An odd smile had quirked at Sherlock's lips as he'd looked down. "We might have matching bruises."
John found himself smiling at the memory. They'd both come back squeaky clean, no surprise there.
With a short sigh, John pulled himself up, tugged on his usual jeans and jumper combo, and made his way downstairs. There was still a bit of time before they had to leave.
All God's Children Unity Church had long ago annexed some surrounding buildings to add a bit of office space and additional rooms to the original church. This meant there was plenty of room for the wedding party to get changed after they arrived at the church.
John trailed his fingertips lightly over the railing of the steps and tried to imagine what Sherlock would look like in his tuxedo. John's stomach flipped with nervous energy.
During this past week Mycroft had ensured that all the paperwork at the Register Office was taken care of. So, technically, John and Sherlock were already married... Still, it wouldn't feel right until they'd completed the ceremony.
John wiped his suddenly damp palms over the legs of his jeans and tried to focus on brief pleasantries with the various Holmes's roaming the halls. Most of them were in casual clothes, and a few were still in their pyjamas. ...At least no one was in a sheet. John wasn't quite sure he could handle that kind of spectacle today.
One thing John had come to realise, and appreciate, about the Holmes family is that they were as relaxed and informal around each other as they were loyal to each other. For such a posh, intelligent family, they were surprisingly relaxed.
The family forwent scheduled meal times, except for dinner, when they would all gather for conversation if for nothing else. This relaxed atmosphere helped John feel at ease, and meant he never knew who he'd bump into in the dining room. This morning it was just Evie at the table. John doubted she was the first to breakfast, because the table had a small spread of fruit, a tray of toast/croissants, tea, jam, and butter.
"Morning!" Evie called, waving John over.
"Good morning Evie," John said with a smile, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. "How are you?"
She smiled back at him. "Oh, fine. I didn't sleep much, but I'm not sure anyone does the night before a wedding. I'm in good spirits though."
John nodded as he pored himself some tea. "I know what you mean. Greg and I were raiding the ice cream last night."
Evie finished chewing a grape before she said, "Greg is such a nice young man. He gets along so well with the younger children of the family." Evie paused to glance at John suspiciously. "Are you sure he's not seeing my eldest son?"
John chuckled to himself as he spread butter and jam on his toast. "I'm sure. I don't think Mycroft could keep something like that from Sherlock for long." John glanced around before adding, "Do you know where Sherlock is?"
"Riding one of Mycroft's horses," Evie replied, gesturing to the windows that overlooked the estates grounds. "I was watching him earlier."
John smiled and peered out the windows, but, wherever Sherlock was, he wasn't visible through the delicately cut glass at that moment.
"At least he's not experimenting," Evie added, "Because then Eli would want to join him, and we'd all be doomed."
"You're husband experiments too?" John asked, taking a bit of his toast.
Evie chuckled. "He never stops. Even if we're just going out to eat he'd build these constructs with whatever is handy at the table. Cups, cutlery, menus, condiments. He's always trying to make something impossibly high at angles that look more precarious than they are. He's caused a few spills that way." Evie paused a moment, a fond smile creeping over her features. "But he's kept me on my toes."
John was smiling despite himself. "I can only imagine the trouble Sherlock and his dad got into together. Did you have to put out many fires over the years?"
"A few," Evie mused, "but I also caused my fair share."
John's eyebrows rose towards his hairline. "You experiment too?!"
Evie chuckled. "No dear, I cook... badly. I would always forget which burner I turned on, or ignore the directions." Evie gestured energetically with her butter knife, "Once I melted an oven, because I'd accidently left something quite flammable inside before trying to pre-heat it." Evie chuckled ruefully. "Eli took care of most of the cooking until recently. We're both getting on in years so we've hired some help." Another rueful smile. "I'm largely banned from the kitchen outside of baking, the one culinary exercise where I have yet to set a fire."
John smiled and shook his head. "I'm glad I only have the one Holmes to deal with at home. I'm not sure I could keep up with two fire hazards."
Evie smiled warmly. "I'm sure you could manage. Love is a powerful motivator."
