John wasn't going to allow for another sleepless night. He came down for tea with purpose in his steps to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table with a few petri dishes and assorted scientific utensils out before him. It was going to be one of those evenings, then. John much preferred the days when boredom was dealt with in the accompaniment of song rather than a variety of fungi and other cultures. He supposed he couldn't expect Sherlock to pick up from where they'd left off the night before. John certainly intended to, though.
Dressed in a white button-down rather than his customary lounge wear, Sherlock seemed to have made the most of the day despite all plans to stay indoors. Residual high, his mood still elevated on the pleasure of a well-solved case and a hobby to occupy the problem solving side of his mind. He more or less ignored John as he came into the kitchen no better dressed than having rolled out of bed, the scientist's steady hands requiring his attention more so than his flatmate entering a room. Making the most of the day obviously hadn't included washing the dishes from breakfast or emptying out the kettle. John frowned at them, knowing full well who was expected to deal with the small stack of plates and mugs. He rinsed them with the stagnant water from the kettle before setting it under the tap to refill and set once more to boil. It gave him a task in the interim which kept his back turned from Sherlock's seated figure. It was much easier to talk about some things when only the sound of his voice mattered.
John rolled up his sleeves before grabbing a small rag. The stuck-on jam was already annoying him and he hadn't even tried scrubbing it off yet. "So, when do I meet her?" he asked, speaking over the rush of the tap as hot water splashed against the plates.
Sherlock's response was unsurprising. "Meet whom?"
"Your wife."
"Still on that, are you?" John heard the squeak of Sherlock's chair as he leaned back, catching the change in weight distribution in the way the chair legs drummed on the tile. Sherlock would perhaps be impressed if their conversation had anything to do with aural clues and body placement. "Why does it matter so much?" Sherlock asked, sounding tired and bored and not in the least bit guilty.
It was annoying. "Why does it matter that you got married and didn't tell me? Do I really need to explain it to you?"
"What is it you want, John?"
John shrugged, finally getting the jam off with the strength of his thumbnail while the rag washed away the film of butter. "I don't know. A name. A picture. A story about how the two of you met, maybe?" He turned the tap on to rinse the dishes, his frustration very unlike the streams of water that rolled down and dissipated through the drain. "I have introduced you to every girl I've dated and yet I haven't a clue who you married. Can you see how maybe that's a little unfair?"
"I never asked to meet the girls you were dating," Sherlock said in weak defense.
"Sherlock, you invited yourself on my dates!"
"Well, it was important."
"And you falling in love and getting married isn't?" John turned around, scowling with impunity to find Sherlock sitting sideways in his chair, facing John with his arm casually bent across the top. The dark ring was gleaming in the overhead light from its customary placement on his hand but still not brighter than the intensity in Sherlock's pale eyes.
John had been wrong; there was a bit of guilt there though it was masked with an overall expression of disappointment. Disappointed in him? John could not fathom the line of thought the genius detective would have to follow for him to feel anything but indebted to John with information.
Sherlock worried his bottom lip, the plump line of pink pulling thin under his teeth. "Look, I did consider discussing it with you but I didn't think it was... appropriate," he settled for, looking displeased with the choice of words all the same. "You would have had reservations and I preferred the idea of secrecy over disregard."
John's hairline raised in surprise. "I would have had reservations? Me? So I know her, then." or at least that was one possibility. Still, who did John know who liked Sherlock? Only Molly really came to mind of the living and if she had somehow managed to keep it a secret then she really was deserving of merit there. But no, no, Molly wore her heart on her sleeve and would have been more than obvious about such ceremonious tidings. If not for love, then, who did John know who would best benefit from a marriage to Sherlock? "... Mrs. Hudson?"
It was a shot in the dark and rather worth it for the way Sherlock's face pinched in utter dismay, forehead wrinkled and nostrils flared. "John, this is not a guessing game and no, I have not married a geriatric."
"You can't tell me I probably wouldn't like your wife and then not tell me who she is. You do realize that is going to drive me insane, yes?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing up from his chair to walk away, raking his fingers through the fluff of curls on his head till they danced like weeds and fluttered still with the reverberations even after his fingers fled. "Oh for god's sake, it's not important!"
