"Fifty quid the freak breaks down crying," Donovan whispered to Anderson. Somehow, they'd managed to get seats in the front of the church, and despite how spiffy they looked in their dress clothes, they were still rotten underneath.

But it didn't matter. The ceremony had been going without a hitch. Only twice had there been any hiccup—when the officiant rambled a little too long on the romance of the situation, Sherlock had audibly groaned in annoyance. John had shook his head at that and Sherlock had looked contrite—he didn't do it again.

Also, Donovan noticed that halfway through the ceremony, the back doors of the church had opened and a woman with wildly curly hair had walked in with a young girl with dark hair.

"And now," the officiant said, "these two fine gentlemen will say their wedding vows, which, John tells me, they've written themselves. John, if you'd like to go first."

"Right," John said with a smile that barely passed as natural. With shaking hands, he pulled out some brightly colored notecards from the pocket of his suit and held them up to him face. "Erm. Okay." He cleared his throat. "Sherlock Holmes. I was looking online—not an easy thing to do, since you're always checking my browser history and you're never asleep when I need you to be—and I found this poem by Shakespeare that I think really—"

His hands shook a little too much and he clumsily dropped the notecards. A chuckle ran through the church and John swore quietly on the altar. "No, wait—sorry—erm. All right. I just lost track of what I was going to say, so…sod it all. I'm going to wing it."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but John ignored it. He took a deep breath. "Sherlock. You know, in that marvelous way that you know everything, the person I was before I met you. Ex-Army Doctor, psychosomatic limp, alone. In need of a friend. But what you don't know, what no one knows, is…how truly terrified I was. Sherlock, darling, I was lost—not only lost and not only so, so alone, but I was hopeless. Everything was such a dark world for me, and all I had were days of therapy and nights of nightmares. Horrible, bloody, awful nightmares.

"And I met you—crazy, mad Sherlock Holmes, my high-functioning sociopath. And suddenly the fear was gone and the limp was gone, and, and all I wanted to do…was run. I'd run anywhere as long as I was following you. And yes, you drove me up a wall those first few weeks at 221B and you still do, but I was finally feeling something again besides all the pain I'd been hiding. I couldn't hide from you.

"You made me feel everything again. You brought things back that I never thought I'd know again, like…like burning hot anger, when you left that dead cat in my bed after you forgot to clean up the evidence of the Hartford case. Like unbelievable annoyance when you ruin the ends of books for me when you don't even read them yourself.

"Like enduring admiration and respect." John swallowed, feeling wells of emotion start to spring up. Up till now, he'd kept his shaking hands clasped behind his back, and Sherlock, in a surprising show of affection, reached for his hands and pulled them in front of him. John smiled in gratitude and continued. "Like amazement. Something I think…a little bit like magic. You, Sherlock Holmes, are a wonder, and you happen to know how brilliant you are. What you don't know is…how irreplaceable you are. You are so, so capable of caring and sacrificing to help other people, and you'd die before you let anyone here know that, but I know. I think you brought excitement back, to my life.

"And, er…I dunno, I guess I realized there was no way on heaven or earth that I could ever live without you—" John cut himself off as tears started to come. Sherlock smiled weakly at him as he tried to collect himself, and all the girls in the church were blubbering into their handkerchiefs.

"Sorry, I just…" He turned to the people gathered in the church. "You all remember what happened several years ago, and you all know—you know, Sherlock—how close I came to losing you, many times. And how close I came to…to losing…to losing myself. And call it unhealthy," he laughed through his tears, "but I would sooner die than let anything ever happen to you. I'd rather be gone than have to repeat what I did when you jumped. I never want to go back to not feeling anything, without you."

He took a step closer and put a still-shaking hand to Sherlock's neck. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. There's not a thing on Earth I care about more than you, even my own self. Nothing in life makes sense without your texts and your smiles and your damn body parts in the fridge. So. Erm. I've taken a long time with this."

