Their wedding day came quickly. The couple was not prepared to give Moran any more days in which to destroy them than they had to. The organisation was run almost entirely by John, who seemed content enough to run around making everything as perfect as it possibly could be. Sherlock loved to watch him pour for hours over magazines and catalogues, keeping to himself but adoring that his proposal had pleased John so much. John walked around with a spring in his step and a gormless grin wherever he went, smiling at every person who he passed. He would get up in the morning and bounce around without complaint or yawn, just joy. And Sherlock was content, too. Not just to see John like that, but also to be engaged to the man himself. He loved him. And John's limitless acceptance of him and everything about him had made his world faultless at last.
He would not be able to see him go.
But this time wasn't about that. This wedding was time between sorrow, and Sherlock refused to waste it. Every moment was a blessing, and he couldn't scar the purity of them with his buried fears.
Sherlock stared into the mirror on that summer morning, watching his own inverted preparations. His black jacket he adorned with the blue rose John had decided would be their flower. The unique blue rose, found nowhere in the wild. It meant mystery, the enigmatic, and the inexplicable. It told of impossibility, the impossibility of love and of Sherlock and John themselves. It was not a flower idled upon by the eye, but by the mind, with its description of the couple so accurate and remarkably so.
Its light tone hallowed Sherlock's attire with its indulgent blush, complimenting every aspect of his appearance. John had chosen well.
"Sherlock," said Mrs Hudson excitedly as she came in through the door. "We're all set to go now." He turned to her, holding his arms out slightly with an attempted straight face. "Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson gasped delightedly as he smiled, embarrassed, at her. "You look so handsome, you lucky man!"
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he smiled awkwardly. "You look wonderful too."
Mrs Hudson flapped her hands, abandoning the compliment. "I'm not getting married, love," she said. "You're the important one right now. Well, you and John."
"I'm ready, Mrs Hudson."
Her beam was illuminating. "The car's waiting. Let's go." They left the flat without hesitation, Sherlock giving his coat sleeve a quick brush with his fingers as he passed, wishing it could be on his shoulders, despite the warmth of the early sun.
They climbed into the back of the sleek black Jaguar that had its main purpose of picking John up from wherever Mycroft decided adequate. But today, it was the vessel that would bring Sherlock to Mycroft, who was biding patiently at the private gardens where the ceremony would take place. John had insisted upon an outdoor wedding, saying that it was less constrictive. Sherlock had agreed with not constriction upon his mind, but adequate escape routes. He hadn't wanted such an invasion of his thoughts, but it was a truth that Sherlock couldn't avoid.
He held Mrs Hudson's old hand all the way there.
Mycroft greeted them with a rare smile, one which did not include any sign of a smirk whatsoever. It seemed like Lestrade was making him a more amiable, warmer person, and for that Sherlock was grateful. He didn't want his brother to put him into a foul mood. Fortunately, Mycroft was on his best behaviour, which became clear in Mrs Hudson's pointed look as soon as they met.
"We're almost ready, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Are you?"
Sherlock nodded. "More than ready. Where's John?"
Mycroft's entire being softened. "He's waiting. Come on. It's time."
As John and Sherlock had agreed to walk down the aisle together, Mycroft led Sherlock around the corner, and Sherlock finally saw his John, who was gazing at him as though his breath had just been taken away so suddenly. They wore not matching, but similar suits, as they'd planned, and the pale blue rose sat in upon his breast tastefully. But what Sherlock was focused on was the look that John was giving him. It spoke of devotion beyond any that could possibly exist in the world. So full of love, so full of happiness, that Sherlock was stunned into silence, his witty comments withering upon his tongue.
There was nothing that could have prepared them for the rush of nerves and adoration that enveloped them as soon as their gazes met. Mycroft, the guests, the ceremony, the vows, were all forgotten in an instant. All that mattered was each other. They might have been married already, but they couldn't know that. Their cares were gone.
"Well then," Mycroft interjected. "I'm going now." Then he added in a sarcastic voice as he began to walk away "Remember to actually go when you hear the music." Then he was gone.
John smiled shyly at Sherlock as he took his hand. "Ready for this?" he asked in a small voice.
"People have been asking me that all morning," Sherlock answered with a quick grin.
"Same here."
"What music did you choose?" Sherlock queried, as John had kept that information from him for the whole month that they'd been planning.
John's smile turned mischievous. "Wait a second…"
He waited. And then the sound of a violin flew across the garden – Sherlock's violin. A tune Sherlock recognised, one that he had played the morning after John had agreed to marry him. A song he'd composed, born out of pure elation. "I recorded you." John blushed slightly. "It was beautiful."
