Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts pt2
Title: Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts, pt 2
Part One
The next big hoo-ha was the suits. John had dug out his dress uniform and tried it on. It would need a bit of tweaking to make it fit again; long periods of inactivity following his injury had meant that he’d lost his Army physique, and not even running round London with Sherlock had got him back to where he was. He supposed that living mostly off take-aways and snatched half-meals during cases didn’t help.
Mycroft took them to a private tailor, where John felt incredibly uncomfortable. The tailor was a professional however, and, other than a slight twitch of the lips as he took in the jeans and cuddly jumper, John was treated with the utmost respect, especially when it was announced he was a veteran, and needed his uniform altered.
It took an hour of poking and prodding, and tape measures in places he'd rather not think about (was he going to get tailored underwear?) before he was finally released. Sherlock's measurements were still on record and so he didn't need to be jabbed in intimate places.
Eventually John could change out of his uniform and into civvies. He closed the curtain of the changing room and started removing his cufflinks. There was a rustle behind him and Sherlock entered the changing room.
“Sherlock!” John hissed, “What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry, Mycroft’s gone to talk fabric choices, we won’t be missed for a while yet.”
He pressed closer to John, picking a thread from his shoulder. His hand then lingered there, thumb stroking gently.
“I’ve never seen you in a uniform before.” Sherlock said, voice low and gravelly. John swallowed.
“No, they’re not exactly every day wear.”
Sherlock’s hand drifted from his shoulder to his jacket lapel, rubbing the material between his thumb and fingers.
“It’s a shame, it... suits you. I like it.”
~~~
Twenty minutes later, John and Sherlock emerged from the changing room, trying not to giggle. Mycroft shot them a disapproving look.
A man who introduced himself as a cloth consultant talked them through all the options for the occasion, taking into consideration John’s uniform.
Ideas were put together; they insisted on simplicity and comfort above all else. The consultant decided that simple dark jacket and trousers with accents on things like cummerbunds, or waistcoats would work best; traditional but effective.
John immediately vetoed cummerbunds. If Sherlock was in black tie that meant wearing his mess dress. He didn’t like that uniform and he had quite enjoyed Sherlock’s reaction to the uniform he was currently planning on wearing.
Dark colours were brought out, deep rich reds, greens, blues, and purples, some with delicate gold and silver embroidery. John reached out to touch the deep purple, thinking of Sherlock in that shirt he favoured so much. John was also quite fond of that shirt, dark and gaping against the pale skin of Sherlock's neck and forearms. Sherlock looked sideways at John, one eyebrow raised.
“I agree with John. This colour.”
A week later and John was back in his uniform, which now fitted better than it had ever done before. He was stood in front of a full length mirror, debating the pros and cons of trying to find a sword to wear with it when Sherlock sidled up to him, looking resplendent in his suit.
The outfit was beautifully simple, and was really set off by the waistcoat. The purple was lovely and the embroidery was more subtle when the fabric had been tailored, occasionally glinting as it caught the light.
Mycroft and Mrs Holmes stood behind them, looking at their reflection in the mirror.
“You complement each other well, gentlemen,” she commented, smiling broadly.
“Indeed. John, I took the liberty of procuring this for you, to complete your uniform.”
Mycroft handed John a ceremonial sword in a sheath, complete with belt. John turned it over in his hands, just feeling the weight of it in his hands. The craftmanship was excellent and if it was anyone else but Mycroft, John would be very curious to know where it had come from. As it was Mycroft, he knew from experience that asking would be pointless.
John removed his crossbelt and put the sword on. Sherlock helped to arrange it on his hips. He took one last look in the mirror before turning back to Mycroft.
“Thank you.”
“I know you’ve had difficulty finding one, so I thought I’d give you a helping hand. It was nothing.” Mycroft pulled a camera out of his pocket.
“Smile, gentlemen.”
They were momentarily blinded by a flash. Mycroft showed the picture to his mother, who nodded.
“Yes, perfect.”
~~~
The rest of the ceremony was planned with ruthless efficiency. In fact, the next thing John really knew Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, waving her invitation about.
“Oh, boys! I'm so happy for you.” John was engulfed in a hug, before she turned on Sherlock.
“Sherlock, you should have told me earlier!” She smacked him lightly on the arm before kissing his cheek. “I haven't been to a wedding for years, I'll have to find something to wear!”
