Fill: Bound in Gold 6-8
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: I'm told it's NC-17, but I actually consider it more a hard R.
Spoilers: All of ASiP
Warnings: If you object to arranged marriage, you probably won't like this
WTF is This?: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme. Condensed summary: Arranged marriage AU. The first time John and Sherlock meet is on their wedding day.
6.
It was both the shortest and longest month of John’s life. Parts of it flew by, a flurry of interviews and magazine features and endless bouts of shopping with Harry. Other parts dragged glacially from second to second: fittings for his tux and reception suit, meetings with the wedding organisers to rehearse where he’d walk, where he’d stand, what he’d say. If he had to hear one more word about that bloody bracelet someone was going to end up on the floor with a military issue left boot pressed against their neck. He’d been forced to recite his vows so many times he was beginning to hear them in his sleep. He toyed with the idea of recording himself at night to see if he’d started sleep-reciting them.
And then there was Harry. She was outwardly jubilant with every approaching milestone in the epic wedding plan manifesto, but John could see her suffering beneath it. Harry had always hated sobriety, and John was grateful for her brave face, but he wished he still had Clara to back him up when she got into one of her darker moods. He had a hard time not blaming himself for their divorce. Clara and he had always worked brilliantly as a team, and he had a feeling that his time in Afghanistan had left her at too much of a disadvantage to hold it together.
Well, at least he’d found a way to make amends. Partially. He would take a husband so Harry could redeem herself to her wife. It was...oddly symmetrical. And even if they didn’t end up reconciling, at least Harry would be able to look Clara in the eye again. That was something. That was enough. It had to be.
And all too soon the day arrived. John crawled out of bed, his body heavy and loose, at five o’ clock in the morning to meet the gleaming black sedan outside his flat. He was whisked off to the estate where he was promptly set upon by a horde of attendants, each one fussing with his hair, his fingernails, his face, his clothes. He felt a bit like a show dog, being aggressively groomed for inspection by some nameless judge.
Then, when they had started to scrub him raw and brutalize his scalp and mercilessly prod his cuticles, he started to envy show dogs. At least they never seemed to actually suffer during their preparations. His head began to swim with the constant tugs and prods and the endless array of dangerously chemical odours wafting around him. He was crowded in and it became more than a little claustrophobic; the constant press of human bodies, the ceaseless chatter from all directions, more accents than you could shake a stick at. He yearned for the simple days of tuxedo fittings with Antanas, who had been calm and amiable. This lot were...caffinated.
At long, long last John was declared presentable and deposited in what he secretly called “the antechamber”. In reality it was just a well appointed sitting room with high windows and tastefully matched furniture. There was a large mirror above the fireplace, and John took the opportunity to inspect himself in his wedding finery.
His hair was immaculate, and somehow blonder. The grey was still there, but muted. Probably highlights, he mused, or something like that. It was the only hair-related term he knew beyond “shampoo” and “conditioner”, and he’d only known that because the term had featured somewhat prominently in one of Harry and Clara’s most epic rows, about a year before the divorce. He’d gotten an e-mail detailing the whole account while he was in Kandahar.
His tuxedo was black and lush, and based very heavily on his military dress uniform. In fact, the two were almost twins, except that all the bits on his uniform that were red had been replaced with white, as per Lady Holmes’s colour scheme. There was also a great deal more embellishment along the lapels, where intricate embroideries of gold thread had been stitched along the seams. He was wearing his medals, too. He’d tried to beg out of that, but Antanas had been adamant. Something about lines. John really had no idea.
His shoes were so shiny he could see his reflection, and his skin hadn’t looked this clear and smooth since before he’d joined up. He wondered what had become of the calluses on his fingers. He’d been rather proud of those. They were suspiciously absent now. As was his cane. He’d decided he would walk for himself, today of all days, and damn the consequences. He’d swallowed the strongest painkillers in his medicine cabinet and forced himself to walk through the ache and the sharp, shooting agony. He’d started practicing the week before, and it was easier now to ignore the pain, though he always ended up suffering later. Well, he’d deal with that when the time came.
An odd thought occurred to him, and he laughed quietly to himself. He didn’t recognise himself. He, John Watson, was a complete stranger to his own reflection. It was bizarre for him, and utterly unfair to Sherlock. The poor sod would finally meet his husband, only to find out a short time later that he’d actually married a completely different man, and have to go through the whole tedious introduction process all over again.
There was a sharp, rhythmic clicking sound to his left, and he turned to see a bone-meltingly gorgeous woman in a slim black and white dress walking toward him. She was holding a BlackBerry in her hands and texting diligently.
“I’m to tell you that if you so much as wrinkle that tuxedo you’ll be flayed alive and fed to a pack of wild boars.” She said in a bored voice.
John fidgeted in discomfort and managed a nod. “A-all right.”
The woman stopped texting for a moment and looked at him appraisingly. She nodded, seemingly in satisfaction, and turned away. “Follow me. We’re going to the church now.”
And that. Was it. John’s blood turned to ice, freezing and splintering in his veins. A solid, painful lump spontaneously materialized in his throat and lodged there. His stomach inverted and went inside out. His skin stretched itself too tightly over his muscles. His legs would not move. This was it. This was it. It was now! For three months of endless inner debate and exhaustive preparation and emotional crises, this moment had remained a theoretical eventuality. A hypothetical situation. Now, now it was happening. Now it was real. He was actually getting married. Now. Right now. It was happening and it was legitimate and it was far, far too late to stop it now.
Panic. Pure, dizzying panic swept over him. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to find the high ground and possibly a sniper rifle, though he’d never learned to shoot one of those. It couldn’t be too different from a Browning, could it? Could it? Oh, God, he was delusional now. Prattling on about sniper rifles and the high ground, his thoughts whirling and spinning through his head, never landing, never catching long enough for coherence. Oh God. Oh God. Oh sweet, merciful God what was he doing? He couldn’t do this! This wasn’t him! No. No, he had to run. He had to get away from here. Far away. There’d been a mistake! They wanted some other John Watson. Surely if they just gave him the chance to explain he could--
“If you don’t get a move on, they’ll start without you. I guarantee you won’t like the consequences of that.”
John didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He wasn’t ready. He would never be ready.
The woman turned and rolled her eyes. She fixed her gaze on John, her face set and grim. Her voice came out loud and commanding, almost a shout but far more controlled. “Forward march, soldier!” She commanded. Then her face was instantly impassive again and she turned away, already focussed once more on her phone.
The command shot like a bullet through John’s terror and doubt and went directly to his legs. Before he could formulate a thought, John was moving, following the phone woman to the front hall and onward, to the rest of his life.
The church was enormous, a towering cathedral that wasn’t actually a cathedral, being C of E and all. But it was massive and imposing and very, very gold. It probably had cathedrals in its ancestry.
Inside, it was white. Dazzling white, spotted with gold. Everything not white was black. It screamed tradition and sophistication. It also screamed expensive. There were two seemingly endless rows of pews stretching toward the altar, each one adorned with white bunting and a bundle of white roses.
A squeal from somewhere to his right cut through his observations, and he turned to see Harry rushing toward him, arms open wide. He frantically backed away, his hands in front of him in a “stay back” gesture.
“Harry! Harry stop right there! I’m not entirely sure what they’ll do to me if anything happens to this tux but I really don’t want to find out.” Wild boars. He thought, and shuddered.
Harry dropped her arms and pouted. She was wearing an actual gown, white and sleeveless with silver dusting along the skirt and bodice. She looked...lovely.
“You look beautiful, Big.” He breathed. He didn’t realize until after he’d said it that he’d used his childhood name for her. Short for “Big Sis”. She smiled, tears in her flawlessly shadowed eyes.
“And you look like a prince, Johnny.” She ran one gentle hand along his sleeve. “A right, handsome prince. Like a fairytale.”
John frowned and pretended to swat her away. “Aw, don’t get all female on me now Harry.” He chided. She laughed.
Then she sobered. “I saw him, Johnny.” She confided, her voice a stage whisper. John’s eyes widened almost painfully.
“You did? When? Where?!” He struggled to keep his voice low.
“Outside. They were bundling him out of the car and into the church. I only saw him for a second, but it was definitely him. He was all in white, and I saw the bracelet.”
John’s hand flew out of its own accord and grasped Harry’s wrist. “What did he look like? Tell me what he looks like!”