John made a slightly sour face then. "Yes, I've heard Sherlock go on endlessly about the crimes it motivates, how destructive and dangerous it can be." John poured milk into his tea and stirred it, watching the light and dark swirl inside his cup. "We had quite a row once just about making friends and trusting people."
Evie's faced darkened with sadness and she nodded. "For a long time, I worried that Sherlock wouldn't be able to open himself up to someone else. Being smart isn't always an advantage."
John nodded thoughtfully. "He's not an easy man to get close to."
Evie reached forward and patted John on the arm. "That's why I was so glad to hear he'd met you, John. Even before you became a couple I could tell, from what Mycroft said, and from your blog, that you two are good for each other."
John flushed slightly and placed his hand gently over Evie's. "Thank you."
Evie smiled back. "You're welcome." She paused to take a long sip of tea. Mrs. Holmes was the picture of calm English serenity when she murmured, "I suppose this is the point where I should warn you that, if you ever break my son's heart, they will never even find your body."
John chuckled for a moment, but sobered when Evie did not join him. "I would never hurt Sherlock," John said earnestly.
"You can't help hurting him," Evie said with an intense look. "To love someone is to be vulnerable. And, as wonderful as it can be, love isn't always pretty. Too many people get caught up in this 'happily ever after' notion. What makes love special isn't that it's easy; it's honoring the commitment you made to each other, especially when times are difficult."
John nodded slowly. "That's good advice." It was crazy, how Sherlock and he had met; all the things they'd done for each other when they barely knew each other. They'd come together so fast, and so completely that John should've been shocked. Any normal person would be, but normal went right out the window when Sherlock was around. Everything Sherlock and John did together felt too natural, too right to be surprising. To John, it felt like finding something he hadn't known he was missing. Now that he had it, John couldn't imagine being without it again...
That was exactly why this case troubled him. It felt too reckless. He had a crush on the impossible bastard for God's sake, and now he was marrying him! They'd been playing the devoted couple for roughly a month, and John's feelings...hadn't diminished. He felt terrible for lying to Sherlock like this... Sherlock valued the truth above all things and John was lying to him, manipulating the case to suit his own purposes. Sherlock had been hurt and betrayed too many times already...John didn't want to add himself to the list...
John felt a strong pressure in his throat at the thought of confessing his, admittedly more than friendly, feelings to Sherlock... Things would never be the same. It did not matter that he was not, could not, be in love with his best friend, because then it really would be all over. Having even slightly romantic feelings towards Sherlock could be enough to end everything! Relationships had never been Sherlock's concern... Jesus, he was still a bloody virgin!...kind of?
If Sherlock deduced John's feelings, it would change everything. He would look at John differently...They got along so easily now that it hurt, physically hurt, to picture being awkward and stilted around Sherlock. John didn't want to lose that spark between them...Sherlock would consider John compromised or something. He probably wouldn't let him help on cases anymore, if he didn't kick him out altogether...
John had to close his eyes for a moment against the sudden sting. He hadn't moved out of 221 B, even after Sherlock's 'fall'... He couldn't imagine moving out now...He would go if he was asked to leave... but John doubted he could make any other flat feel the same; it just wouldn't be home.
Even if John could stomach being dishonest with his best friend, and if, by some miracle, Sherlock overlooked John's true affections, where did that leave them when this case was done? What would happen if his crush didn't go away? What if...
John worried his bottom lip between his teeth, wishing he'd considered the far-reaching consequences before he'd said 'yes' to Sherlock... But, even if he had, John knew he wouldn't have said no. Outside of insisting that Sherlock take care of his basic needs for sleep and food, and preventing the temperamental consulting detective from shooting the wall again, John could never say 'no' to Sherlock. The good doctor was stuck in this awful mess, with no idea how to protect his most valued friendship.
John took a long sip of tea, trying to quiet his growing sense of dread. Losing Sherlock now, over this, would be so much worse than watching him fall... This time, it would be all John's fault...
"And this one," said Eli, stepping a bit further down the hall, with Greg in tow, "This one is a Naginata."
Greg's eyes swept over the weapon mounted on the wall. It began with a sturdy wooden shaft that was approximately 240 centimeters long. At the top was a 60 centimeter curved blade, reminiscent of a katana.
