John drifted slowly into wakefulness. He rubbed his eyes, still bleary. A moment later, he realized what had woken him: someone was knocking at the door.
"Sherlock," he murmured. "Sherlock, Greg's here."
The pile of blankets next to him groaned. "Who?"
John rolled his eyes, smiling tolerantly. "He's here to pick me up, remember, love? Today's the day." He glanced over at their shared closet and felt a thrill go through him at the sight of two identical, freshly-pressed suits hanging inside.
"The day. The definite article." Sherlock rolled over, one arm draped over his forehead, eyes closed. "As in, the most important day. The day of days." His eyes popped open as his still-sleeping brain made the connection. "Right. The day."
"I'm getting up, Sherlock." Awkwardly, John used his elbows to prop himself into a sitting position. Living life without legs was getting easier, but it was still a struggle.
Immediately, Sherlock was up, rolling out of the blankets to help John into his wheelchair. John pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then wheeled himself out of the bedroom.
Lestrade was waiting at the door. "Morning, John. Hope I didn't wake you."
"You did, actually, but we needed to get up anyway. Come in." He backed up, giving his friend room to enter the flat.
"You eaten yet?" Lestrade asked, glancing around the darkened room.
"Not yet. I'm not sure Sherlock's even properly out of bed."
"That's fine. You can eat on the way. We should get going."
"Now?" John looked down at his pajama-clad legs. "Bit early, isn't it?"
"Mrs. Hudson's been having kittens since last night, worrying you won't make it there on time. Humor her. Please," the detective added, a note of pleading in his voice. "She's been planning this for months."
John snorted. "Years, more like. She'd just never admit it."
"Yeah, well, she's optimistic. Morning, Sherlock."
Sherlock nodded a hello. "Graham." He held out John's suit, still in its garment bag.
Lestrade took the bag, ignoring Sherlock's comment. "I think your brother's coming by in a bit. Can't have you two getting ready together."
"Why not?" Sherlock asked grumpily, slouching into the kitchen to make tea.
"Wedding tradition, isn't it?" Lestrade said cheerfully. "Groom can't see the bride before the wedding. Or, the other groom, I guess."
"Let me guess: Mrs. Hudson again?" John said, grinning as he spotted Sherlock's soft blush.
"Molly, actually. Apparently she knows everything there is to know about weddings." John was interested to see Lestrade blush slightly as well. "Anyway, we really should go. Come on, John."
"I'll see you soon, Sherlock," John promised, smiling at his fiance. Sherlock softened.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Yes, alright, come on," Lestrade said in mock-disgust, grabbing the handles of John's wheelchair and pushing him towards the lift doors. "Time enough for that later."
John smiled, allowing his friend to guide him out. Time enough, indeed, he thought. As much time as there is.
Lestrade's flat was small but neat, the home of a man who was used to a certain level of comfort and having to provide it himself. John was suddenly reminded that Lestrade was one of his few friends who had been married before.
He wheeled himself up to his friend's kitchen table, unloading the bag with his breakfast in it. "Not too much," Lestrade had told him. "You'll have butterflies." He'd ended up with just a hot sandwich.
"Tea?" Lestrade asked now, pouring hot water out of his kettle.
"Please." John gratefully accepted the mug, appreciating the warmth on his hands. He sipped it appreciatively while Lestrade went to hang up the suit. "What's it like?" he asked suddenly. "Getting married."
Lestrade sighed, leaning on the counter edge. "It's the best day of your life," he answered honestly, "and you feel a little bit sick, because you know things are changing. You still sort of can't believe it's actually happening. And you sort of want it to be done so you can just be married, but you also want to live in that moment forever." He shook his head, blushing slightly. "It's hard to describe."
Pondering that, John leaned back, resettling himself in his chair. The damn wheelchair was the main source of his stress, not only for the day, but for the rest of their lives.
Both of them were adrenaline junkies, and being tied down like that would limit what they could do. Bored and frustrated Sherlock was difficult to be around as it was. And if John was honest with himself, he knew he was much the same. What if they took it out on each other?