And then she was gone.
“...tea?”
“Please.”
~~~
A month later and the big day was upon them.
As they were already married, they didn’t have to worry about any of the legal requirements, the ceremony was just reaffirming the vows in a more traditional manner, and an excuse for people to have a party. The large room had tables lined up one both sides of the room, with a large space in the middle. At the head of the room was another table, with the official sitting behind it.
John was surprised to find his hands were sweating, and his heart was beating faster. He was nervous, and he had no idea why.
Mycroft and Harry were standing either side of the table. Mycroft was wearing a suit that matched theirs, though it looked better fitting than the suits he normally wore. Harry looked lovely in a lilac dress. She had forgone a hat, and her long, curly hair was tumbling down her back, with shorter pieces brought forward to frame her face. John had a startling sense of deja vu. She looked like his sister, before the alcohol and the arguments. It was...nice.
The official smiled at them both in a manner that was supposed to be reassuring.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Erica and I am the celebrant. On behalf of John and Sherlock, I would like to welcome you all here. It means a lot to them that you can be here to share with them in their happiness and to witness their marriage vows.
First, we have a reading, which will be read by Mycroft, brother of Sherlock.”
Mycroft cleared his throat.
“Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.”
John had never heard Mycroft speak publicly. He was as good as John imagined, his voice was strong and free from all the undertones that John was used to hearing.
“Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.”
There was silence after Mycroft had finished speaking, broken only by someone - John would put money on it being Mrs. Hudson - sniffing. Harry smiled at him, tearing up as well.
“Thank you. And now we shall proceed to the vows.”
John let his mind wander as the celebrant rambled about the meaning of marriage, the giving and taking. The Celebrant clearly loved her job, and John felt a little uncomfortable standing in front of her, having not been all that bothered about the ceremony in the grand scheme of things.
“Repeat after me please, John.” John turned to face Sherlock, tugging his hand to get him to turn around.
“I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, John Hamish Watson, may not enter a marriage with Sherlock Holmes.”
John dutifully repeated the words, trying not to laugh as Sherlock rolled his eyes. Out the corner of his eye, John could see both Mrs Hudson and, surprisingly, Mrs Holmes, dabbing at their eyes with tissues.
“Now you, Sherlock. I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Sherlock Holmes, may not enter a marriage with John Hamish Watson.”
Sherlock sighed, and repeated the words in a bored voice. John rolled his eyes this time.
“You may now exchange rings.”
The Book of Love started playing, and John felt Sherlock push the cool silver ring up his finger. He felt himself smile ridiculously wide, and curled his hand around Sherlock’s. For all the complaining and horrible planning, and even though he was probably going to hate every single minute of the rest of the day, it still didn’t change the fact that he was now married, something he never really thought he’d end up being.
Sherlock surprised him again by dropping a small kiss to his knuckles before letting him go. John picked up Sherlock’s ring, still suspended from the chain. Sherlock turned around and John fastened it once more, blushing slightly as he remembered what happened the last time he’d done this. Sherlock chuckled softly, as if he’d read John’s mind. Which wouldn’t be surprising. John managed to fasten the necklace without a hitch and they turned back to the celebrant.
“And now, a reading by Harry, sister of John.”
John tensed. He didn't think Harry would purposely embarrass him on his wedding day, but that didn't mean that she would have chosen something traditional and expected for her reading.
“We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavours of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. It isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems - the ones that make you truly who you are - that you’re ready to find a life-long mate.”
Harry wasn’t looking at either John or Sherlock, and John was willing to bet that it was Clara who Harry was speaking out to.
“Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person - someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, 'This is the problem I want to have.'”
John breathed a silent sigh of relief. There was a smattering of chuckles from the assembled guests, and he grinned at his sister, who just winked at him. John managed to sneak a look at Clara, who had tears rolling down her cheeks, and a soft smile on her face.
~~~
The food was excellent, of course, and the wine perfectly chosen. Six courses later, John was feeling a bit more comfortable. Sherlock was sitting next to him, having actually eaten a decent amount of food, instead of picking at it.
Harry, Mycroft, Clara, Mrs. Hudson, and Mrs. Holmes were also seated at the table, for which John was incredibly grateful. It was a little island of familiarity in an ocean of unbearably posh distant relatives. The conversation was stilted to begin with, but tongues were loosened by alcohol and decadent food.