Sherlock's eyes were hot. "Let's go, John."
They stepped out into the sunshine, revealing themselves, the sanctified couple, to the assembled people. It was a crowd of very few, only two rows of eight chairs, but it had gathered all of the people who meant anything to Sherlock and John. Everyone was looking at them, and each face was etched with the emotion of gladness.
Harry Watson sat at the rear with her girlfriend, Sophie, and as they passed them, Harry gave her brother a cheeky wink, which John imitated. The people sat on the other side of the aisle made John start as he saw them. "You didn't tell me Irene Adler was coming," he hissed to Sherlock, pressing up against him as he tried to be discreet.
"I wasn't aware that she was," Sherlock replied in a whisper, being much more successful in subtlety, as he all he needed to do was brush the air down to John's ear.
"But she's meant to be dead!" John whispered back.
"I saved her," muttered Sherlock. "Wasn't that difficult to fool my brother."
"Right."
The Woman was with her… What would one call her?... Kate. Irene offered Sherlock a smug smirk as they passed, and Kate mimicked the expression. Sherlock stared back in amusement, but said nothing.
On the front row were many brilliantly important people. There was Mycroft, who had his hand on Lestrade's, both content to address the world with their emerging relationship. Though the two did not take their eyes off John and Sherlock, it was noticeable how their attentions were concentrated on each other. John squeezed Sherlock's hand in an automatic response to the sight of another couple, and Sherlock squeezed gently back.
Then there was Molly, who seemed to be overjoyed that Sherlock was with John. She had taken the revelation of Sherlock's sexuality quite well, although she had been confused as to why he hadn't told her before. It would have saved her a lot of heartache. But it made her happy to see them happy, and Sherlock was pleased that Molly wasn't miserable anymore. He gave her a raised eyebrow as he caught her gaze.
And Mike Stamford was sat at the end of the row, looking incredibly pleased with himself. He had introduced them after all, so he had every right to be like that. He was the reason that everyone gathered there was so happy, and that gave him cause to be chuffed. John gave him a quick grin as his smile flicked over him to rest upon the last person in attendance.
Mrs Hudson was closest to the aisle, and she held her hands out to Sherlock and John as they approached. Each man took her grasp fondly, as she was a mother to the both of them, and the most wonderful woman that either had ever had the fortune to meet. And Mrs Hudson was already crying softly, so Sherlock let go of John to pull her handkerchief from her lap and dab her eyes tenderly. She sniffled and laughed softly as she took her handkerchief from him, wiping her own eyes and waving them away. Sherlock's hand found John's again as they took the last few steps.
The vicar wore an expression that spoke of his love for weddings and all that they entailed. Gay marriages had only been made legal very recently, and he was an outward supporter of the idea. John and Sherlock stood to face one another, each man not moving their gazes from one another.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the vicar began with a beam. "We are gathered here today to witness the joining of these men in holy matrimony.
"Love is a gift from our Lord so that we may find happiness and peace in our lives. The marriage of a couple is sacred and holy, and not to be broken, so if any person here has any reason why these two should not be married then speak up now or forever hold your peace."
The silence was unmarred by even the rustling of the leaves in the wind.
"Sherlock Holmes," the vicar said, acknowledging the tall detective. "And Dr John Watson. The bond you are about to make is the most beautiful and honest of all bonds, which will bring you together as one for eternity in Heaven."
Sherlock was not listening to him. All that mattered was John, not a few words spoken by a man he barely knew. Sherlock could not be happier than at this moment, as he watched John's eyes gleam with unoppressed elation. And he could see John's smile almost falter as a silence fell upon the couple, and Sherlock realised that he had lines to say.
He cleared his throat and dropped his head in embarrassment as he fumbled in his inner jacket pocket. John almost laughed as the detective brought out a folded-up piece of paper out. Sherlock Holmes could not remember his wedding vows. But then Sherlock began to speak, and John's heart stopped.
"John," he began nervously. "I've wanted to say this for a long time." He let out a single syllabled laugh. "I suppose, I should have… But I… I never thought that… I never dared to believe…" He took a shaky breath. "That you could love me."
"Sherlock –" John whispered.
"Shh." The blue-green eyes pierced John's with gravitational force. The paper crinkled in his hands. "My John," he read.
"My dear, dear John. I am sorry. I cannot express how sorry I am. I hurt you in ways I cannot fathom, but you have to know that I never wanted this for you but Moriarty made it impossible for us to have it any other way.
"You were the first real friend I ever had. You accepted me and all my strange habits as a part of your everyday life and you were always there when I needed you. Perhaps it was my own fault that allowed me to take you for granted. I had been ignorant in assuming we would spend the rest of our lives together.