Greg had met Eli on his way down to breakfast, and they'd become somewhat sidetracked. Currently Eli was giving Greg an impromptu tour of the estate. The parts of the estate that lay between them and breakfast, that is. Greg was presently surprised to find Eli made very good company. When he'd pictured the man who'd helped raise Mycroft Holmes, he'd always pictured someone as intimidating as an ancient Greek god. To instead be confronted by this unassuming, bespectacled elderly man of fairly average height and plump build... well, it was the last thing he'd expected.
"It was largely used by single women, maids, and young mothers who might be the last line of defense during an attack. However, it could also be a particularly effective weapon from horseback. The long blade allows the wielder to cover a wide area while also fighting from a distance, hence minimizing injuries, especially injuries to the face. This would allow a woman to fight if she needed to, while still, hopefully, preserving her beauty. "
Greg sighed and rolled his eyes. "That seems exceptionally shallow, worrying about your looks when your life is a stake."
Eli gave a shrug of his shoulder. "Pointing out the silliness in the actions of others rarely stops them from being silly."
"That certainly doesn't discourage your sons from pointing out the idiocy of those around them," Greg chuckled.
Eli nodded. "My sons are both very opinionated. They were raised to give respect only when it was earned, regardless of the status of who they were with."
"I guess that makes sense," Greg agreed. While Sherlock still gave him a dressing down every now and again for missing simple things, Sherlock was not as harsh or as rude as he had been in the early years of their acquaintance. Likewise, Greg was more trusting of the consulting detective than in years past... That didn't mean he was surprised in the slightest when Sherlock brought all manner of hell down on the Yard. You took the good with the bad.
Mycroft on the other hand...Greg had never seen Mycroft be anything other than coolly civil... Well, that wasn't entirely true. Greg had seen Mycroft's deep concern for his brother when Sherlock had struggled with addiction. Greg cringed inwardly at the memory of those days. They had been a special kind of nightmare for him too, because, against all common sense, he liked Sherlock. They'd become friends. One could argue that Mycroft and he had become friends, of a sort, during that time. It had been hell, waiting for one of their sources to call with Sherlock's location, fretting in some private hospital, waiting for Sherlock to detox...wondering if he'd come out of things safely this time...
Mycroft and he hadn't spoken of anything besides Sherlock during those long, sleepless nights, but they'd developed a comradery of sorts. When at last, Sherlock appeared to have achieved sobriety, Greg had made a point of checking up on Sherlock and reporting his findings to Mycroft. Sherlock had resented it, of course, and was badly behaved...but still clean. Shortly after John came into the picture, Greg had stopped. His own marriage was on the rocks then and Sherlock was doing brilliantly.
In retrospect, Greg had to admit that sharing a flat wasn't that much to start a friendship on, but no one could deny what Sherlock and John did for each other. Their connection was electric and instantaneous. It was more than a bit unusual too, the lengths they had been willing to go through for each other so shortly after their first meeting. Greg suspected (and thankfully couldn't prove) that John had killed Sherlock's wayward cabbie...Greg smiled at the thought. Despite his own position as Detective Inspector, he had to admire John's protective streak. One did not fuck with Sherlock Holmes when one John Watson was around. ...Greg had to wonder what a connection like that would feel like.
Greg tried to strike up friendships where he could, in part because a contact was always helpful, and in part because he liked people. Why, after years of checking in on Sherlock, had he and Mycroft lost touch so easily? He supposed the stress of his marriage, and the beginning of John and Sherlock's partnership may have accounted for some of the reasons...but it was more than just that. Mycroft was generally aloof, off-putting, and unapproachable. Sherlock was definitely wary of other people, but Mycroft...Greg had to wonder how alone Mycroft really was.
"Gregory!"
His name wasn't being shouted, but it had been called out in a rather clipped, very posh accent. Greg whipped his head around and looked at Eli, abashed. "Sorry, zoned out for a moment." Greg glanced up at the Naginata once more. "Do you only collect Asian weapons? I remember your wife talking about the time you snuck two katanas through customs."