"You've still got doubts, haven't you?" Lestrade asked, eyeing him carefully. "About whether it's all going to work, about whether you should go through with it."
John avoided his eye. Ws he really that predictable? "A bit," he said brusquely. "Not that- not about whether we're in love, but about the… practicality." It was hard for him, sometimes, to openly talk about loving Sherlock, and being loved by Sherlock. It had taken so long for him even to admit it to himself.
"That's good," Lestrade told him, warm but serious. "It's not going to be perfect. So don't expect it to." He grinned. "But it will be worth it."
Try as he might, John couldn't stop a blush. Then he decided not to fight it - it was, after all, his wedding day.
"Eat quick," the inspector told him, nodding his approval of John's growing smile. "If we don't get you into that suit in time, Mrs. Hudson will have my head."
Sherlock sighed as the lift doors closed behind them. He'd been waiting for this day for- well, for years, really, but these last hours felt like centuries.
He was just settled into his armchair with a mug of tea when there came another knock on the door, this one much more delicate and brisk. Inwardly, Sherlock sighed.
"Come in, Mycroft."
The door opened and the elder Holmes brother stepped in, umbrella in hand. "Good morning, brother dear."
"I thought it took a national emergency to get you out of bed this early," Sherlock muttered, making no attempt to hide his bad temper.
"Yes, well, so did I." Mycroft smiled humorlessly. "Apparently you getting married counts."
Sherlock made a face. "What do you want?"
"I'm here for you," his brother said, face the picture of sincerity. "To be certain you don't panic and run the other way. I know publicly expressing emotion is unfamiliar for you, Sherlock, and-"
"I'm not afraid of being in public," Sherlock told him scathingly. Mycroft eyed him.
"It was not the public to which I was referring."
There was a long pause, neither brother quite willing to make eye contact. "Don't worry," Sherlock said, getting up at last. "I'm not disappearing this time. Besides, it's not exactly public."
They had decided that in order to avoid the eye and attention of the press, the ceremony would be small and private, with only a few close friends: Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Molly Hooper.
"Even so," Mycroft allowed. "You do seem to have a history of, shall we say, fleeing commitment?"
Sherlock's only answer was to stride over to the flat's door and hold it open, pointedly looking away from his brother. Mycroft sighed. "Yes, alright. Apologies."
Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock shut the door, snatching up the suit and disappearing into his bedroom. Mycroft perched stiffly on the black couch, umbrella propped up between his knees.
"You're following in our parents' footsteps, you know," he called. "Particularly our mother. She married a bit beneath herself."
"And just think what would have happened if she'd married a genius," Sherlock replied through the door. Mycroft smiled faintly, not fooled - his comment had riled his brother. "Lucky for you, you won't have to deal with biological nieces or nephews."
Mycroft raised one eyebrow sardonically. "Lucky?"
"With his brains?" Sherlock smiled to himself, stepping into the neatly pressed trousers. "You'd never stand a chance."
With a sigh, Mycroft recognized that his brother was probably correct. "Perhaps it's for the best."
"Not that you'd ever know," came the tart rejoinder. "How's life inside the glass case?"
"Goldfish, Sherlock," he reminded him. "Their minds are nothing. No one can measure up. Why bother? I remain of the opinion that romantic entanglements of any sort are dangerous. We've already seen how much of a liability you have been to me."
"And I suppose you think this wedding is dangerous as well."
"Do you need to ask? An open ceremony where anyone could find you, and your mental facilities severely inhibited… But-" He held up a hand, anticipating a reaction, "I will say, if you must marry anyone… let it be him. John Watson, despite appearances, is no liability."
"I will, thanks. And you can watch what you say."
Mycroft bit back a comment about proving his point. He leaned back cautiously, resisting the urge to reach forward and straighten the stack of newspapers on the coffee table.
He was an inch away from giving in and grabbing the stack when Sherlock's bedroom door opened. "Hands off, Mycroft."