But Harry just smiled and patted his cheek. “I’m so happy for you Johnny.” She said tearfully, then she pulled out of his grasp and fluttered off toward the rest of his party, which was significantly smaller than Sherlock’s. As she left, one of the organizers appeared behind him and led him toward the altar, where the vicar was waiting, along with John’s best man, Bill Murray.
“Right turn up, this, eh John?” Bill said by way of greeting. “You getting married in a place like this? Blimey.” He looked around the church interior, clearly dazzled. John just ducked his head to hide the blush.
“Yeah. S’pose it is.” He muttered. The organizer cleared his throat. Jamie, his name was. John was pretty sure.
“Okay, John, Mr Murray, you’ll wait in that alcove over there until the guests have all been seated. After that, the music will start to play and that’s your cue to ascend to the altar. You remember where to stand?”
John nodded, Bill said “Yep!”
“Right.” Jamie went on. “The rest of your party is already there, so go on and wait for your cue.”
John and Bill obediently trooped off to the little closed-off area beside the altar. John had been instructed to select a party of six men to stand by him during the ceremony, and he’d had to search through his old address book to find enough people. He’d ended up pulling mostly from his graduating class at Bart’s, but he’d managed to find a couple of service lads like Bill as well. Mike Stamford was among his Bart’s contingent, smiling widely and looking surprisingly stately in his classic tux.
“You ready for this, mate?” He asked once John and Bill had joined the rest of the men.
“Not even remotely.” John replied. Mike laughed heartily at that.
They chatted a bit as they waited, every so often peeking round the tall golden pillar blocking the view to the church proper so they could see how many guests had arrived. The noise was constant but muted as people filed into the hall, taking their seats and conversing quietly but animatedly in anticipation of the ceremony. John felt his innards clench and twist more and more tightly with each passing second, and forced himself to focus on Bill’s enthusiastic retelling of the time he and John had stolen their female CO’s knickers and run them up the flagpole. John remembered that day mostly for the five hundred push ups he’d had to do over the course of his punishment. He’d barely been able to pick up his fork at mess.
Then, all too suddenly, there was music. John froze, his face a mask of terror, but Bill put a heavy hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Stand tall, soldier.” And John took a deep breath, and walked up the few carpeted stairs to the altar, his heart hammering behind his ribs as he went.
He heard the gentle roar of hundreds of muted conversations behind him, and focussed every bit of his will on facing forward. He was not to look behind him, of that he had been reminded countless times. He was to stand still, eyes forward, and never look back at his approaching fiancee.
After a time, the music changed from stately and subdued, to something altogether more whistful. It was heavy on the violin, with a rumbling undercurrent of cello. John didn’t recognise it, but it was probably something classical and significant. There was an instant hush behind him, and every cell in his body screamed at him to turn around. He overrode them, but even so his ears pricked intently at the unmistakable sound of tiny golden rings tinkling against each other like Christmas bells.
With every slow, measured step Sherlock took, the bells grew louder. The urge to turn and look at him doubled with each new jangle, and he was sweating by the time Sherlock had covered half the distance. Still, John did not turn around. He felt a weight against his right shoulder, and looked to the side ever so slightly to see Bill smiling reassuringly. John took a deep breath, and looked straight ahead.
The bell-like sound of the bracelet seemed to go on forever, flittering through the notes of music just on the edge of hearing. But to John, who was listening so intently, the sound was like a gong being struck beside his head.
Finally, after what felt like several lifetimes, John felt the heat of another human body beside his. No, two human bodies. There was a rustling, and someone quite small brushed up against him briefly before moving away. Lady Holmes, of course. She’d been the one to escort Sherlock down the aisle.
And now there was only Sherlock, standing mere inches away, and John was frozen in a moment of panic, eyes locked on a spot just over the vicar’s shoulder. The music faded, Bill’s hand squeezed John’s wrist for a moment, and with one more deep breath, John turned to look at Sherlock Holmes.
He was tall, nearly half a head taller than John, and very slim, which made him appear taller still. He held himself erect, with a proud posture and perfectly squared shoulders. He was, indeed, all in white. It was a flowing, silky three-piece suit, not quite a tux but blatantly formal. The fabric in turn clung to him and draped off his slender frame, flowing and caressing like water. His collar was flush against his slender, swan-like neck, which lead up to his smooth and angular face, with its perfect cupid’s bow lips, straight and stately nose, and impossibly high and sharp cheekbones. His hair was almost black and semi-long, arranged in perfectly ordered and styled curls that swept away from his face, save for his thick fringe, which fell lightly over his forehead.
His eyes, however, remained a mystery. Sherlock’s upper face was obscured by a slim silver mask with no eye holes. His head kept moving in tiny increments from side to side as he listened intently, relying on his other senses. John wondered if Sherlock could hear his elevated heartbeat, or his unsteady breathing, or the near-silent slide of his tongue over his suddenly very dry lips.
Sherlock Holmes was gorgeous. Statuesque and lithe, impossibly pale and impossibly beautiful. John, for all his borrowed finery and professional styling, felt inadequate and dull in comparison. And he could not look away. How fortunate, then, that he wasn’t supposed to.
The vicar spoke, jerking John back to reality, though he still couldn’t tear his eyes from this unearthly creature he was about to marry.
“Dearly Beloved, we gather on this day to unite two lives and two worlds. May this union stand as a testament to the unity of our great nation and her people...”
7.
Sherlock hated the mask even more than he hated the incessantly cheerful bracelet. It had been made to the exact dimensions of his face, so there were absolutely no gaps through which light could penetrate, and it blinded him completely. Sherlock hated the loss of his sight. It was so much a part of who he was, his ability to see what no one else could.
And it made him so feeble. He’d been inside the church before, but not since it had been decorated. He was no longer sure of the layout, and had to rely entirely on mummy to guide his steps.
The violinists were, of course, first rate. Mummy would settle for nothing less. Even so, Sherlock thought he could do the piece more justice. It was a faintly melancholy song, though the notes were light, almost exclusively in the major scale. The cellists, he thought, were superb.
He kept his ears open as mummy guided him sedately down the aisle. He heard the steady breathing coming from every silent spectator, the steady hum of electronics from the camera crews, the soft whispers of people commenting on his suit, his hair, his mask. That bloody bracelet.
Mummy led him up a few shallow steps before walking away, and he felt John Watson’s body heat soaking through his clothes. It was oddly comforting, somehow. John’s breathing was controlled and steady, and from the sound of it John was noticeably shorter than Sherlock, but not quite by an entire head. Maybe half that. That made Sherlock feel a little better, for some reason. John wasn’t an imposing, looming figure. He was small. Small seemed somehow more manageable.
The music stopped, and Sherlock dutifully pivoted ninety degrees to face John. He moved a bit more cautiously than usual, not entirely sure of his equilibrium with the mask obscuring any visual cues. But he had been before the altar a few times, and was reasonably sure of the dimentions he was working with.
John’s breathing faltered and became a bit ragged. There was a faint smell of sweat, obscured by designer cologne and whatever other cosmetic tricks mummy’s minions had employed. John was nervous, Sherlock thought. Extremely nervous.
The vicar began his inane monologue, and Sherlock rolled his eyes behind the mask. There was a near-silent huff, almost like laughter, from John. Sherlock’s gesture must’ve shown in his eyebrows. Dammit. And yet...he’d laughed. Sherlock suppressed a smile, but one corner of his lips twitched upward anyway.
The vicar prattled on and on, using the word “union” and it’s various incarnations far more often than was necessary. Or tasteful. Finally, it was time to participate. John was first, and Sherlock noted that his gentle voice had lost the slight rasp it’d had outside his bedroom door. It was almost melodic now. Sweet and comforting. Perfect for a doctor.
Then it was Sherlock’s turn, and he recited the lines word-for-word, without any of the embellishments Mycroft had so vehemently refused to allow. Apparently honesty had no place in wedding vows, and grooms weren’t supposed to use the words “under duress” at any point during the ceremony.
When he’d started speaking, Sherlock noticed a slight catch in John’s breath. He remembered that John’s only experience with his voice had been a ragged, infuriated scream aimed at Mycroft. John had never heard Sherlock’s speaking voice before. He felt a bit...smug at that. He knew full well the effect his voice had on people. He’d heard it compared to dark silk, melted chocolate, warm honey, and sin. He wondered what it was doing to John now, in front of all these people, as it spoke words of devotion, faithfulness and love.