Eli chuckled. "No, no. I'm most interested in the more delicate Spanish fencing swords, the ones with elaborate wrist guards," Eli gestured with his arm as he spoke, like he was thrusting a sword forward. "The rivalry between Toledo and Damascus as to where the better sword makers are located fascinates me. And the fusion of function and art within the masterpieces they make...well, it's not to be missed if one is a serious sword collector. I just happened to be lucky enough to be gifted those two katanas, and I wanted to get them home." Eli looked up at the Naginata once more, studying it. "Besides, this weapon is one of Mycroft's varied collections."
Greg turned and studied the Naginata once more. A weapon long enough to keep your enemies at bay, while allowing you to defend a large amount of ground... it suited Mycroft, and the thought saddened Greg a bit.
At that moment Eli leaned forwards a bit, and nudged Greg in the side. When Greg turned to look at him Eli said, "So, should I be asking about your intentions towards my son?"
Greg sputtered and took a step back, reeling. "We're not like that," Greg sputtered, "We work together sometimes, I'm John's best man at the wedding and, it's just...not like that."
Eli gave him a sly smile and shrugged. "If you're sure," he murmured, and began walking towards the stairs.
"Yes," Greg stated emphatically. His voice sounded strangled, and that realisation irritated him further. "Positive," he grumbled, "It's not like that."
Eli shrugged. "Can't blame an old man for trying to look after his eldest son now that his youngest is happily settled."
Greg snorted in laughter. "I have a hard time picturing Sherlock being settled...but happy, yes. John's always made him happy. They push each other's buttons a lot and live in their special brand of chaos, but it works."
Eli nodded, resting his hand on the top of the banister. "Good. That's how it should be." Eli hefted the cane he had been walking with in one hand and lifted it towards Greg. "Would you mind carrying that down the stairs for me?"
"Of course not," Greg said, taking the cane from the elder Holmes. It was made of sturdy, beautiful black wood, with a silver tip, and an ornate silver handle depicting a dragon that had emeralds for eyes. It was surprisingly heavy. Greg hefted the weight for a moment, paused, then checked the balance. "How do you get it out?" he asked, half exasperated, half impressed.
Eli chuckled from a few steps down, having begun his decent of the steps while Greg studied his cane. "Twist the handle to the right and pull."
Greg did just that, freeing the slim sword from the confines of its wooden sheathe. He turned it, this way and that, admiring its shine in the bright morning light. Cane swords were hardly practical, and almost never durable, but they'd be good enough for one kill in a pinch. Also, Greg had to admire the artistry both in placing the sword inside the cane, and in concealing it so well. Greg had his own collection of swords and daggers, but a dozen or so, and they were purely functional. He liked actual, durable weapons. Still, it wouldn't hurt to add one or two decorative pieces at some point, purely for the artwork.
"I do hope that is not some poorly conceived assassination attempt, Gregory, you would live to regret it."
Greg glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Mycroft. He really should not find threats of bodily harm endearing... Still, after working at Scotland Yard for so many years, he greatly respected the loyalty that the Holmes family had for one another.
"Morning sunshine," Greg cooed, sliding the cane sword back into place and trying, very hard, not to laugh at the sour expression on Mycroft's face. He'd overheard Mrs. Holmes referring to Mycroft this way once, and, upon discovering that it annoyed him, Greg had used the expression relentlessly. "Are you actually planning on eating today?"
"There is nothing wrong with my diet!" The hiss and strain in Mycroft's voice was barely detectable; this man lived for control. Greg's grin only widened at further evidence that Mycroft Holmes had feelings.
Greg tucked the cane under his arm, and Mycroft stepped past him, joining his father on the stairs. One of Eli's hands held the railing firmly for balance. Without a word Mycroft gently took his father's other hand in his own.
Greg smiled softly; it was a touching scene. That is, until Eli turned slightly and, with a raised eyebrow said, "If you're sure." A quick wink accompanied the statement, and Greg let out another small chocking sound.
Mycroft glanced quickly between Greg and his father. "What is going on?" he asked.
"Nothing," Mr. Holmes and Greg said at once. It was far from convincing, but while Greg writhed in discomfort, Mr. Holmes only laughed.