Mycroft snatched his hand back immediately, rearranging his face into innocence. "Sherlock. You're looking… smart."
The younger Holmes tugged lightly on the bottom of his suit jacket. It was perfectly tailored, of course - Mycroft had seen to that - and served to emphasize the angles of Sherlock's body. The overall look was undeniably attractive. "The understatement of the century," he said dryly.
"Though your left lapel begins four millimeters below the right-"
"Shut up now." Sherlock shrugged on his long coat. It was winter in London, and the outer layer would hopefully throw off the press. On impulse, he grabbed the deerstalker, yanking it down firmly over his mass of curls. For John.
When they reached the courthouse, Mrs. Hudson was utterly beside herself. "Sherlock! Mycroft! Oh, thank God you're here. Have you seen John?" She guided them into a small anteroom and shut the door. This was where Sherlock would wait until the actual ceremony.
"I was under the impression that was bad luck," Mycroft answered dryly, stepping out of reach as the landlady embraced his brother.
"Yes, well, I worry," she fretted, brushing off Sherlock's tux unnecessarily. "You both should have been here nearly five minutes ago. 'Late to your own wedding' is only meant to be an expression, you know," she reminded them severely.
Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. He could afford some sentiment today. "I'm sure he's on his way," he told her. "Haven't you got something else to be doing?"
"You can't be rude, it's your wedding day!" Mrs. Hudson scolded him, but she was smiling. She bustled out of the room, likely to terrorize some poor clerk into rearranging the seating again.
"I'd best be off as well," Mycroft said. "Our parents will be here soon. I expect Father is already in tears." He grimaced. "Do make this quick, Sherlock, I'm meeting with the Prime Minister later."
"Oh, bugger off." Sherlock threw himself into a chair as the door shut behind his brother, though he was careful not to wrinkle his suit.
In just a few minutes, John would be here. Or rather, out there, at the end of an aisle, dressed in a tux with eyes only for him. The prospect was thrilling.
Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, determine to get his heart rate under control. He tried to think of numbers and data, something cold and pure, but John's face kept interrupting his calculations. He stared at the wall clock, focusing on the ticking seconds, reveling in their regularity. And suddenly, numbers be damned: he wanted that clock to spin around instantly until he could be out there with John.
It felt like hours, but it was probably only a few minutes before the faint strains of wedding music began drifting through the closed inner door. It was time.
Sherlock got to his feet, brushing himself down with care. When the music changed, he pulled open the door, his hands shaking, and stepped out into the aisle. He couldn't stop a grin from spreading over his face.
They had elected to have two aisles, one for each of them, coming up either side of the seating. Sherlock couldn't help it - he glanced over the heads, just to get a glimpse of John wheeling his way down the aisle. He had to look down almost immediately to hide his blush.
Instead of looking at the crowd - he could already hear sniffling - Sherlock focused on the carpeted aisle, following it intently until he turned and reached the base of the platform. Three steps up and there was John, rolling up the opposite ramp. Blushing furiously, Sherlock took his own seat, putting him at John's eye level but still elevated above the crowd.
"Friends and family, we are gathered here today…"
John reached out, taking both of Sherlock's hands in his, and smiled. His thumb began moving in slow circles on Sherlock's palm, and the world-famous detective found it extremely difficult to concentrate on what was being said. It wasn't until John let go of him to read his own vows that Sherlock was able to focus.
"I don't think anyone here will disagree when I say that you loved me first."
Muted chuckles rang through the room. Mrs. Hudson's laugh was distinctive.
"But I'm glad you did. You knew from the start, even when I was too proud to admit it. You could always see how good this would be, how good we would be, even when I couldn't."
He spoke simply and directly, but from the heart, in the way he always had. The way that Sherlock found so difficult. Emotions and subjectivity - what was direct about that? But John had a way of making that clear.
"You humble me, Sherlock, in so many ways." He smiled and shook his head slightly. "You probably know that. I mean, God, you're brilliant. The first time we met, you knew everything about me."
Not everything, John. I had no idea how wonderful you are.