“To seal this union, the couple will now exchange rings, a symbol of their bond, and the endlessness of their commitment.”
Sherlock would have groaned at the cheesiness of that statement, not to mention the inaccuracy, if his brain wasn’t so full with thoughts of Finally. Finally! as John’s deft and steady hands undid the clasp on Sherlock’s bracelet. The hateful thing fell away from his wrist and into John’s hand before it was handed off to someone behind Sherlock. Mycroft, most likely. A moment later, a cool band of metal was sliding onto his finger, along with the warm and steady hands of his new husband, one holding Sherlock’s hand steady, the other guiding the ring to its proper place.
There was an air of finality to that, when John’s hands fell away and Sherlock was able to move his arm without that incessant jingle. The ring felt disproportionately heavy on his hand, but he couldn’t dwell on it for long because Mycroft was pressing another ring into Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock licked his lips and held out his hands. John took them, and helped Sherlock guide the ring to the appropriate finger. John’s hands were steady, but Sherlock’s were acutally shaking. He couldn’t understand why his body was betraying him, now of all times, but he just couldn’t make it stop. The ring was secured, and John let go of his hands. Sherlock was at a loss, unsure of what to do next, where his arms should be. He felt unaccountably awkward and nervous, and damned John Watson was still perfectly still and steady, even if his breathing was rather laboured.
“In the name of Britain and the Church of England, I pronounce you lawfully wed. You may now seal your commitment with a kiss.”
A hand slid tentatively over Sherlock’s neck, and another came up to rest just under the bottom edge of the mask. Sherlock held his breath. This was it. This was the moment, his first look at his husband. Sherlock felt pressure against the back of his neck, and his head was lowering. The mask began to lift, and Sherlock’s heart rate excelerated. The mask came away, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of tan skin and ash blond hair before a pair of warm, smooth lips were pressed against his own and...oh.
He wasn’t sure when he’d begun to return the kiss, all he knew was that they were moving together, sliding and catching and just barely sucking, their mouths slightly open, their breathing rapid and shallow. John’s hand never left his neck, guiding him and keeping him close. It lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like hours, and then they were pulling apart, John’s hand slowly sliding away, leaving Sherlock’s skin feeling cold in its absence.
Sherlock blinked and let his eyes focus. Focus on John. At last.
He was, indeed, short. But he held himself tall, and proud. He was, in fact, an imposing figure. But he was also a mild one. Somehow the two discrepant auras didn’t cancel one another out, but coexisted in perfect compliment. His face was handsome, though prematurely aged from sun and sand and stress. It bore the unmistakable sheen of recent and thorough chemical treatment, and his hair had been treated and coloured just enough to diminish the effect of the sparse patches of grey.
Over all, John was compact, efficient, and warm. His posture was military, as was his hair cut, but his face was open and flushed. Though, they had just been kissing, so there was that. All in all, it could have been much worse. And he was a damn good kisser.
Sherlock was so intent on his study of John Watson that he barely listened to the vicar’s overblown pronouncement of, “I now present for the first time, the Lords Sherlock and John Watson-Holmes.”
Sherlock very nearly winced. The hyphen had to have been Mycroft’s doing. He would have preferred it if they’d just kept their names as they were, but Mycroft never missed a chance to reinforce a point. He and John stood as equals, even their names were given equal import. Lovely.
The band struck up something bright and enthusiastic, and John offered Sherlock his arm with a little smile. With only a brief hesitation, Sherlock took it and they walked side-by-side down the aisle. People stood and applauded them as they passed, creating something similar to a human wave, only better dressed. Sherlock spared a moment to delight in the lack of metalic clinking at his wrist, then was distracted by the thoroughly alien sensation of the ring on his finger.
He was honestly surprised at how reassuring John’s presence at his side truly was. He didn’t feel like he was being pulled along by a stranger, rather like he was facing the foe with a comrade-in-arms. John was just as lost and nervous as he was, and that was comforting.
Of course, no sooner had they exited the church and been pelted with birdseed (ever the politically correct one, was Mycroft) than they were pulled apart and bundled into separate cars to change for the reception. They had been married for two minutes and sixteen seconds.
Sherlock fiddled with the ring during the entire ride. He twisted it and tugged it, never pulling it past the knuckle, but testing its fit against his skin. Mycroft, sat opposite and reading the Times, tutted him.
“You’ll wear it out if you keep that up.” He commented.
“Shut up, Mycroft. Wait until you’re married, then see how easily you adjust.” He paused, then closed his eyes tightly and leaned his head back against the seat. “Oh God. I’m married.” He moaned. The realization, the awareness of it crashed into him. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes anymore. He was Sherlock Watson-Holmes, husband of John Watson-Holmes, brother-in-law of Harriet Watson. Oh...oh God.
“Relax, Sherlock. You’ll get used to it.”
Sherlock forced his breathing under control. He was not the sort to hyperventilate, and certainly not in front of his brother. “I need a cigarette.” He muttered. Mycroft wordlessly produced a box of nicotine patches and tossed them to Sherlock, never looking up from his paper.
Sherlock glowered at him and pulled out two patches. He deftly unfastened the cuff of his left sleeve and bared his forearm, slapping the patches onto his skin with unnecessary vigor. The nicotine flooded his system, and he let his head loll back, luxuriating in it.
“Tell me when we get there.”
8.
The reception was held at a five star hotel on the Strand, one where one day ago, John wouldn’t have been able to afford a glass of water. Now he was being plied with caviar, quiche, and something tiny, yellow, and constructed from foam. Wait staff glided through the assembled masses, trays held aloft, and everywhere people were laughing, exclaiming, whispering and chatting. John felt very, very alone, and between hearty, back-slapping congratulations from complete strangers and tearful hand grasping from more of the same, he searched desperately for Harry. Or Clara. Or Bill. Or anyone he could recall seeing before this morning.
Joy of joys, he found Mycroft. The man was impeccably dressed in a sharp suit, complete with embroidered waist coat, though it wasn’t the same suit he’d worn at the altar when he’d stood beside Sherlock. He was gently twirling a long umbrella as though it were a gentleman’s cane. John, who had to use an actual cane, found the affectation grating.
“Congratulations are in order, I expect.” Mycroft drawled. “Or perhaps condolences. You don’t know my brother.”
“No.” John said pointedly. “I don’t. Odd that, don’t you think?” Something about Mycroft rubbed him the wrong way, and John had long ago learned to trust his instincts.
But Mycroft only smiled. “Oh, yes. I can see it. But then, mummy always was such a very good judge of character.” John floundered a bit, trying to follow Mycroft’s train of thought, then gave it up for a bad job and settled on looking bored and impatient.
Mycroft laughed. “Come now, John. Is this any way to behave on your wedding day? By all means, mingle. Eat. Though do remember, dinner will be served soon. I’m assured it will be quite exquisite.” He smiled again. “Congratulations, John. I hope you’ll be very happy together.” And with that he walked away, umbrella swinging losely in his hand, yet somehow not hitting anyone along the way.
“I’m sorry.” The voice, lush and deep and dark as sin, came from behind him, and John whirled around to face his new husband, and though now he knew what to expect, he still couldn’t breathe.
“I tried to keep him from you, but he’s like a dog with a scent. Just, ignore whatever he said. He’s a git.” Sherlock’s tone was earnest, but John could barely understand the words he was saying. Those eyes! Those beautiful, terrible eyes! Oh, damn. Thank God for that mask, or John never would have been able to get through the ceremony. They were slanted, almost catlike, and small, though perhaps that was more from being narrowed as they were now. The colour, though, that was what had stolen John’s breathing. They were pale, a mottle of impossibly light shades of green and blue and grey that gave the appearance, in certain light, of shining silver. They were inhuman eyes. Spectral eyes. And combined with the paleness of his skin, the long and lean lines of his figure, the dark waves and curls of his hair, they gave the impression that Sherlock Holmes was from another plane of existance. Faerie or perhaps outer space.
He was wearing a simple, modest suit now. It was dark, dark blue and exquisitely tailored to his body. Beneath the jacket he wore a crisp, snow-white shirt and John had a sudden urge to run his hands over it, to see if it was really as silky as it looked. His hand was already moving toward Sherlock’s chest, and he had to force himself to stop it, to let it fall to his side.
Sherlock stood and watched him. It was unnerving. John had never felt quite so scrutinized in his life, and he’d spent the better part of three months being poked and prodded by various stylists and professionals. Sherlock, though, seemed to take in every milimetre of him, studying him like a scientist with a particularly intriguing new chemical compound.