Mycroft spent a few more moments glancing between Greg and his father, but ultimately said no more on whatever private conversation had been referenced. Instead, Mycroft turned back to his father and asked, "How did you sleep?"
Eli smiled up at his son. "Very well Mycroft, and yourself? I hope you got at least some sleep."
Mycroft nodded. "Of course. I am not in the habit of pushing myself too far."
Greg noticed the pointed glance Mycroft sent his way, but chose to ignore it.
"How is your herb garden coming in this year, father?" Mycroft asked when it became apparent that Gregory would not rise to his bait.
"The poisonous one?" Eli asked casually. Mycroft nodded. "Very well. It's still very far from the house so it takes a bit longer to get there, but it's off to a wonderful start this year."
"That is good to hear. May I send Anthea to collect some samples once the crop has fully grown in?"
'Just your average morning before a wedding,' Greg thought, 'talking about concealed weapons and poisonous plants.' The surrealness of the conversation was making him a bit giddy, and it took substantial effort not to laugh.
"As long as you don't use any on your cousin Andreas," Eli replied, "No matter how annoying he is at the wedding."
And with that comment, detective inspector Lestrade lost his inner battle, and let loose a flood of giggles that left his stomach aching. The looks Mycroft kept shooting him only made it worse.
Several hours later a great deal of people were swarming around the estate, getting ready to leave. The immediate wedding party, that is to say, Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Greg, Evelyn, and Elijah, were making their final preparations to leave much earlier than the rest of the family. This was, of course, because they had preparations and final dressing of the grooms waiting for them at the church.
"Have we got everything?" Evie asked, casting her gaze around the entrance way as though any forgotten items or tasks would present themselves for her review.
John smiled as he watched this. Dread still lingered at the edges of his mind, but what could he do about it? He'd made a promise; he would pull himself together and deal. He had to trust Sherlock, trust their mission. In his entire career he'd only left one mission unfulfilled, and being shot was one hell of a good excuse. For now he would focus only on what was directly in front of him. One step at a time.
In the week that he'd known Evie, and the rest of the Holmes family, he'd become quite fond of them... There was a warmth and a fierce affection that wasn't always present in his own family. John's own parents, and Harry, had elected to meet them at the church. He was looking forward to seeing them... but also a bit nervous. John had long experience of Harry's addiction making itself known at the worst moments. She'd been doing well for a while, but it was still in the back of his mind. And his parents...well they still surprised him with unintentional stings and slights. John was sure they didn't mean any of them, but his nerves were on end as was.
"Nearly everything, Mummy," Sherlock replied, grasping her by the shoulders from behind and planting a quick kiss to the top of her head. "Mycroft just needs to unpack his weapons."
Mycroft glared. "Sherlock!" he hissed in a low voice. Sherlock was not intimidated.
"This is a wedding, Mycroft. My wedding, and I won't have you showing up armed to the teeth. It's bad enough I know your agents will be swarming nearby and in the crowd all day. They should be more than enough."
There was a brief, intense, stare off, which ended abruptly when Evie broke in, "Leave your weapons behind, Mycroft."
Mycroft huffed, before calling over Anthea. She would not be attending the wedding, but had shown up this morning to help oversee the preparations for the reception. "Please return a few things to the safe for me," Mycroft said. Anthea nodded and, putting away her phone, held out her hands. Mycroft produced two derringers, one from each wrist, a pistol that had been hidden in his jacket, an ankle knife, a can of mace from his pocket, three large razor blades from his other pocket, and a pair of handcuffs from God knows were.
Sherlock raised a calculated eyebrow. "Kinky," he murmured.
"Behave!" Mycroft ordered with a glare.
"And the garrote Mycroft," Sherlock insisted, undeterred. Mycroft let out a long suffering sigh before undoing a cufflink that came away with two feet of wire attached to it. Mycroft reached inside is sleeve with his free hand, undid something, and the wire/cufflink combo came away from his sleeve without further comment. Unphased, Anthea handed Mycroft a non-armed cufflink to replace the one he had just removed.