"Fantastic, then," John said as he followed, the red light on the kettle announcing the water's boil though they were both making steps towards the den. "If it's not important, there's no reason not to tell me."
Sherlock let his arms flop to his sides like a frustrated penguin, his fingers curling in on his palms in irritation and annoyance as he turned to John, his sudden lack of forward progress causing them to almost collide head-on as John continued to follow. "You," he said, his nose inches from John's and far inside any semblance of a personal bubble.
John stalled, pulling his face back towards his neck in a turtle-like recoil as he waited for the rest of the sentence. There wasn't one and Sherlock did not move. "What?"
"You. I am married to you."
"... What?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, stepping back as he spun and walked towards the window nearest his chair, arms up beside his head. "I told you you'd have reservations."
"Hold on. What?" John's mind was like a dead car battery leaving the engine to sputter and fail. "No, Sherlock, we're not-you and I are not married."
Sherlock shrugged his facial features in an all too familiar and not at all inspiring expression of well-informed discord. He rocked back on his heels, no longer a vision of stoicism in his avoidance but childlike in his reveal.
John stood still on the rug beside his own chair, his jaw heavy and hanging low, accompanied by his shoulders and neck. "Sherlock, what did you do?"
The detective shrugged. "Breaking and entering, hacking and a bit of forgery. Otherwise, it's all perfectly legal."
Oh, dear god. "You can't be serious." Yes, he could. "This has got to a joke." Possible but not likely. "You're not funny, you know that, yeah?"
"It's not exactly intended to be funny. Honestly, I knew you'd react like this," Sherlock said in his defense, not at all helping his case as he disproved any grounds for ignorance.
John put a hand out to steady himself on his chair, fingers white against the plaid throw. "And yet you still did it," he pointed out, quite sure he was technically yelling. "That is a fantastic display of your complete disregard for anyone but yourself."
Sherlock all but growled in exasperation. "You're not looking at it properly," he cried, his lithe body contorting in gestures of vexation. "This way, regardless of circumstances, you are permitted to make medical decisions on my behalf which, given our choice in profession, should come in handy. My fortune defaults to you rather than Mycroft should anything happen to me which is honestly in everyone's best interest as Mycroft certainly doesn't need it. There are plenty of ways in which our lifestyle is affected positively by our being married and literally no fallout. Well, excepting your disapproval and obvious annoyance with me."
"It's marriage, Sherlock."
"And it is the most effective way to mutually share personal, legally protected privileges and responsibilities without either of us coming under the thumb of the other."
John pursed his lips together, trying to remember to breathe as he glared across the room, not really trusting himself to move closer. "And when exactly were you going to tell me?" he asked, almost certain he knew the answer before ever expending the energy to speak it.
Sherlock shrugged. "Honestly, I hadn't planned on telling you at all. If anything happened you'd obviously find out about it but circumstances would probably make you look upon the surprise as a pleasant bit of foresight on my part."
Yes, that was very much what he'd thought. John smirked, shaking his head in the lack of disbelief he was experiencing in the whole of their conversation. "And what if I wanted to get married to someone else?"
"Then I'd break in, do a bit of hacking, and delete my forgery. Really, John, there's nothing to be upset about."
John had a short laugh at that. "You are amazing, Sherlock," he said, shaking his head as he looked to the ceiling. "Really and truly, you are. How long have we been married?"
Sherlock's lips twisted curiously. "Legally or technically?"
"Why is there a difference?"
"I didn't want to have to remember another date so I put us as having been married on January the 6th. Much easier than... well, whenever it was I broke in. Eight months ago or so. February, I think." Sherlock plopped himself in his chair, legs hanging over the arm in a concentrated effort to show how not a big deal it all was.
"February?" John cocked his head, hand gesturing out towards Sherlock's left hand. "You only just started wearing that stupid ring, though," he said, gaining half a step in his direction as he looked down at his impossible companion. Husband!
"I did say it wasn't a wedding ring," Sherlock reminded him, his thumb turning the gunmetal grey band like a dial.
John laughed, perhaps the slightest bit of hysteria sneaking in, as he walked back to the kitchen for a beer.