"I was terrified in the last few days in which I was with you. Moriarty held all the cards, and I realised that there was no other way than what he had planned for me. I ran straight into his trap, and I had to pay the price for my mistakes. If it had not been for Molly, I would truly be dead. But that wasn't why I was afraid. I was afraid that you wouldn't want me back after what I was going to do. That you'd hate me. But of course I could not have been more wrong. Your letters told me everything.
"I know that they were never meant to be seen. They were instead a way for you to hold onto me when in fact I was long gone. But whenever I read them I could hear your voice in my mind and it gave me a reason to carry on, despite the near-constant torture." Sherlock coughed. "I suppose I forgot to tell you about that," he smiled weakly.
John's expression was horrified, but Sherlock cut him off before he could interrupt.
"John Hamish Watson, my dearest friend. I love you. I have loved you since I first laid my eyes upon you. And I love you that you gave my lonely life something that it desperately needed but never knew it wanted.
"I am sorry that I had to leave you, and I am sorry for everything that has happened because of me. I am sorry for the scars that mar your wrists. It is a foul thing to ask for your forgiveness now, but I must ask it. I could not bear to live without you, John."
A stunned collective breath was held, stained by the clotted tears and tight throats of the gathering. John's face was streaked with salt, and his sobs were silent but deep, whilst he absorbed everything around him but most of all the hesitant look on Sherlock's face as his eyes moved up from his crumpled piece of paper and handwritten words. "Sherl –" he choked out.
John moved closer and placed one hand on Sherlock's collarbone whilst the other lingered on his own lips. From the corner of his eye he saw Mrs Hudson sobbing into her handkerchief as Lestrade cradled her head, his own tears flowing freely. Mycroft's head had dropped, so John could not see his pursed mouth and unsteady breaths, but he knew they were there.
"I am sorry, John," Sherlock whispered.
John swallowed. "I know," he said in a low voice. "And I forgive you."
The vicar himself was hardly holding it together at this point, but he still reached out and tapped John's elbow, nudging him to continue the ceremony. The doctor nodded and coughed to clear his head.
"After that," he started. "I don't think what I have to say can compete." His smile was quick and hesitant.
"Sherlock, I think you drove me crazy in every sense of the phrase. What, with your incessant brilliance and rare smiles and your truly terrible habits, you made me fantastically happy and frustrated and mad. God knows how I put up with you.
"We, erm… We've had much more interesting lives than most people. What with the murders and the thieves, the game-changing emails and the hounds… It makes you wonder how you got into this sort of stuff. I've nearly been killed because of you. My life is under threat even now, at my own wedding. Someone could just shoot me now and it'd all be over.
"But I trust you, Sherlock Holmes, to keep me safe. Even if it means that you have to choose between my life and the lives of hundreds of innocent people. Of course in that situation, I'd probably wouldn't give you the choice to save me, but you get the gist. You love me and I know that now. I only wish I'd known it sooner.
"You know how I feel. The words 'I love you' don't describe half of it. I need you. I believe in you. Thank you for being mine and for letting me be yours. I could die tomorrow and be content. I will love you in sickness and in health, in life and in death. So Sherlock Holmes, do you take me to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
No-one's eyes were dry anymore. The sunlight kissed Sherlock's lips as John did, answering the question simultaneously, and the vicar spread his arms to declare them joined in matrimony but the words fell upon deaf ears as the couple wound themselves together into one single entity. There was only applause and wide grins to congratulate the two of them. Nature itself seemed to bless them as it sent a delicate breeze to caress Sherlock's curls as John's fingers moved through the dark hair. When they finally broke apart, their smiles blazed as bright as the stars.
"I love you," murmured Sherlock, resting his hand on the side of John's neck.
"I know," replied John, and he had never been happier.
The excitable chatter at the reception was overwhelming, even though there were only a few mouths to contribute to the noise. Mike Stamford's "I told you so" and Mrs Hudson's "I knew it from the beginning" were starting to get tiresome, but John was adamant that Sherlock should leave them to have their fun. It was, after all, a day not for conflicts and upset.
The bright room with its light grey carpet and wide bay windows was adorned with only three small tables, around which sat a variety of wooden chairs, each one dissimilar from the others. A glass of champagne, half empty by this time, sat by every right hand, as well as the handwritten placemats and empty napkin rings.