Harry nudged John.
“Told you I wouldn’t embarrass you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Let me guess, the Book of Love was your idea? You always were hopeless.”
“It was both of our idea, actually.”
“Well, good to know your hubby has trite music taste too.”
~~~
Mycroft could dance. John stood staring at him turn Clara around the floor for a good minute before Sherlock elbowed him.
“Please stop staring at my brother. It’s disturbing.”
“But. I just... Never expected him to be a dancing person?”
“Hmm. He learnt it at university - it helps to get contacts in high places apparently.” Sherlock sneered, pulling out his phone.
“Oh, right.” John said, even though Sherlock was making no sense. “Who are you texting? Lestrade is right over there-” John gestured, “-and besides he’s not got any cases on at the moment.”
“I left an experiment running at Bart’s and I asked Molly to text me if anything changed. She’s texting me to tell me nothing has changed. Silly girl.”
“Of course you did. At least it’s not in the flat, I suppose.” John sighed, taking another sip of champagne. He was starting to feel slightly tipsy, but in a good way, lighthearted as well as lightheaded.
“You do realise that she’s going to get sick of pining after you eventually and then you won’t be able to get what you want at the drop of a hat? Especially now you’re married. To another man. That’s a pretty big signal that there’s no hope.” John pressed on, trying not to smile smugly.
Sherlock frowned at John as if he hadn’t realised this could happen. That it could be an issue.
“And no, we’re not getting a divorce. You’ll just have to find another tactic.”
Sherlock glared at John and went back to his phone.
~~~
“And this is my brother Robert and his wife Catrina.” John’s head was spinning from what could only be described as an epic round of ‘meet the family’.
He’d pretty much lost track of names and who was whose relative, instead only able to remember Sherlock’s muttered deductions. John really hoped he’d never have to get the attention of any of them. ‘Excuse me, you, the one with the penchant for high class escorts, could you tell me where the bathroom is?’ probably wouldn’t go down well.
It was the sudden lack of running commentary that made John realize that not only had Sherlock abandoned him, he didn’t appear to be in the room at all. If Sherlock had escaped properly, John would make him pay.
Catrina was looking at him intently and John tried not to fidget as he reached out to shake Robert’s hand.
“I must say you look dashing in your uniform, John.” She reached out and brushed her fingers over the crook of his elbow.
“Thank you,” John mumbled, shifting away slightly and feeling incredibly uncomfortable.
“Is the sword real?” Robert asked.
“Well, it’s ceremonial, and too unwieldy to use as a sword, but will still work as a weapon if needed.”
Robert chuckled. “We know who to hide behind if things start to get violent!”
John laughed politely once more, until Mrs Holmes took pity on him and led him to yet another set of relatives.
~~~
John ducked into what he really hoped was one of the house's five bathrooms. He crumpled a bit in relief when he was proved right, and went to sit on the edge of the bath.
He hated events like this, everything was too close and cloying. Especially when most of the people here were unbearably rich and upper class. It made him feel incredibly out of place. The only real relief was that he knew Sherlock felt at least as uncomfortable as he did.
There was a scratching at the door.
“Occupied.” John shouted. The scratching did not stop.
“I said, occupied!”
The door started to open, and Sherlock sidled in.
“I'm sure I locked the door.”
“You did.” Sherlock locked it again behind him.
“Oh. Where did you disappear to, anyway?”
“Lestrade cornered me. Apparently if I break your heart he’ll ban me from crime scenes.”
“Oh, well, that’s nice of him?”
Sherlock snorted, “He wouldn’t last a month without me.”
John just shook his head. “Sherlock - ”
“We need to escape.”
“Oh god, yes please.”
“Shouldn't be too hard, everyone's interrogated us already, and a lot of them are well on their way to being completely drunk. The only real issue will be Mummy and Mycroft.”
“At this point I'm more than willing to face their wrath.” John stood up and walked over to Sherlock. “Besides, I'm pretty sure Lestrade's getting fairly drunk, and even I've noticed the frankly disturbing looks your brother is giving him. I'm sure they'll be finding their own bathroom before long.”
“Ugh.”
“Hmm.”
John tilted his head up, Sherlock wrapped a hand round the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. John made a soft noise in the back of his throat and pushed Sherlock back against the door.
Someone knocked on the door, and John jumped back, ignoring Sherlock's scowl.