John suddenly realized he was meant to be saying something, and he managed to stammer, “Oh, uh, it’s--it’s fine. Really. Just, ahem, uh, chatting.” Oh bollocks. He sounded like a complete idiot. He took a breath to steady his nerves and got a heady wiff of Sherlock’s cologne. Oh, bad idea, John. He took a moment to settle his nerves and forced his voice to come out steadily. “Look, Sherlock, about tonight--”
“We’re going to my room at the estate.” Shelock informed him. “I’m told we’ll actually be riding in the same car for a change.”
John’s stomach began to turn somersaults inside of him, but he made himself go on.
“Yes, that’s...fine. But, listen, I know there are certain...expectations, but I’m honestly not expecting anything. I meant it. Before. Last month I mean. You remember?”
Sherlock smiled, but there was no mirth behind it. It was almost...sad. “Yes, I recall it perfectly. It was the first time I heard your voice.” He looked down briefly. “You said you wouldn’t intrude on my life.”
“I meant it.”
“You were wrong. We’re married now.” He held up his left hand demonstrably. The golden band glinted against his milky skin. “You can’t help but intrude. We’ll be living together, I’m sure my mother and Mycroft will drag us off to countless functions like this.” He tilted his head to indicated the elegantly dressed chaos of the reception. “We’ll have no choice but to impact one another. But, I take your meaning. I’ll try not to interfere with your life either. Whenever possible.”
John gulped. “And...the bed?” He tried to hold back the blush rising in his cheeks. He failed.
Sherlock just shrugged. “I’ve been awake for nearly seventy-two hours at this point. I expect I’ll just collapse by the end of tonight.”
John knew he was meant to be reassured by that, but the doctor in him wouldn’t be mollified. “Seventy-two-- Sherlock you can’t do that! You need to sleep.” He looked his husband up and down, focussing more intently on the thinness of his arms. “And when was the last time you ate?”
Sherlock smiled a more genuine, amused smile. “Is this how you refrain from intruding, doctor? Relax. My mother ensures I eat at least one full meal per day. And I expect I’ll be drawn and quartered if I don’t eat something at this overpriced dinner of theirs.” He nodded toward the elevated table with its crystal centrepiece and elaborate place settings where the wedding party would be sat for dinner.
“We’ll have to dance.” Sherlock remarked, his eyes trained on the expanse of space that would become the dance floor after dinner.
“Yeah, I know.” John grumbled.
“Will that be a problem for you? Your limp is psychosomatic but it could still flare up on the floor. You’ve done admirably to keep it in check for the day.”
John blinked. “How did you--”
“I expect it’s interfered with your dance lessons, but I’m confident I’ll be able to compensate for any awkwardness you experience. I expect you’ll want to lead, though. I doubt they taught you the follow position.”
John floundered, desperately trying to grab hold of the conversation. “Um, no...they didn’t. Is that a problem?”
Sherlock smirked. “Hardly. There’s no challenge in directing a dance from the lead. It’s far more fun to manipulate from a seemingly submissive position.”
“Erm...right.” Christ, Sherlock was turning out to be as bad as Mycroft! John quickly shoved that thought out of his head. Sherlock had to be different, better. He just had to be. For fuck’s sake, John was married to the man.
“Hm. They’re about to announce dinner. Shall we?” Sherlock presented his arm. In a daze, John took it and followed Sherlock to their table. Just as they were taking their seats, Mycroft’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, announcing the imminent arrival of food. Harry came to sit at John’s right, Bill in the seat beside hers. Sherlock was sat at John’s left, fiddling absently with his myriad utensils. He was right handed. Mycroft sat just beyond him, still as a statue. Toasts were made, long winded and dry from Mycroft, effusive and giddy from Harry, stately and commanding from Lady Holmes, and slightly awkward and low brow from Bill. Food was served, exquisite as promised, champagne was drunk (although Harry had sparkling white grape juice instead, and even permitted John a taste-test to be sure) and John was left fumbling through awkward conversation with his new spouse.
“Hm?” John had been a bit distracted and missed Sherlock’s last remark.
“I said your sister looks lovely.” Sherlock repeated, slightly louder. He gave every impression of being genuinely affable and interested in their conversation, but John couldn’t shake a strange, deep-seated sense that Sherlock was cringing inwardly.
“Oh, yes. She does. Um...thank you.”
“Marvelous job on the make-up. I can’t even see the damaged veins in her cheeks.”
John fumbled and nearly dropped his fork. “S-sorry? How did you...”
“You tasted her drink earlier. Before you tasted your own. She let you, but she rolled her eyes. Irritated, not mocking. You didn’t linger on the taste, so you weren’t just pinching your sister’s beverage to be cute, though I doubt you would based on what I know of you so far. You appraised it, obviously making sure there was no alcohol content. Even if your sister was an embarrassing drunk, you wouldn’t deny her champagne at your own wedding so she must be a recovering alcoholic. Going by her unclouded irises and decent coordination, not to mention her infrequent glances at other people’s glasses, I’d say she’s been sober for at least the duration of our engagment.” He turned his head to look into John’s eyes. The gaze was beyond intense, and John began to feel a bit overheated. “That’s why you did it, isn’t it? You could have lived with the social stigma of refusing to marry me, and likely would have, but your sister quite liked the idea so you struck a bargain. She’d sober up and you’d go through with the marriage.”
John glanced at Harry, who was talking animatedly to Bill. They were both laughing, probably at something frightfully embarrassing about John. Once he was sure Harry was sufficiently distracted, he leaned closer to Sherlock and lowered his voice. “You’re utterly brilliant. You must know that.” Sherlock blinked and jerked back a bit in surprise, then hurriedly leaned his head back down, making their discussion look terribly intimate. “Yes. Yes to all of it. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re a wonderful man, but I really would rather have avoided all this.” He flicked his eyes up, indicating the dining hall, the guests, the whole wedding in general. To his surprise, Sherlock smiled. “But she’s all I have left. We don’t get on, usually, but she’s my sister and...” he shook his head. “I’d do anything.”
“You would.” Sherlock said slowly, as though coming to a realization. “You honestly would.”
John met his eyes. “I have.”
An instant later, Sherlock’s lips were pressed against his, Sherlock’s hand gripping the back of his neck. He jerked a little in surprise, but soon found himself reciprocating automatically. God, Sherlock tasted good. His lips were so soft...
Sherlock pulled away and whispered into John’s ear. “Sorry. Cameras. I promised Mycroft I’d put on a show.”
Despite the words, John felt his eyelids flutter closed at the sound of that decadent voice so close, and the feel of hot breath against his ear. He nuzzled a bit against Sherlock’s cheek without realizing it and whispered back. “I really, really don’t mind.”
Sherlock pulled away with a smile. It transformed his whole face, with deep dimples beside his lips and crinkles around his eyes. He looked impossibly younger, and so utterly pleased. It took John all of an instant to realize that he really liked that smile. In fact, he was fairly sure he’d be willing to do all kinds of strange things to see it again. The smile vanished, and Sherlock’s face smoothed out as though it had never been there.
Seeing no harm in it, John spent the rest of the meal indulging Sherlock’s performance, even participating from time to time. John being left handed, their elbows were continually rubbing together as they ate, and Sherlock more often than not took this as a cue to smile and lean in close so that their shoulders were pressed together. John would lean in as well, and once even risked a quick kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. The younger man seemed perfectly okay with it, but John didn’t try it again, at the risk of overkill.
Sherlock relaxed over the course of the meal, and his happiness began to approach something like genuine, though he was still reserved. After the final course, John decided to test a theory and gingerly lowered his hand over Sherlock’s, twining their fingers together with bated breath. Sherlock froze, then looked down at their hands, then up at John, his brow furrowed.
“John--”
“Briliant.” John whispered. “You are absolutely brilliant. I honestly can’t believe how brilliant you are.”
Sherlock flushed and lowered his gaze. “What are you doing?”
“Experiment.” John responded, and Sherlock’s head jerked up. He glared at John, but without anger. More...confusion. As though John had just said something completely unlikely.