"Better?" Mycroft asked in a huff.
Sherlock looked smug. "Much better."
Greg stood close by with his mouth slightly agape. "Did you have that many weapons on you when I smashed your phone?" he asked.
Sherlock gave a quick snort of laughter. "Goodness, no, he was dressed for work, not a wedding. He would have had at least twice that."
Greg looked, and felt, positively gob-smacked.
It was Mycroft's turn to look smug. "Anything to say for yourself Gregory?" he asked, arching an eyebrow at the detective inspector.
Greg narrowed his eyes and glowered at the elder Holmes brother. "You're still an arse," he insisted.
This set off a round of good natured chuckling before Eli stepped forward and handed Anthea his cane. "Should probably put this away too, I don't need it that much yet, and I've always got Evie."
Evie smiled as she stepped up beside her husband, taking his arm.
John's brow crinkled a bit. "A cane's not that much of a weapon."
"This one is," Anthea corrected, demonstrating how to open it and showing John the steel hidden inside, despite her armful of weapons.
"Somehow, I wasn't expecting that," John admitted, "And I think I should've been."
More good-natured chuckling. Sherlock looped his arm around John's shoulders. "Yes, do try to keep up."
"You too dear," Eli said, looking at Evie and sounding a bit stern.
Evie managed to look convincingly innocent. "Me what?"
Eli fixed his wife with an intent look for a long moment before she relented. "You are no fun," she said with a small pout. She raised her hand to her not insubstantial bosom, slipped her hand inside her clothing, and removed a small but sturdy folding knife. She handed the knife to Anthea, who took it without complaint.
"If that will be all?" Anthea asked.
Mycroft nodded grumpily. "Yes Anthea, thank you."
Anthea nodded back before making her way down the hall to store the weapons.
Now John was the one who looked speechless. Sherlock had not forgotten his earlier concerns about John's welfare and presence in his life. Frowning slightly, he gave John a squeeze with the arm still wrapped around his shoulder and asked, "Are you alright?"
John blinked and looked up at Sherlock, slightly dazed. "Your family is awesome," John spoke slowly as if there were a period between every word.
Sherlock broke into quiet laughter, shortly joined by the rest of the wedding party.
"Well, Evie said, taking a firm hold of her husband's arm, "If that is everything, we really should be going. We're on a tight schedule."
There was a chorus of, "Yes mummy," and the wedding party allowed themselves to be herded towards the door.
John was just settling his things in the dressing room that had been provided for him, when he heard a knock on the door frame (he'd left the door open). John turned and smiled.
"Hello Harry," he said holding out his arms, which Harry practically leapt into.
"Johnny," she breathed, hugging him tightly. "Congratulations."
"Thank you," John murmured into her neck, holding her close for a few more moments.
Harry eased back, just enough to look John in the eyes. "You look tired, brother."
John rolled his eyes at his sister. "If I remember correctly, you didn't look too peppy on your wedding day either. There's a lot to do, and I was too wound up to get much sleep."
Harry nodded. "I remember." She ran her hand trough John's hair, smirking when it came away wet. "At least you showered though. "
"Of course," John said, "The estate is so big I didn't even have to fight Sherlock to get my turn."
Harry raised an eyebrow at this and John flushed when he realised what he sounded like. "That's not… I didn't mean," he floundered.
Harry chuckled. "Relax, you're about to marry the man right? Just sit with a warm wash cloth over your eyes for five minutes, and that should help freshen you up."
John nodded. "Right, thanks for the advice."
"Hello there," came a familiar voice. John looked up and beamed at his parents.
"Dad, Mum, I'm glad you could make it," John said as he pulled them in for a group hug.
"Wouldn't miss your wedding for the world, baby," his mom said, giving John a kiss on the cheek as she pulled back.
John, to the amusement of many, was the shortest one in his family. His mother, Anne, was a thin women who stood 5'10". Her brunette hair was shoulder length and constantly in a perm. Today she wore a light grey dress that matched her eyes perfectly. John's father, Edward, was a slightly pudgy, bald man who stood at 6' even, with eyes that matched his only Son's. Even Harry had an inch on him, standing at 5'9".