“John? Sherlock?” Mrs. Holmes voice filtered through the wood.
They stepped back and let her in. John was very grateful that they hadn't had the time to get too carried away.
“I thought you’d want a bit of a break. I wanted to thank you for letting us - letting me - have this day, I know it’s been difficult for you. I hope you’ll accept this as an apology and a congratulatory present.” She handed an envelope to Sherlock, who opened it and pulled out the contents, holding them so John could see them too.
“We have a villa in the south of France - you remember, Sherlock, we spent a few summers there. It is currently empty, and you can have use of it for as long as you wish. The tickets are open ended, so I hope you choose to make the most of it.”
“Thank you, that’s very generous.” John said, taking the envelope from Sherlock, feeling more than slightly overwhelmed.
“No, thank you, John. I've never seen Sherlock look so happy. I wish you the best.” She gave them a watery smile and left them alone.
~~~
They eventually left the bathroom and returned to the hall.
Lestrade was dancing with Mycroft, his head resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. John had never seen either man look so content. Harry and Clara were sitting at a table, heads bent close together, deep in conversation. A couple of Sherlock’s uncles were laughing raucously in a corner, clearly three sheets to the wind. All in all, it was fairly easy to sneak through the hall and out to make a bid for freedom. John subsequently discovered that, although Sherlock couldn't drive, he could hotwire a car.
Three days later they were firmly ensconced in France. John had managed to get a day or so of ‘normal’ honeymoon activity out of Sherlock - sex, food in bed, sex, crap french telly (Sherlock doing translations with his own personal commentary was John’s new favourite thing), more sex - before Sherlock had gotten bored.
John rolled over, snuggling back into the bed. Sherlock was...somewhere, and John decided he was going to enjoy spreading out on the kingsize bed while he had the chance. He had been dozing for a while when Sherlock bounded into the room, speaking rapid french into his phone.
“John. Come on, we have a case!” Sherlock started pulling out clothes for John to put on.
“In France?” John asked, spluttering as he got hit in the face with a pair of trousers
“Yes, yes, the little village we passed through to get here.”
John huffed and got dressed before running out the door after his husband. Some things, it seemed, never changed.
Part One
The next big hoo-ha was the suits. John had dug out his dress uniform and tried it on. It would need a bit of tweaking to make it fit again; long periods of inactivity following his injury had meant that he’d lost his Army physique, and not even running round London with Sherlock had got him back to where he was. He supposed that living mostly off take-aways and snatched half-meals during cases didn’t help.
Mycroft took them to a private tailor, where John felt incredibly uncomfortable. The tailor was a professional however, and, other than a slight twitch of the lips as he took in the jeans and cuddly jumper, John was treated with the utmost respect, especially when it was announced he was a veteran, and needed his uniform altered.
It took an hour of poking and prodding, and tape measures in places he'd rather not think about (was he going to get tailored underwear?) before he was finally released. Sherlock's measurements were still on record and so he didn't need to be jabbed in intimate places.
Eventually John could change out of his uniform and into civvies. He closed the curtain of the changing room and started removing his cufflinks. There was a rustle behind him and Sherlock entered the changing room.
“Sherlock!” John hissed, “What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry, Mycroft’s gone to talk fabric choices, we won’t be missed for a while yet.”
He pressed closer to John, picking a thread from his shoulder. His hand then lingered there, thumb stroking gently.
“I’ve never seen you in a uniform before.” Sherlock said, voice low and gravelly. John swallowed.
“No, they’re not exactly every day wear.”
Sherlock’s hand drifted from his shoulder to his jacket lapel, rubbing the material between his thumb and fingers.
“It’s a shame, it... suits you. I like it.”
~~~
Twenty minutes later, John and Sherlock emerged from the changing room, trying not to giggle. Mycroft shot them a disapproving look.
A man who introduced himself as a cloth consultant talked them through all the options for the occasion, taking into consideration John’s uniform.
Ideas were put together; they insisted on simplicity and comfort above all else. The consultant decided that simple dark jacket and trousers with accents on things like cummerbunds, or waistcoats would work best; traditional but effective.
John immediately vetoed cummerbunds. If Sherlock was in black tie that meant wearing his mess dress. He didn’t like that uniform and he had quite enjoyed Sherlock’s reaction to the uniform he was currently planning on wearing.