The people in the church laughed with him. He took it as encouragement. "I'll make this part short. I promise to take care of you and always follow when you leave and to never, never alienate you for the things you do. Yes, you deduce things that people wish you wouldn't and you play violin at 3 am—"

Sherlock coughed. "The point, John."

"Well, excuse me," John laughed. "Yes, you play violin at 3am and you complain about the way I make tea, but damn it, I love that about you. Those things are as much a part of me as they are of you. So, marry me, Sherlock Holmes. Be my husband and let me spend every minute of my life running with you."

For some miraculous reason, Sherlock Holmes smiled. There might have even been a tear or two in his eyes. He leaned forward excitedly to kiss John, but the officiant cut him off. "Mr. Holmes, you have to wait to do that."

He grumbled to himself and said, "I suppose it's my turn to say things now, isn't it? Brilliant."

John winced imperceptibly. This probably wouldn't end well.

"John," he began slowly, "I'm not one for sentiment. I have never seen the point in telling you, or any invited gathering of people, how I feel about you. I expect you to understand and accept it the way I accept you."

John was about to roll his eyes—there he goes again—but Sherlock stopped him. "Things have happened this week, John. Things that have brought to light how—if you'll pardon the cliché—fleeting life is and how important the people in my life are, I can't…I don't know how to adequately tell you…I can't lose you, John. I've seen people lose the 'special someones' in their life…" At this, Donovan noticed, Sherlock's eyes flickered to the back of the church, where the curly-haired woman sat. "I can't imagine how they go on, so I understand what you mean. You're my best friend, John. You've changed me into a better man, and I realize how beneficial you've been, and I know this sounds clinical, but I don't know how to tell you these things. I don't know how to tell you…how inspired I am by you."

John smiled a bit at that, not quite ready to believe it.

"I always thought," Sherlock said, "that the only way to be worth something, even if people don't like you, is to prove your value, through strength or intellect. I thought I only wanted to be a great man. But you, John!" He seemed excited now, with a new vigor that these words gave him. "You're even better than a great man. You're a good man. You don't need laurels or plaques or medals. You just carry your dignity quietly. You're a hero just by going out to Tesco and picking up milk. You're a hero for putting up with me all these years. You're…my hero, John Watson. No, don't laugh, Anderson, it's not bloody funny."

Anderson quit his snickering.

"John," he continued, "thank you, because if it weren't for you, I'd be quite lost. You make me want to be a better man, so I can try to be half as good as you. And I do love you. I suppose you'll want me to tell you how much—very well. I love you with as much love as I've learned to have, a surprising amount. It actually amazes me, it astounds me how much I love you. It terrifies me, but I've been told that's a good thing. I've also been told I'm a stubborn man, but that's all right. I'll keep on stubbornly loving you for the rest of my life, and I daresay beyond."

Sherlock looked over to the curly-haired woman again. "Perhaps it's a bit morbid to mention death at a wedding, but John—one day, I'm going to die. Truly die. But you have to know that even in dying, I could never leave you. I wouldn't let them take me. I wouldn't budge from where I was until whoever it is that controls the afterlife just let me wait for you before I moved on. That's how much I love you, John Hamish Watson. I can't even fathom leaving you, even in death. Good luck getting rid of me."

Once again, the church laughed with the couple, and Sherlock wrapped things up. "I promise, my blogger, to remain with you. I won't ever leave you. I could never do it again. I promise to try and be here for you as a proper husband and get the milk and tell you how happy you make me and I hope you know…that I could only ever choose you. Marry me. Even if you already have," he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. John smiled in response.

The officiant cleared his throat. "We will now present the rings." He seemed to want to draw this part out as well, but Sherlock was embarrassed enough at his display of emotion, so he grabbed the rings from him and stuffed one onto his finger. John gave up and let Sherlock push a ring onto his left hand ring finger. "Shall we get on with it?"

"Er, of course," the officiant blundered under Sherlock's sharpness. "I now pronounce you husband and—"

The men ignored him and embraced each other as everyone cheered, and their kiss definitely could have gone down in the books as one of the greatest and most powerful kisses in the whole universe.