"For a long time, I thought I had emotions on you. That at least there, I had you beat." He took Sherlock's hand again, as if unable to help himself. "Now I know that's not true. I don't know how you kept sane all those years watching me go on all those stupid dates, but… I'm beyond glad you did."
He set down his paper and taking Sherlock's other hand. He slipped a simple golden band onto the left ring finger, saying the traditional line. "With this ring, I thee wed." A smile. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock's heartbeat was pounding in his ears. He didn't realize he was staring, dead-eyed and frozen, slightly in shock. This must be what he was like when making deductions. Usually his mind was going faster than his mouth could keep up. Today, however… well. He wasn't sure words could express what was going on in his mind.
"Sherlock?" Oh. His turn.
"Er… Yes, sorry." For a heartstopping moment, he felt the eyes of the crowd on him with tearful and affectionate anticipation, and began to reach for the folded bit of paper tucked in his breast pocket, but a deep breath calmed him. He didn't need prewritten speeches. This was John.
"John." That was a safe place to start. "My… friend." Titters from the audience. No. That wasn't right. "My love." No. Well, yes. "My… John. I don't have the right words. I'm sorry. I mean, I'm not sorry." Another long silence. "Anyway."
Alright. The notes, then. He cleared his throat. "Marriage doesn't change anything. It is a piece of paper and a band of socially valued metal that people pay thousands of pounds to have people cry over."
Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Lestrade put his head in his hands. John just squeezed his hands a little tighter. "And this doesn't change anything, John. Not this-" He gestured to the room, the ceremony, "and not that." A nod towards John's wheelchair. "This is a promise - a vow - that I'll never leave, not for any reason. Whatever comes, we face it together."
His fiancé - his almost-husband - smiled a little wider.
"John," Sherlock said, "you are willing to love a man who is by all accounts unlovable, and for that, you have my eternal gratitude and devotion. You saved me, John Hamish Watson."
John groaned slightly, rolling his eyes, but his grin was tolerant. He'd refused to have his full name on the invitations, but he should have known Sherlock wouldn't give in so easily.
"You saved me," Sherlock repeated earnestly. "I love you, all of you. And I will never leave your side." He blinked. Tears? Well, let them come. Today was well worth some tears. Long fingers trembling slightly, he reached for the matching gold band and slid it onto John's waiting finger. "With this ring, I thee wed."
The officiant smiled. "I now invite you to seal your vows with a kiss, and in so doing, become partners in life, for life."
Even as John's lips met his, Sherlock couldn't stop a triumphant grin. After far too long, they were married. Married. The kiss was soft, sweet, and far too short, but a hint of extra pressure, just before John pulled away, hinted at more to come later. At the applause of the crowd, the newlyweds turned down the aisle, ready to greet the wellwishers and begin a new life.
The next morning, with the party over, the guests gone home, and the night spent, John and Sherlock sat comfortably in their armchairs, going through cards from well-wishers. It was a lazy morning, one where neither newlywed had any pressing need to go anywhere, do anything, except be in one another's company.
Sherlock sifted through the pile, looking for anything of actual interest. His long fingers landed on not a card, but a hastily scrawled note, written on the back of a receipt. It was folded as though it had once been tucked in a card.
John looked up, curious. "What's that?"
"It's from your sister." Sherlock scanned through it quickly.
"Harriet?" John leaned forward, curiosity now mingled with confusion. "Didn't we read her card at the dinner?"
"Mmhmm." Sherlock smoothed it out as best he could and read:
Dear John,
Congrats to you and Sherlock! Sorry I couldn't be there, but you have my love. Hopefully this lasts longer than Clara and I did. You always were the more responsible sibling, though, so I wouldn't worry.
Got a favor to ask, though. Kind of a big one. Let's just say that there's a reason I haven't been to visit in ages. Long story short, you've got a niece, and I can't keep her. I know it's a lot, but is there any way you could take her, at least for a while? It's not like you can have your own Please let me know ASAP.
Love you, Harry
P.S: Her name's Rosie