Dark colours were brought out, deep rich reds, greens, blues, and purples, some with delicate gold and silver embroidery. John reached out to touch the deep purple, thinking of Sherlock in that shirt he favoured so much. John was also quite fond of that shirt, dark and gaping against the pale skin of Sherlock's neck and forearms. Sherlock looked sideways at John, one eyebrow raised.
“I agree with John. This colour.”
A week later and John was back in his uniform, which now fitted better than it had ever done before. He was stood in front of a full length mirror, debating the pros and cons of trying to find a sword to wear with it when Sherlock sidled up to him, looking resplendent in his suit.
The outfit was beautifully simple, and was really set off by the waistcoat. The purple was lovely and the embroidery was more subtle when the fabric had been tailored, occasionally glinting as it caught the light.
Mycroft and Mrs Holmes stood behind them, looking at their reflection in the mirror.
“You complement each other well, gentlemen,” she commented, smiling broadly.
“Indeed. John, I took the liberty of procuring this for you, to complete your uniform.”
Mycroft handed John a ceremonial sword in a sheath, complete with belt. John turned it over in his hands, just feeling the weight of it in his hands. The craftmanship was excellent and if it was anyone else but Mycroft, John would be very curious to know where it had come from. As it was Mycroft, he knew from experience that asking would be pointless.
John removed his crossbelt and put the sword on. Sherlock helped to arrange it on his hips. He took one last look in the mirror before turning back to Mycroft.
“Thank you.”
“I know you’ve had difficulty finding one, so I thought I’d give you a helping hand. It was nothing.” Mycroft pulled a camera out of his pocket.
“Smile, gentlemen.”
They were momentarily blinded by a flash. Mycroft showed the picture to his mother, who nodded.
“Yes, perfect.”
~~~
The rest of the ceremony was planned with ruthless efficiency. In fact, the next thing John really knew Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, waving her invitation about.
“Oh, boys! I'm so happy for you.” John was engulfed in a hug, before she turned on Sherlock.
“Sherlock, you should have told me earlier!” She smacked him lightly on the arm before kissing his cheek. “I haven't been to a wedding for years, I'll have to find something to wear!”
And then she was gone.
“...tea?”
“Please.”
~~~
A month later and the big day was upon them.
As they were already married, they didn’t have to worry about any of the legal requirements, the ceremony was just reaffirming the vows in a more traditional manner, and an excuse for people to have a party. The large room had tables lined up one both sides of the room, with a large space in the middle. At the head of the room was another table, with the official sitting behind it.
John was surprised to find his hands were sweating, and his heart was beating faster. He was nervous, and he had no idea why.
Mycroft and Harry were standing either side of the table. Mycroft was wearing a suit that matched theirs, though it looked better fitting than the suits he normally wore. Harry looked lovely in a lilac dress. She had forgone a hat, and her long, curly hair was tumbling down her back, with shorter pieces brought forward to frame her face. John had a startling sense of deja vu. She looked like his sister, before the alcohol and the arguments. It was...nice.
The official smiled at them both in a manner that was supposed to be reassuring.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Erica and I am the celebrant. On behalf of John and Sherlock, I would like to welcome you all here. It means a lot to them that you can be here to share with them in their happiness and to witness their marriage vows.
First, we have a reading, which will be read by Mycroft, brother of Sherlock.”
Mycroft cleared his throat.
“Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.”
John had never heard Mycroft speak publicly. He was as good as John imagined, his voice was strong and free from all the undertones that John was used to hearing.
“Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.”
There was silence after Mycroft had finished speaking, broken only by someone - John would put money on it being Mrs. Hudson - sniffing. Harry smiled at him, tearing up as well.
“Thank you. And now we shall proceed to the vows.”
John let his mind wander as the celebrant rambled about the meaning of marriage, the giving and taking. The Celebrant clearly loved her job, and John felt a little uncomfortable standing in front of her, having not been all that bothered about the ceremony in the grand scheme of things.
“Repeat after me please, John.” John turned to face Sherlock, tugging his hand to get him to turn around.
“I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, John Hamish Watson, may not enter a marriage with Sherlock Holmes.”
John dutifully repeated the words, trying not to laugh as Sherlock rolled his eyes. Out the corner of his eye, John could see both Mrs Hudson and, surprisingly, Mrs Holmes, dabbing at their eyes with tissues.