Sherlock and John dominated the top table, joined by their landlady on John's left, and Mycroft and Lestrade on Sherlock's right. The newly-weds viewed their audience with fondness, whilst Mycroft shuffled anxiously in his seat. It seemed that the elder Holmes brother had taken to planning the timings of the wedding very seriously, and Sherlock assumed that a little timing disorder was in effect. When he glanced at Lestrade, he knew exactly what it was. Best man nerves. It was only natural, of course, but Mycroft would scarcely understand it, hence the twitching.
Smiling slightly, Sherlock leaned over to Mycroft's ear. "How's Geffrey?" he whispered slyly.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "You know very well that his name is Greg. And he's fine."
"Really?" the younger smirked. "Because it seems our audience is getting bored. Isn't it about time for his speech?"
"Shut up, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped.
"Of course, brother dear, of course. But I was only being concerned… It's just that I didn't know how much longer you'll be able to wait to get your hands on a piece of our lovely wedding cake which gets dished out once Garrett's finished…"
"Oh for God's sake!" he huffed angrily at Sherlock, before turning to his partner. "Greg, dear, it's time for your speech."
Lestrade blanched visibly. "Now?"
"Yes, darling. That's what I said."
A panicky gulp ensued. "Can I just have five more minutes to prepare myself?"
Mycroft pursed his lips, looking as though there was a Cupid's arrow worming its way through a chink in his armour, forcing Sherlock to intervene. "No, Gareth. Now, please. You're already ten minutes behind schedule, and it's making Mycroft edgy. Go."
"Alright," Lestrade replied at last as he stood, clearing his throat as he tapped the side of his glass with his spoon. "May I have your attention, please?"
The room quietened as ten pairs of expectant eyes fixed themselves upon him. One last gaze at Mycroft strengthened him, however, and he steadied himself and his voice, and began.
"I'll be brief. Mycroft's ravenous for cake and I don't doubt the lot of you are too." There were a few cheers from his audience, which settled him enough so that he could speak again.
"Usually at weddings, the best man reads out telegrams for the happy couple from friends who could not be here. However, we are in the unusual situation of having absolutely no telegrams to read out, most likely due to Sherlock's uncanny ability to scare off most of the people he meets.
"Which is what makes John Watson so special," he continued. "He brought out the best side of this arrogant dick here, and I never saw Sherlock attach himself to another person so quickly. Before long they were inseparable, despite the various girlfriends that John picked up along the way. He'd ditch the poor women in favour of Sherlock without a moment's hesitation.
"Of course, it's been a rocky road. When Sherlock was gone, John was… Well… I'd never seen anyone sink into such a dark place. I was there as much as I could have been, and Molly, Mrs H. And although he's here now, I can never forgive Sherlock for leaving, and for the consequences of it. On the other hand, it's true to say that I had never been happier to see anyone in all my life when he returned to us, even if I did try to arrest him before he'd had dessert. I would have, but John insisted that he needed to eat."
"Only a fool argues with his doctor," Sherlock chuckled, eyes flicking over to John's shyly. John in return placed his hand on top of his.
"I know that this whole wedding was rushed due to an imminent death threat," Lestrade grinned to the beaming couple. "Something which is not uncommon for our detectives here, but we all know that this should've happened a long, long time ago. They were absolutely oblivious to each other's feelings, and we wondered if they'd reach their sixties without having the courage to say it. In some way I'm disappointed that they didn't – I now owe Mrs Hudson fifty quid."
Everyone laughed, and Mrs Hudson raised her champagne flute smugly.
"So now let us stand, and make a toast to Sherlock and John, the consulting husbands. May you live happily and well, with no shortage of excitement," he concluded, raising his glass. "To Sherlock and John!"
"To Sherlock and John!" the congregation repeated gleefully, followed by a swig of champagne and a round of applause.
Lestrade, flattered, sat down very hastily whilst shaking like a leaf in an autumn gust. Mycroft instantly slipped his arm around his waist and Lestrade buried his face into the elder Holmes' shoulder, flushing avidly. "Thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock whispered, and the inspector nodded once in acknowledgement. "How are we for time, Mycroft?"
Mycroft checked his watch. "Five minutes behind, but that's manageable if we cut the cake now."
"Certainly," Sherlock smirked. "Come on, John."
They stood, and the roar of gleeful hands once again filled the room as the photographer snapped a few scenes. The sharp knife slid easily into the flesh of the bottom cake tier, and it was as though the ribbon across the gate of a new building had been broken. As John looked into Sherlock's eyes, he saw a joy there he never thought anyone but himself was capable of. In that moment, he could not see even a hint of the worry and the sorrow that had accompanied the detective wherever he walked for the last few months.
"I love you," John said, his mouth moving without his mind commanding it.
"I know," Sherlock whispered back.