“What--what are you--”
But John was already leaning in, whispering directly into Sherlock’s ear. “Two can play at this game, Sherlock Holmes.” He said. “You’re so clever. And you’re a bloody good actor. But you don’t want to be here, do you? You make it look like you do, like you’re happy with me, like you’re glad we’re married, but you’re not.” He pressed a kiss to the shell of Sherlock’s ear, just enough pressure to register, and went on. “I’d like to change that, for tonight. I’d like to see you smile again. Really smile. Because you’re so beautiful, Sherlock. And you’re so,” a kiss to his temple. “Completely.” His cheekbone. “Brilliant.” And with a slight pressure of his fingers against Sherlock’s jaw, he found Sherlock’s lips and kissed him. Hard.
He worried for a moment that it hadn’t worked, but then Sherlock was kissing back, almost in spite of himself. And his hands came up to John’s shoulders, clutching him tight as they moved together, their mouths parting, their tongues darting tentatively, then daringly, into the heat of their contact.
They broke apart, flushed and panting. Sherlock’s eyes were dialated, and his face was stunned. John fought to get his breathing under control, then said, “There. That should satisfy your brother. I think we can relax for the rest of the night.”
Sherlock just gaped at him. After a moment, he seemed to find his voice. “You...how did you...who are you?” He demanded.
John checked to make sure the cameras were once more focussed on Mycroft and Lady Holmes and shrugged. “I told you. I’m nobody.”
“You’re lying. You have to be.”
John ignored him and nodded toward the floor. “They’re clearing out. Time for the dance. You ready?” And he made to stand from his chair, but Sherlock’s hand darted out and seized him by the wrist.
“No. Stay. I need to figure you out.”
John just smiled. “We’re married, Sherlock. You’ve got years and years to do that.” And he twisted his wrist a bit so he could grab Sherlock’s arm and pulled him up. “Now dance with me. Pretend I’m not rubbish at it, pose for a few photographs and we can get the hell out of here.”
And there it was! That smile! The smile that hijacked not just Sherlock’s face, but his whole body. “It is you.” He breathed. “It really is you.”
John wallowed a bit in his confusion at that, then shook it off and led Sherlock to the dance floor just as Mycroft’s voice once again thundered the announcement they had already anticipated. He had to grit his teeth a bit to keep his leg from buckling, and he knew he’d pay for it later, but it was worth it to be seen without that bloody cane on national television.
There was, naturally, a spotlight trained on them from the moment their feet touched the dance floor. Music began to play. A slow and stately waltz, and John pulled Sherlock closer, one hand on his waist, the other clasping his hand. Sherlock placed his free hand lightly on John’s shoulder, and John nervousely began the steps he’d had drilled into his head and legs over the past three months.
Sherlock smirked and lowered his head. “Let me show you how to lead me.” He whispered. John nodded, and he felt Sherlock taking over, guiding his steps even as he appeared to follow. Each time John nearly misstepped, there was a squeeze to his hand or a gentle push against his shoulder, and Sherlock would imperceptibly bring him back to position. The dance became easier, and John found he could follow the pattern almost perfectly after a while. There was a bit of panic at the trickier flourishes, but Sherlock knew exactly how to move, when to follow, how to read John’s intentions even when John didn’t know them. It was, actually, kind of fun. Spinny.
The music slowed, and he brought Sherlock in close, their chests pressed together. It was far, far too tempting for John to resist resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. There was a huff of breath against his hair, and Sherlock’s seductive voice saying, “Follow me?”
“Yes. Okay.” John murmured, and Sherlock adjusted their holds just as the song changed to something faster, more modern, and suddenly John was whirling, moving and spinning and always, always held firm by strong and confident hands. Sherlock guided him through familiar steps, done backward, and all the suppressed dominance he’d shown in their waltz rushed to the surface. Sherlock controlled every move, every turn, every step. Far from emasculating, it was somehow...exciting. There was almost a sense of madness to Sherlock, and it was quite like being swept up in a storm.
The music ended. There was one last, dizzying spin and John was left reeling, slightly unsure of his footing. Sherlock kept him close enough for a whisper, and asked, “How’s your leg?”
John furrowed his brow. “I...my..what?”
“Your leg, doctor. Surely all that dancing must have aggrivated it.” Sherlock didn’t look concerned, though. He looked amused.
“I...no.” John shook his head. Incredible. He really, truly felt nothing. No pain, just giddy endorphins. He felt...strong. He grinned. “How did you do that?”
Sherlock’s lips quirked upward at the corners. “Your leg only hurts when you’re thinking about it. All I had to do was distract you.”
John beamed, his smile was so wide it hurt. “You...are amazing.” He breathed, and Sherlock blushed.
“Look at you!” A voice squealed behind him. John turned, and saw Harry positively glowing at him. “You looked smashing out there!”
John blushed, but smiled at her warmly. She was still stone sober, so she hadn’t snuck off to the open bar after dinner. That alone was cause for celebration. He was genuinely pleased to do the next bit.
“Harry, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is my sister, Harriet Watson.”
They shook hands, and Harry said, “I never got the chance to talk to you at dinner. You and John were so busy with each other.”
Sherlock donned a smile that would charm a nun and replied, “Well you were quite occupied with that soldier chap, I noticed. I hated to interrupt.” His voice and words were silk smooth, polished and oozing sincerity. It was a bloody good performance.
“Yeah, that Bill. I owe him my brother’s life, you know.”
“And by extention mine, I suppose.” Sherlock remarked.
Harry’s grin widened. “Such a catch, John! You’re a lucky man.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! Have you seen Clara? She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”
John swiveled his head, as though he’d find Harry’s ex just over his shoulder. “I glimpsed her in the pews, but I haven’t seen her since I got here. It’s so damnably crowded.” He paused and regarded Harry carefully. “Have you spoken to her?”
Harry’s enthusiasm faded a bit. “Yes. We were both very civil and polite. It went well, John. Better than last time.” Harry’s apology hadn’t gone exactly to plan.
She shook it off and smiled. “Now, dance with your sister before someone else snatches you up.”
“Or you could dance with me.” A lighter, softer voice said. They turned, and Clara was standing there, her dress as black as night and studded with star-like sequins. She was, indeed, radiant. Harry tensed.
John was torn, and he looked from his sister to his former sister-in-law, unsure where to turn. Sherlock stepped in, extending his hand to Harry.
“Actually, I’d quite like a chance to hear what you can tell me about my new husband.” He said calmly. Harry nodded and took his hand.
Just as Sherlock was sweeping her away, he heard her remark, “Oh the stories I could tell! Did you know that once, when we were kids, Johnny tried to--”
The rest was lost to the music and the crowd, and he turned back to Clara. She didn’t look happy. She didn’t look cross. She looked...disappointed.
“Are you all right?” He asked, taking her into his arms and following the music as best he could.
She looked down, studying their feet. “I can’t believe you went through with this, John.” She said.
John went cold. “Clara, I...”
“This isn’t you. Buying into the whole material life. Marrying a complete stranger. I know coming back was hard but...this? Really?”
“Clara, it’s not like that. I didn’t want this.”
“No, but she did. How could you let her manipulate you like this? This is your life John! The whole rest of your life, tied to this other person and you don’t even know him.”
“I like him though.” John said weakly. “So far. He’s...interesting.”
“John. This is a commitment. It’s forever.”
“So was the army.” He replied, bitterly. “Maybe this one will actually stick.”
She shook her head and looked down again. “I know she’s romantic. I know the idea of you with a title, all your needs met, no more money troubles, all that is appealing to her. But you’ve gone and handed her your entire future and for what?”
“I’ve handed Sherlock my entire future, Clara, not Harry. And you saw her! That’s not just today, that’s the last three months. She’s been going to meetings, she’s gotten rid of all the alcohol in the flat, she’s got her bloody 90 day chip. She’s making an effort, getting well.”
“And you think that’ll last? You think once you and your husband leave she won’t dive on the champagne and drink herself into a coma?”
“She swore. She’s kept her word so far. I...I need to believe in her. She’s strong, Clara. She’s so much stronger than we thought.”
Clara looked at him, but she didn’t say anything more. They danced in slience until the song ended, then Clara slipped away without a backward glance. Sherlock materialized and tapped John on the shoulder, making him jump and spin round.
“So, darling. Who’s Clara?”
Parts 9-10
::
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: I'm told it's NC-17, but I actually consider it more a hard R.
Spoilers: All of ASiP
Warnings: If you object to arranged marriage, you probably won't like this
WTF is This?: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme. Condensed summary: Arranged marriage AU. The first time John and Sherlock meet is on their wedding day.