“Now you, Sherlock. I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Sherlock Holmes, may not enter a marriage with John Hamish Watson.”
Sherlock sighed, and repeated the words in a bored voice. John rolled his eyes this time.
“You may now exchange rings.”
The Book of Love started playing, and John felt Sherlock push the cool silver ring up his finger. He felt himself smile ridiculously wide, and curled his hand around Sherlock’s. For all the complaining and horrible planning, and even though he was probably going to hate every single minute of the rest of the day, it still didn’t change the fact that he was now married, something he never really thought he’d end up being.
Sherlock surprised him again by dropping a small kiss to his knuckles before letting him go. John picked up Sherlock’s ring, still suspended from the chain. Sherlock turned around and John fastened it once more, blushing slightly as he remembered what happened the last time he’d done this. Sherlock chuckled softly, as if he’d read John’s mind. Which wouldn’t be surprising. John managed to fasten the necklace without a hitch and they turned back to the celebrant.
“And now, a reading by Harry, sister of John.”
John tensed. He didn't think Harry would purposely embarrass him on his wedding day, but that didn't mean that she would have chosen something traditional and expected for her reading.
“We’re all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you’ve been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there’s no right person, just different flavours of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complementary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. It isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems - the ones that make you truly who you are - that you’re ready to find a life-long mate.”
Harry wasn’t looking at either John or Sherlock, and John was willing to bet that it was Clara who Harry was speaking out to.
“Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person - someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, 'This is the problem I want to have.'”
John breathed a silent sigh of relief. There was a smattering of chuckles from the assembled guests, and he grinned at his sister, who just winked at him. John managed to sneak a look at Clara, who had tears rolling down her cheeks, and a soft smile on her face.
~~~
The food was excellent, of course, and the wine perfectly chosen. Six courses later, John was feeling a bit more comfortable. Sherlock was sitting next to him, having actually eaten a decent amount of food, instead of picking at it.
Harry, Mycroft, Clara, Mrs. Hudson, and Mrs. Holmes were also seated at the table, for which John was incredibly grateful. It was a little island of familiarity in an ocean of unbearably posh distant relatives. The conversation was stilted to begin with, but tongues were loosened by alcohol and decadent food.
Harry nudged John.
“Told you I wouldn’t embarrass you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Let me guess, the Book of Love was your idea? You always were hopeless.”
“It was both of our idea, actually.”
“Well, good to know your hubby has trite music taste too.”
~~~
Mycroft could dance. John stood staring at him turn Clara around the floor for a good minute before Sherlock elbowed him.
“Please stop staring at my brother. It’s disturbing.”
“But. I just... Never expected him to be a dancing person?”
“Hmm. He learnt it at university - it helps to get contacts in high places apparently.” Sherlock sneered, pulling out his phone.
“Oh, right.” John said, even though Sherlock was making no sense. “Who are you texting? Lestrade is right over there-” John gestured, “-and besides he’s not got any cases on at the moment.”
“I left an experiment running at Bart’s and I asked Molly to text me if anything changed. She’s texting me to tell me nothing has changed. Silly girl.”
“Of course you did. At least it’s not in the flat, I suppose.” John sighed, taking another sip of champagne. He was starting to feel slightly tipsy, but in a good way, lighthearted as well as lightheaded.
“You do realise that she’s going to get sick of pining after you eventually and then you won’t be able to get what you want at the drop of a hat? Especially now you’re married. To another man. That’s a pretty big signal that there’s no hope.” John pressed on, trying not to smile smugly.
Sherlock frowned at John as if he hadn’t realised this could happen. That it could be an issue.
“And no, we’re not getting a divorce. You’ll just have to find another tactic.”
Sherlock glared at John and went back to his phone.
~~~
“And this is my brother Robert and his wife Catrina.” John’s head was spinning from what could only be described as an epic round of ‘meet the family’.
He’d pretty much lost track of names and who was whose relative, instead only able to remember Sherlock’s muttered deductions. John really hoped he’d never have to get the attention of any of them. ‘Excuse me, you, the one with the penchant for high class escorts, could you tell me where the bathroom is?’ probably wouldn’t go down well.
It was the sudden lack of running commentary that made John realize that not only had Sherlock abandoned him, he didn’t appear to be in the room at all. If Sherlock had escaped properly, John would make him pay.