John gave Harry's hand a quick squeeze as a show of support. He remembered his parents hadn't been too keen on the idea of homosexuality when Harry'd gotten married. They'd come around since then...mostly.
"Where is your husband to be?" John's father asked.
John cringed at the way his father hesitated over the word husband, as though it didn't taste right.
"He's in his own dressing room at the moment," John replied, "We're going to meet just outside the main hall, and walk down the aisle together."
John's father clapped him on the shoulder. "Right then, good luck." John nodded.
"We want you to know dear," his mum said softly, "Even though this isn't quite normal, as long as it makes you happy, we're happy for you."
John gave her a tight-lipped smile. He knew his parents were trying, and that change wasn't easy, but he still felt put off by some of the things they said. "Thanks, Mum," he said shortly. She nodded and, with one more group hug, his parents made their way back towards the nave of the church.
John looked at Harry, who was giving him a sympathetic look. He gave her hands a squeeze, and she smiled. "Clara's here with me," she said quietly.
John smiled more genuinely. "That's great Harry, I'll make sure to say hello at the reception."
Harry smiled back. "You'd better, or I'll have to ambush you." She gave John a quick peck on the cheek and one more "Good luck," before she too was making her way to the pews. John shut the door to his dressing room and started to get ready.
Harry'd been right. The warm washcloth did wonders, and before long he was straightening his tie in the mirror. It was the first stretch of time he'd had to himself since his musings over breakfast...
John was just reaching out for his boutonniere, when everything hit him. His hands started shaking so badly, he had to put the boutonniere back down. Oh, god what was he doing?
John suddenly felt cold and sick. He leaned heavily against a desk in the corner of the room, his breath coming quickly. This was really happening, and it had the very real potential to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him.
John fought to slow his breathing, and calm his rising panic. It was one thing to think about this wedding and its repercussions abstractly...but when he'd seen the boutonniere, he couldn't help but remembered Dylan and Kyle on their honeymoon-they had given them the idea to use orchids. They'd looked so happy...Did Sherlock and he ever look like that? John sucked in a ragged breath. This was too much. The doubt, the fear, everything he had thought about at breakfast, and managed to put aside for a time, came back to him-all at once.
It felt like he was losing control, like the whole situation was slipping out of his grasp. Suddenly the pain of Sherlock's fall seemed fresh again. John couldn't, he couldn't lose Sherlock again. Not over something like this...This case was dangerous enough as it was. Now, with John's mixed up feelings, and this wedding, it felt like they were throwing gasoline into an inferno.
John hear the door click open then shut again. Suddenly, Sherlock was sitting on a chair in front of him, holding John's face in his hands. "John," Sherlock murmured slowly, trying to break through the haze of adrenaline, "John, what's wrong?"
Sherlock had just finished his own dressing, and had come in to check on John. After turning his thoughts in circles for most of the night, Sherlock did manage to catch a few hours of sleep. He'd barely had enough sleep to take the edge off before he was awake again and itching with unanswered questions. He'd ended up at the stables, revisiting his concerns during a morning ride.
While he was riding, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that it was too late to pull out of the wedding; that he'd have to just push through and be clever enough to make it out with his relationship intact... but all those resolutions had fled from his mind when he'd seen John leaning against the desk, distressed.
Damn this case, damn Lestrade, damn Mycroft and, God help him, damn the victims too. John was more important to Sherlock than every one of them. Sherlock would throw his careful planning to the wind, likely ruining his chances of solving this case, instantly if that's what John needed to feel calm and comfortable again.
Sherlock stood then, pulling John closer to him, his hands still bracketing John's face. "John," Sherlock repeated, with much more calm than he felt, "John, what's wrong?" Sherlock swallowed hard, his eyes darting over John's face. "What do you need?" Sherlock asked. "Do you want to call off the wedding?"
John started and looked up into Sherlock's concerned face. John's hands grabbed at the fabric around Sherlock's waist, his fingers tightening in the cloth. He saw caring and warmth in Sherlock's eyes, and John had to come out with the truth, at least, part of it.
"Sherlock," John breathed, his voice shaking, "I...I can't do this..."