6.
It was both the shortest and longest month of John’s life. Parts of it flew by, a flurry of interviews and magazine features and endless bouts of shopping with Harry. Other parts dragged glacially from second to second: fittings for his tux and reception suit, meetings with the wedding organisers to rehearse where he’d walk, where he’d stand, what he’d say. If he had to hear one more word about that bloody bracelet someone was going to end up on the floor with a military issue left boot pressed against their neck. He’d been forced to recite his vows so many times he was beginning to hear them in his sleep. He toyed with the idea of recording himself at night to see if he’d started sleep-reciting them.
And then there was Harry. She was outwardly jubilant with every approaching milestone in the epic wedding plan manifesto, but John could see her suffering beneath it. Harry had always hated sobriety, and John was grateful for her brave face, but he wished he still had Clara to back him up when she got into one of her darker moods. He had a hard time not blaming himself for their divorce. Clara and he had always worked brilliantly as a team, and he had a feeling that his time in Afghanistan had left her at too much of a disadvantage to hold it together.
Well, at least he’d found a way to make amends. Partially. He would take a husband so Harry could redeem herself to her wife. It was...oddly symmetrical. And even if they didn’t end up reconciling, at least Harry would be able to look Clara in the eye again. That was something. That was enough. It had to be.
And all too soon the day arrived. John crawled out of bed, his body heavy and loose, at five o’ clock in the morning to meet the gleaming black sedan outside his flat. He was whisked off to the estate where he was promptly set upon by a horde of attendants, each one fussing with his hair, his fingernails, his face, his clothes. He felt a bit like a show dog, being aggressively groomed for inspection by some nameless judge.
Then, when they had started to scrub him raw and brutalize his scalp and mercilessly prod his cuticles, he started to envy show dogs. At least they never seemed to actually suffer during their preparations. His head began to swim with the constant tugs and prods and the endless array of dangerously chemical odours wafting around him. He was crowded in and it became more than a little claustrophobic; the constant press of human bodies, the ceaseless chatter from all directions, more accents than you could shake a stick at. He yearned for the simple days of tuxedo fittings with Antanas, who had been calm and amiable. This lot were...caffinated.
At long, long last John was declared presentable and deposited in what he secretly called “the antechamber”. In reality it was just a well appointed sitting room with high windows and tastefully matched furniture. There was a large mirror above the fireplace, and John took the opportunity to inspect himself in his wedding finery.
His hair was immaculate, and somehow blonder. The grey was still there, but muted. Probably highlights, he mused, or something like that. It was the only hair-related term he knew beyond “shampoo” and “conditioner”, and he’d only known that because the term had featured somewhat prominently in one of Harry and Clara’s most epic rows, about a year before the divorce. He’d gotten an e-mail detailing the whole account while he was in Kandahar.
His tuxedo was black and lush, and based very heavily on his military dress uniform. In fact, the two were almost twins, except that all the bits on his uniform that were red had been replaced with white, as per Lady Holmes’s colour scheme. There was also a great deal more embellishment along the lapels, where intricate embroideries of gold thread had been stitched along the seams. He was wearing his medals, too. He’d tried to beg out of that, but Antanas had been adamant. Something about lines. John really had no idea.
His shoes were so shiny he could see his reflection, and his skin hadn’t looked this clear and smooth since before he’d joined up. He wondered what had become of the calluses on his fingers. He’d been rather proud of those. They were suspiciously absent now. As was his cane. He’d decided he would walk for himself, today of all days, and damn the consequences. He’d swallowed the strongest painkillers in his medicine cabinet and forced himself to walk through the ache and the sharp, shooting agony. He’d started practicing the week before, and it was easier now to ignore the pain, though he always ended up suffering later. Well, he’d deal with that when the time came.
An odd thought occurred to him, and he laughed quietly to himself. He didn’t recognise himself. He, John Watson, was a complete stranger to his own reflection. It was bizarre for him, and utterly unfair to Sherlock. The poor sod would finally meet his husband, only to find out a short time later that he’d actually married a completely different man, and have to go through the whole tedious introduction process all over again.
There was a sharp, rhythmic clicking sound to his left, and he turned to see a bone-meltingly gorgeous woman in a slim black and white dress walking toward him. She was holding a BlackBerry in her hands and texting diligently.
“I’m to tell you that if you so much as wrinkle that tuxedo you’ll be flayed alive and fed to a pack of wild boars.” She said in a bored voice.
John fidgeted in discomfort and managed a nod. “A-all right.”
The woman stopped texting for a moment and looked at him appraisingly. She nodded, seemingly in satisfaction, and turned away. “Follow me. We’re going to the church now.”
And that. Was it. John’s blood turned to ice, freezing and splintering in his veins. A solid, painful lump spontaneously materialized in his throat and lodged there. His stomach inverted and went inside out. His skin stretched itself too tightly over his muscles. His legs would not move. This was it. This was it. It was now! For three months of endless inner debate and exhaustive preparation and emotional crises, this moment had remained a theoretical eventuality. A hypothetical situation. Now, now it was happening. Now it was real. He was actually getting married. Now. Right now. It was happening and it was legitimate and it was far, far too late to stop it now.
Panic. Pure, dizzying panic swept over him. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to find the high ground and possibly a sniper rifle, though he’d never learned to shoot one of those. It couldn’t be too different from a Browning, could it? Could it? Oh, God, he was delusional now. Prattling on about sniper rifles and the high ground, his thoughts whirling and spinning through his head, never landing, never catching long enough for coherence. Oh God. Oh God. Oh sweet, merciful God what was he doing? He couldn’t do this! This wasn’t him! No. No, he had to run. He had to get away from here. Far away. There’d been a mistake! They wanted some other John Watson. Surely if they just gave him the chance to explain he could--
“If you don’t get a move on, they’ll start without you. I guarantee you won’t like the consequences of that.”
John didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He wasn’t ready. He would never be ready.
The woman turned and rolled her eyes. She fixed her gaze on John, her face set and grim. Her voice came out loud and commanding, almost a shout but far more controlled. “Forward march, soldier!” She commanded. Then her face was instantly impassive again and she turned away, already focussed once more on her phone.
The command shot like a bullet through John’s terror and doubt and went directly to his legs. Before he could formulate a thought, John was moving, following the phone woman to the front hall and onward, to the rest of his life.
The church was enormous, a towering cathedral that wasn’t actually a cathedral, being C of E and all. But it was massive and imposing and very, very gold. It probably had cathedrals in its ancestry.
Inside, it was white. Dazzling white, spotted with gold. Everything not white was black. It screamed tradition and sophistication. It also screamed expensive. There were two seemingly endless rows of pews stretching toward the altar, each one adorned with white bunting and a bundle of white roses.
A squeal from somewhere to his right cut through his observations, and he turned to see Harry rushing toward him, arms open wide. He frantically backed away, his hands in front of him in a “stay back” gesture.
“Harry! Harry stop right there! I’m not entirely sure what they’ll do to me if anything happens to this tux but I really don’t want to find out.” Wild boars. He thought, and shuddered.
Harry dropped her arms and pouted. She was wearing an actual gown, white and sleeveless with silver dusting along the skirt and bodice. She looked...lovely.
“You look beautiful, Big.” He breathed. He didn’t realize until after he’d said it that he’d used his childhood name for her. Short for “Big Sis”. She smiled, tears in her flawlessly shadowed eyes.
“And you look like a prince, Johnny.” She ran one gentle hand along his sleeve. “A right, handsome prince. Like a fairytale.”
John frowned and pretended to swat her away. “Aw, don’t get all female on me now Harry.” He chided. She laughed.
Then she sobered. “I saw him, Johnny.” She confided, her voice a stage whisper. John’s eyes widened almost painfully.
“You did? When? Where?!” He struggled to keep his voice low.
“Outside. They were bundling him out of the car and into the church. I only saw him for a second, but it was definitely him. He was all in white, and I saw the bracelet.”
John’s hand flew out of its own accord and grasped Harry’s wrist. “What did he look like? Tell me what he looks like!”
But Harry just smiled and patted his cheek. “I’m so happy for you Johnny.” She said tearfully, then she pulled out of his grasp and fluttered off toward the rest of his party, which was significantly smaller than Sherlock’s. As she left, one of the organizers appeared behind him and led him toward the altar, where the vicar was waiting, along with John’s best man, Bill Murray.