Catrina was looking at him intently and John tried not to fidget as he reached out to shake Robert’s hand.
“I must say you look dashing in your uniform, John.” She reached out and brushed her fingers over the crook of his elbow.
“Thank you,” John mumbled, shifting away slightly and feeling incredibly uncomfortable.
“Is the sword real?” Robert asked.
“Well, it’s ceremonial, and too unwieldy to use as a sword, but will still work as a weapon if needed.”
Robert chuckled. “We know who to hide behind if things start to get violent!”
John laughed politely once more, until Mrs Holmes took pity on him and led him to yet another set of relatives.
~~~
John ducked into what he really hoped was one of the house's five bathrooms. He crumpled a bit in relief when he was proved right, and went to sit on the edge of the bath.
He hated events like this, everything was too close and cloying. Especially when most of the people here were unbearably rich and upper class. It made him feel incredibly out of place. The only real relief was that he knew Sherlock felt at least as uncomfortable as he did.
There was a scratching at the door.
“Occupied.” John shouted. The scratching did not stop.
“I said, occupied!”
The door started to open, and Sherlock sidled in.
“I'm sure I locked the door.”
“You did.” Sherlock locked it again behind him.
“Oh. Where did you disappear to, anyway?”
“Lestrade cornered me. Apparently if I break your heart he’ll ban me from crime scenes.”
“Oh, well, that’s nice of him?”
Sherlock snorted, “He wouldn’t last a month without me.”
John just shook his head. “Sherlock - ”
“We need to escape.”
“Oh god, yes please.”
“Shouldn't be too hard, everyone's interrogated us already, and a lot of them are well on their way to being completely drunk. The only real issue will be Mummy and Mycroft.”
“At this point I'm more than willing to face their wrath.” John stood up and walked over to Sherlock. “Besides, I'm pretty sure Lestrade's getting fairly drunk, and even I've noticed the frankly disturbing looks your brother is giving him. I'm sure they'll be finding their own bathroom before long.”
“Ugh.”
“Hmm.”
John tilted his head up, Sherlock wrapped a hand round the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. John made a soft noise in the back of his throat and pushed Sherlock back against the door.
Someone knocked on the door, and John jumped back, ignoring Sherlock's scowl.
“John? Sherlock?” Mrs. Holmes voice filtered through the wood.
They stepped back and let her in. John was very grateful that they hadn't had the time to get too carried away.
“I thought you’d want a bit of a break. I wanted to thank you for letting us - letting me - have this day, I know it’s been difficult for you. I hope you’ll accept this as an apology and a congratulatory present.” She handed an envelope to Sherlock, who opened it and pulled out the contents, holding them so John could see them too.
“We have a villa in the south of France - you remember, Sherlock, we spent a few summers there. It is currently empty, and you can have use of it for as long as you wish. The tickets are open ended, so I hope you choose to make the most of it.”
“Thank you, that’s very generous.” John said, taking the envelope from Sherlock, feeling more than slightly overwhelmed.
“No, thank you, John. I've never seen Sherlock look so happy. I wish you the best.” She gave them a watery smile and left them alone.
~~~
They eventually left the bathroom and returned to the hall.
Lestrade was dancing with Mycroft, his head resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. John had never seen either man look so content. Harry and Clara were sitting at a table, heads bent close together, deep in conversation. A couple of Sherlock’s uncles were laughing raucously in a corner, clearly three sheets to the wind. All in all, it was fairly easy to sneak through the hall and out to make a bid for freedom. John subsequently discovered that, although Sherlock couldn't drive, he could hotwire a car.
Three days later they were firmly ensconced in France. John had managed to get a day or so of ‘normal’ honeymoon activity out of Sherlock - sex, food in bed, sex, crap french telly (Sherlock doing translations with his own personal commentary was John’s new favourite thing), more sex - before Sherlock had gotten bored.
John rolled over, snuggling back into the bed. Sherlock was...somewhere, and John decided he was going to enjoy spreading out on the kingsize bed while he had the chance. He had been dozing for a while when Sherlock bounded into the room, speaking rapid french into his phone.
“John. Come on, we have a case!” Sherlock started pulling out clothes for John to put on.
“In France?” John asked, spluttering as he got hit in the face with a pair of trousers
“Yes, yes, the little village we passed through to get here.”
John huffed and got dressed before running out the door after his husband. Some things, it seemed, never changed.