John Watson was trying very hard not to laugh, his jaw set tightly and his breathing very slow and deliberate. Mary Watson tried, too, but the memory came flooding back to her and she couldn't help herself. And with her, John couldn't stop himself. The two of them practically doubled over with the force of their laughter while Sherlock Holmes watched them with wide eyes and his mouth slightly agape.

Sherlock Holmes was a man completely unused to being laughed at, and especially not laughed at by John and Mary Watson whom he considered his closest friends. He swallowed hard and tried not to scowl; surely they weren't meaning to be cruel. Holmes was trying very hard to figure out what was so funny and not be offended, but he'd never been left out of the loop like this. He'd come to their home for a visit with the expectation that there would be laughter, of course, but not at his expense. He was also unused to not being able to figure out the joke, and this time he couldn't. He didn't like it one bit.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," Mary said between laughs, "You must forgive us." She stood, moving from her spot on the couch next to her husband and sat in the chair next to Holmes. "We're sorry, really, but I think John and I remember it a bit differently than you do."

Holmes' brow furrowed; that didn't help him figure it out. "My toast at your wedding? I thought it was perfectly fine. I mean, I don't make speeches often, but I did practice and I didn't think it was so bad as all that..."

"Holmes, old man, it was a perfectly good speech," Watson said, wiping his eyes as he struggled to stop laughing. "You were just a bit nervous, and you mixed up your words. You called me…" he began to laugh again.

Holmes turned to Mary, his eyes wide. "What did I say?" he asked.

"You called him, 'the Claudius to your Hamlet,'" Mary replied, smiling even as she chuckled.

"So?" Holmes asked, blinking in confusion.

"You meant Horatio, Holmes. I'm the Horatio to your Hamlet," Watson clarified. "At least, if you were trying to call me a loyal friend you did."

"Oh," Holmes breathed, "that's right. Claudius is…"

"The man who killed his brother, married his sister-in-law, and was reason everyone died. Yes, that was Claudius."

Holmes groaned softly, putting his head in his hands. "I compared you to a murderer on your wedding day," he mumbled. "And here I was, telling myself I was imagining all the odd looks I was getting because I never do public speaking. How embarrassing; forgive me, Watson."

Watson was still giggling. "Holmes, it was a very nice toast all things considered. But you really should have known better than to make a literary reference without consulting me."

Finally, Holmes let himself chuckle, too. "Claudius," He mumbled. "Dear goodness, how humiliating."

"John and I have had many a good laugh over it, I assure you," Mary said, laying her hand on his arm. "In fact, had it not been my wedding day, that may have been the highlight."

Holmes smiled back sheepishly. "At least I've been of some use, then," he said. "And I was so proud of that toast, too. Ah, well. I suppose life never does work out so neatly."

"No," Watson said, raising his wine glass and gazing at his wife fondly, "It does not, and for that I am thankful."

"So am I," she answered.

And Holmes, even though he was still mortified that he'd compared Watson to a brother-killer, decided he did, too.

Thank you for reading my story. I sincerely hope you enjoyed.

To the guest user Fireguardian: yes, I am a poetry fan :) Emily Dickinson is one of my favorites, and her words have inspired me to write more times than I can count. In real life, I have a few poems published in small magazines, which I like to think of as enough to call myself a poet, haha. Hopefully I will be able to make a proper book of poetry one day!