“Right turn up, this, eh John?” Bill said by way of greeting. “You getting married in a place like this? Blimey.” He looked around the church interior, clearly dazzled. John just ducked his head to hide the blush.
“Yeah. S’pose it is.” He muttered. The organizer cleared his throat. Jamie, his name was. John was pretty sure.
“Okay, John, Mr Murray, you’ll wait in that alcove over there until the guests have all been seated. After that, the music will start to play and that’s your cue to ascend to the altar. You remember where to stand?”
John nodded, Bill said “Yep!”
“Right.” Jamie went on. “The rest of your party is already there, so go on and wait for your cue.”
John and Bill obediently trooped off to the little closed-off area beside the altar. John had been instructed to select a party of six men to stand by him during the ceremony, and he’d had to search through his old address book to find enough people. He’d ended up pulling mostly from his graduating class at Bart’s, but he’d managed to find a couple of service lads like Bill as well. Mike Stamford was among his Bart’s contingent, smiling widely and looking surprisingly stately in his classic tux.
“You ready for this, mate?” He asked once John and Bill had joined the rest of the men.
“Not even remotely.” John replied. Mike laughed heartily at that.
They chatted a bit as they waited, every so often peeking round the tall golden pillar blocking the view to the church proper so they could see how many guests had arrived. The noise was constant but muted as people filed into the hall, taking their seats and conversing quietly but animatedly in anticipation of the ceremony. John felt his innards clench and twist more and more tightly with each passing second, and forced himself to focus on Bill’s enthusiastic retelling of the time he and John had stolen their female CO’s knickers and run them up the flagpole. John remembered that day mostly for the five hundred push ups he’d had to do over the course of his punishment. He’d barely been able to pick up his fork at mess.
Then, all too suddenly, there was music. John froze, his face a mask of terror, but Bill put a heavy hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Stand tall, soldier.” And John took a deep breath, and walked up the few carpeted stairs to the altar, his heart hammering behind his ribs as he went.
He heard the gentle roar of hundreds of muted conversations behind him, and focussed every bit of his will on facing forward. He was not to look behind him, of that he had been reminded countless times. He was to stand still, eyes forward, and never look back at his approaching fiancee.
After a time, the music changed from stately and subdued, to something altogether more whistful. It was heavy on the violin, with a rumbling undercurrent of cello. John didn’t recognise it, but it was probably something classical and significant. There was an instant hush behind him, and every cell in his body screamed at him to turn around. He overrode them, but even so his ears pricked intently at the unmistakable sound of tiny golden rings tinkling against each other like Christmas bells.
With every slow, measured step Sherlock took, the bells grew louder. The urge to turn and look at him doubled with each new jangle, and he was sweating by the time Sherlock had covered half the distance. Still, John did not turn around. He felt a weight against his right shoulder, and looked to the side ever so slightly to see Bill smiling reassuringly. John took a deep breath, and looked straight ahead.
The bell-like sound of the bracelet seemed to go on forever, flittering through the notes of music just on the edge of hearing. But to John, who was listening so intently, the sound was like a gong being struck beside his head.
Finally, after what felt like several lifetimes, John felt the heat of another human body beside his. No, two human bodies. There was a rustling, and someone quite small brushed up against him briefly before moving away. Lady Holmes, of course. She’d been the one to escort Sherlock down the aisle.
And now there was only Sherlock, standing mere inches away, and John was frozen in a moment of panic, eyes locked on a spot just over the vicar’s shoulder. The music faded, Bill’s hand squeezed John’s wrist for a moment, and with one more deep breath, John turned to look at Sherlock Holmes.
He was tall, nearly half a head taller than John, and very slim, which made him appear taller still. He held himself erect, with a proud posture and perfectly squared shoulders. He was, indeed, all in white. It was a flowing, silky three-piece suit, not quite a tux but blatantly formal. The fabric in turn clung to him and draped off his slender frame, flowing and caressing like water. His collar was flush against his slender, swan-like neck, which lead up to his smooth and angular face, with its perfect cupid’s bow lips, straight and stately nose, and impossibly high and sharp cheekbones. His hair was almost black and semi-long, arranged in perfectly ordered and styled curls that swept away from his face, save for his thick fringe, which fell lightly over his forehead.
His eyes, however, remained a mystery. Sherlock’s upper face was obscured by a slim silver mask with no eye holes. His head kept moving in tiny increments from side to side as he listened intently, relying on his other senses. John wondered if Sherlock could hear his elevated heartbeat, or his unsteady breathing, or the near-silent slide of his tongue over his suddenly very dry lips.
Sherlock Holmes was gorgeous. Statuesque and lithe, impossibly pale and impossibly beautiful. John, for all his borrowed finery and professional styling, felt inadequate and dull in comparison. And he could not look away. How fortunate, then, that he wasn’t supposed to.
The vicar spoke, jerking John back to reality, though he still couldn’t tear his eyes from this unearthly creature he was about to marry.
“Dearly Beloved, we gather on this day to unite two lives and two worlds. May this union stand as a testament to the unity of our great nation and her people...”
7.
Sherlock hated the mask even more than he hated the incessantly cheerful bracelet. It had been made to the exact dimensions of his face, so there were absolutely no gaps through which light could penetrate, and it blinded him completely. Sherlock hated the loss of his sight. It was so much a part of who he was, his ability to see what no one else could.
And it made him so feeble. He’d been inside the church before, but not since it had been decorated. He was no longer sure of the layout, and had to rely entirely on mummy to guide his steps.
The violinists were, of course, first rate. Mummy would settle for nothing less. Even so, Sherlock thought he could do the piece more justice. It was a faintly melancholy song, though the notes were light, almost exclusively in the major scale. The cellists, he thought, were superb.
He kept his ears open as mummy guided him sedately down the aisle. He heard the steady breathing coming from every silent spectator, the steady hum of electronics from the camera crews, the soft whispers of people commenting on his suit, his hair, his mask. That bloody bracelet.
Mummy led him up a few shallow steps before walking away, and he felt John Watson’s body heat soaking through his clothes. It was oddly comforting, somehow. John’s breathing was controlled and steady, and from the sound of it John was noticeably shorter than Sherlock, but not quite by an entire head. Maybe half that. That made Sherlock feel a little better, for some reason. John wasn’t an imposing, looming figure. He was small. Small seemed somehow more manageable.
The music stopped, and Sherlock dutifully pivoted ninety degrees to face John. He moved a bit more cautiously than usual, not entirely sure of his equilibrium with the mask obscuring any visual cues. But he had been before the altar a few times, and was reasonably sure of the dimentions he was working with.
John’s breathing faltered and became a bit ragged. There was a faint smell of sweat, obscured by designer cologne and whatever other cosmetic tricks mummy’s minions had employed. John was nervous, Sherlock thought. Extremely nervous.
The vicar began his inane monologue, and Sherlock rolled his eyes behind the mask. There was a near-silent huff, almost like laughter, from John. Sherlock’s gesture must’ve shown in his eyebrows. Dammit. And yet...he’d laughed. Sherlock suppressed a smile, but one corner of his lips twitched upward anyway.
The vicar prattled on and on, using the word “union” and it’s various incarnations far more often than was necessary. Or tasteful. Finally, it was time to participate. John was first, and Sherlock noted that his gentle voice had lost the slight rasp it’d had outside his bedroom door. It was almost melodic now. Sweet and comforting. Perfect for a doctor.
Then it was Sherlock’s turn, and he recited the lines word-for-word, without any of the embellishments Mycroft had so vehemently refused to allow. Apparently honesty had no place in wedding vows, and grooms weren’t supposed to use the words “under duress” at any point during the ceremony.
When he’d started speaking, Sherlock noticed a slight catch in John’s breath. He remembered that John’s only experience with his voice had been a ragged, infuriated scream aimed at Mycroft. John had never heard Sherlock’s speaking voice before. He felt a bit...smug at that. He knew full well the effect his voice had on people. He’d heard it compared to dark silk, melted chocolate, warm honey, and sin. He wondered what it was doing to John now, in front of all these people, as it spoke words of devotion, faithfulness and love.
“To seal this union, the couple will now exchange rings, a symbol of their bond, and the endlessness of their commitment.”
