The afternoon before the wedding, Mary and her wedding party held a rehearsal. Sherlock, who had fixed his hair and returned it to it's natural state the night before, disguised himself as a tanned, foreign groundskeeper and kept an eye on the ordeal. During the bride's multiple fits, doting bridesmaids comforted the spoiled girl. Everything from the way the violinist played, to the excessive noise her father's shoes made caused issues for the woman. Her parents smiled, seeming fake and forced, the entire time. Though Mary attempted to compel John to spend time with his best man, her cousin, he drifted towards Lestrade, who was demoted to groomsmen. Some people from the press had arrived and were snapped photos. Each time the flash went off John winced like a sacred animal in a zoo.
In the end, the entire group swarmed over to a catered, buffet lunch on the patio behind the house. Fancy food that looked more like art than a meal lined huge tables, with ruffled pink table clothes. Men in prim suits ran around with trays of strawberry lemonade, also brightly colored pink. Sherlock clipped hedges along the porch, intentionally overhearing conversations occurring amongst the group. Of course, the chatter that interested him was going on between his friends, Lestrade and Watson.
The detective inspector whispered to the doctor, "So, everything is still go for tonight right? This Poppy guy won't attempt to steal my thunder and plan your stag party last minute?"
John nodded and mumbled, "I'd never let him do that. Pick me up tonight as planned. We'll head over to King's and grab a drink."
Lestrade winked, "I've got more in mind than that."
The other man moaned, "Really Greg? I don't want any strippers or something crazy like that."
The D.I. replied, "No, I'm just inviting some of your other mates that's all."
John muttered, "Other mates? I don't have other friends anymore, Greg. It's just you now, remember? You and these people." He motioned around him, signaling that he spoke of the high-class people he now needed to associate with.
Greg scolded, "Really John, you need to stop being her puppet. She's destroying all of your friendships and using you as a charity project for good publicity."
Dr. Watson corrected, "That's not her fault at all. My friends left, because I still had faith in a dead man, whom they believed to be a liar."
Sherlock sighed loudly. Lestrade look toward the bushes and called, "Who's there? I know someone's been listening! Come on out."
Sherlock pulled his cap down in an effort to cover his face, then rose from behind the plant. He kept his head down, pretending to be shy and embarrassed. He improvised, "Sorry I interrupt you. My name is Benedicto. I no speak-a much English. I just trim hedge. Señor Morstan help me into country. I so very grateful. I leave now."
Crap, that's my worst attempt at a foreign accent ever. He thought shortly after he spoke, but the pair of men fell for it.
John commanded, "It's alright sir, keep up the good work. We need this garden perfect for tomorrow, because you know how Miss Morstan gets. She needs it all in order."
Sherlock, head still down, quacked, "Yes, yes sir. I try my very, very best for her. Muy bueno."
John gestured for the groundskeeper to depart, still unaware that he had just shooed away the man he'd spent so much time defending.
Greg helped John escaped the estate later that evening, and they headed for a local pub. Upon arriving at their destination, the doctor was shocked to see that Lestrade had rounded up several friends he hadn't seen in years. Even Mycroft showed up, which gave John mixed feelings.
Things went fine for a while. The group of friends joked around, and even Sherlock's big brother was cracking up. They spun stories of good times in the past, the better days. John had not smiled so much in a very long time. He repeatedly thanked the Detective Inspector, merely shrugged and said, "I barely did anything!"
Sherlock, disguised yet again, sat at the bar. He wore a ratty coat with the collar raised around his scrawny neck. The fake mustache he wore above his lips held an extremely authentic appearance. However, the bags under his eyes were not fake. Constant stress caused by the terrible, recent events left terribly, purple bags beneath his tired eyes. In a deep, gritty, fake-drunk voice he mumbled to the bartender, "Another one sir."
The rugged man refilled the detective's glass of liquor, then observed, "You seem 'ather fixated on that there group of lads. Do ya know 'um?"
Sherlock reminisced, "See the short one? With the cane?"
The burely barman nodded.
The detective continued, slipping out of his disguised voice, "He's my best frie-. No, he's more than that. He's all I can think about. Everyday, it's all about him. I wake up and see his face. I can't fall asleep at night, because I just picture him." Towards the end, he caught himself, but it was too late. His true voice had been revealed.
The bartender leaned done onto the counter. Looking straight at Sherlock, he said, "Well, tell the bloke how you feel!"
The youngest Holmes boy muttered, "He thinks I'm dead."
The barkeep devised a plan and offered it up to Sherlock. Upon hearing the complete plan, the detective added his own flair to the idea.
Moments later, John watched as the strange man, who he knew had been watching him, got up and left the bar. As the door shut behind him, the bartender called out, "Is there a Mr. Watson here tonight?"
John inched his way over to the bar. He replied, "Doctor, sir. Dr. Watson."
"Dr. Watson, ah yes," the man corrected himself then continued, "Some one just bought your party a round of drinks, and he left a gift for you."
The doctor titled his head in confusion. The barman pulled out a carton of milk. He set it on the counter, then spun it around to reveal a Post-It note attached to the front. John read the note. It said, I Love You X - See you tomorrow He looked up and quacked, "Who left this for me?"
The bartender responded, "He didn't leave a name."
John stuttered, "It-it was a tall, skinny bloke.. right?"
The barmen thought for a moment, pondering the description. Then he barked, "Why yes! I believe it was, sir! Real handsome fellow, if he'd just loose the mustache."
The crippled doctor dropped his cane and spun around to face his friends. With excitement and pure joy, he exclaimed, "He's alive! Sherlock is alive!"
Lestrade and the rest of the group were shocked, except for Mycroft. He shook his head and pulled out his mobile phone.