Sherlock would have groaned at the cheesiness of that statement, not to mention the inaccuracy, if his brain wasn’t so full with thoughts of Finally. Finally! as John’s deft and steady hands undid the clasp on Sherlock’s bracelet. The hateful thing fell away from his wrist and into John’s hand before it was handed off to someone behind Sherlock. Mycroft, most likely. A moment later, a cool band of metal was sliding onto his finger, along with the warm and steady hands of his new husband, one holding Sherlock’s hand steady, the other guiding the ring to its proper place.
There was an air of finality to that, when John’s hands fell away and Sherlock was able to move his arm without that incessant jingle. The ring felt disproportionately heavy on his hand, but he couldn’t dwell on it for long because Mycroft was pressing another ring into Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock licked his lips and held out his hands. John took them, and helped Sherlock guide the ring to the appropriate finger. John’s hands were steady, but Sherlock’s were acutally shaking. He couldn’t understand why his body was betraying him, now of all times, but he just couldn’t make it stop. The ring was secured, and John let go of his hands. Sherlock was at a loss, unsure of what to do next, where his arms should be. He felt unaccountably awkward and nervous, and damned John Watson was still perfectly still and steady, even if his breathing was rather laboured.
“In the name of Britain and the Church of England, I pronounce you lawfully wed. You may now seal your commitment with a kiss.”
A hand slid tentatively over Sherlock’s neck, and another came up to rest just under the bottom edge of the mask. Sherlock held his breath. This was it. This was the moment, his first look at his husband. Sherlock felt pressure against the back of his neck, and his head was lowering. The mask began to lift, and Sherlock’s heart rate excelerated. The mask came away, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of tan skin and ash blond hair before a pair of warm, smooth lips were pressed against his own and...oh.
He wasn’t sure when he’d begun to return the kiss, all he knew was that they were moving together, sliding and catching and just barely sucking, their mouths slightly open, their breathing rapid and shallow. John’s hand never left his neck, guiding him and keeping him close. It lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like hours, and then they were pulling apart, John’s hand slowly sliding away, leaving Sherlock’s skin feeling cold in its absence.
Sherlock blinked and let his eyes focus. Focus on John. At last.
He was, indeed, short. But he held himself tall, and proud. He was, in fact, an imposing figure. But he was also a mild one. Somehow the two discrepant auras didn’t cancel one another out, but coexisted in perfect compliment. His face was handsome, though prematurely aged from sun and sand and stress. It bore the unmistakable sheen of recent and thorough chemical treatment, and his hair had been treated and coloured just enough to diminish the effect of the sparse patches of grey.
Over all, John was compact, efficient, and warm. His posture was military, as was his hair cut, but his face was open and flushed. Though, they had just been kissing, so there was that. All in all, it could have been much worse. And he was a damn good kisser.
Sherlock was so intent on his study of John Watson that he barely listened to the vicar’s overblown pronouncement of, “I now present for the first time, the Lords Sherlock and John Watson-Holmes.”
Sherlock very nearly winced. The hyphen had to have been Mycroft’s doing. He would have preferred it if they’d just kept their names as they were, but Mycroft never missed a chance to reinforce a point. He and John stood as equals, even their names were given equal import. Lovely.
The band struck up something bright and enthusiastic, and John offered Sherlock his arm with a little smile. With only a brief hesitation, Sherlock took it and they walked side-by-side down the aisle. People stood and applauded them as they passed, creating something similar to a human wave, only better dressed. Sherlock spared a moment to delight in the lack of metalic clinking at his wrist, then was distracted by the thoroughly alien sensation of the ring on his finger.
He was honestly surprised at how reassuring John’s presence at his side truly was. He didn’t feel like he was being pulled along by a stranger, rather like he was facing the foe with a comrade-in-arms. John was just as lost and nervous as he was, and that was comforting.
Of course, no sooner had they exited the church and been pelted with birdseed (ever the politically correct one, was Mycroft) than they were pulled apart and bundled into separate cars to change for the reception. They had been married for two minutes and sixteen seconds.
Sherlock fiddled with the ring during the entire ride. He twisted it and tugged it, never pulling it past the knuckle, but testing its fit against his skin. Mycroft, sat opposite and reading the Times, tutted him.
“You’ll wear it out if you keep that up.” He commented.
“Shut up, Mycroft. Wait until you’re married, then see how easily you adjust.” He paused, then closed his eyes tightly and leaned his head back against the seat. “Oh God. I’m married.” He moaned. The realization, the awareness of it crashed into him. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes anymore. He was Sherlock Watson-Holmes, husband of John Watson-Holmes, brother-in-law of Harriet Watson. Oh...oh God.
“Relax, Sherlock. You’ll get used to it.”
Sherlock forced his breathing under control. He was not the sort to hyperventilate, and certainly not in front of his brother. “I need a cigarette.” He muttered. Mycroft wordlessly produced a box of nicotine patches and tossed them to Sherlock, never looking up from his paper.
Sherlock glowered at him and pulled out two patches. He deftly unfastened the cuff of his left sleeve and bared his forearm, slapping the patches onto his skin with unnecessary vigor. The nicotine flooded his system, and he let his head loll back, luxuriating in it.
“Tell me when we get there.”
8.
The reception was held at a five star hotel on the Strand, one where one day ago, John wouldn’t have been able to afford a glass of water. Now he was being plied with caviar, quiche, and something tiny, yellow, and constructed from foam. Wait staff glided through the assembled masses, trays held aloft, and everywhere people were laughing, exclaiming, whispering and chatting. John felt very, very alone, and between hearty, back-slapping congratulations from complete strangers and tearful hand grasping from more of the same, he searched desperately for Harry. Or Clara. Or Bill. Or anyone he could recall seeing before this morning.
Joy of joys, he found Mycroft. The man was impeccably dressed in a sharp suit, complete with embroidered waist coat, though it wasn’t the same suit he’d worn at the altar when he’d stood beside Sherlock. He was gently twirling a long umbrella as though it were a gentleman’s cane. John, who had to use an actual cane, found the affectation grating.
“Congratulations are in order, I expect.” Mycroft drawled. “Or perhaps condolences. You don’t know my brother.”
“No.” John said pointedly. “I don’t. Odd that, don’t you think?” Something about Mycroft rubbed him the wrong way, and John had long ago learned to trust his instincts.
But Mycroft only smiled. “Oh, yes. I can see it. But then, mummy always was such a very good judge of character.” John floundered a bit, trying to follow Mycroft’s train of thought, then gave it up for a bad job and settled on looking bored and impatient.
Mycroft laughed. “Come now, John. Is this any way to behave on your wedding day? By all means, mingle. Eat. Though do remember, dinner will be served soon. I’m assured it will be quite exquisite.” He smiled again. “Congratulations, John. I hope you’ll be very happy together.” And with that he walked away, umbrella swinging losely in his hand, yet somehow not hitting anyone along the way.
“I’m sorry.” The voice, lush and deep and dark as sin, came from behind him, and John whirled around to face his new husband, and though now he knew what to expect, he still couldn’t breathe.
“I tried to keep him from you, but he’s like a dog with a scent. Just, ignore whatever he said. He’s a git.” Sherlock’s tone was earnest, but John could barely understand the words he was saying. Those eyes! Those beautiful, terrible eyes! Oh, damn. Thank God for that mask, or John never would have been able to get through the ceremony. They were slanted, almost catlike, and small, though perhaps that was more from being narrowed as they were now. The colour, though, that was what had stolen John’s breathing. They were pale, a mottle of impossibly light shades of green and blue and grey that gave the appearance, in certain light, of shining silver. They were inhuman eyes. Spectral eyes. And combined with the paleness of his skin, the long and lean lines of his figure, the dark waves and curls of his hair, they gave the impression that Sherlock Holmes was from another plane of existance. Faerie or perhaps outer space.
He was wearing a simple, modest suit now. It was dark, dark blue and exquisitely tailored to his body. Beneath the jacket he wore a crisp, snow-white shirt and John had a sudden urge to run his hands over it, to see if it was really as silky as it looked. His hand was already moving toward Sherlock’s chest, and he had to force himself to stop it, to let it fall to his side.
Sherlock stood and watched him. It was unnerving. John had never felt quite so scrutinized in his life, and he’d spent the better part of three months being poked and prodded by various stylists and professionals. Sherlock, though, seemed to take in every milimetre of him, studying him like a scientist with a particularly intriguing new chemical compound.
John suddenly realized he was meant to be saying something, and he managed to stammer, “Oh, uh, it’s--it’s fine. Really. Just, ahem, uh, chatting.” Oh bollocks. He sounded like a complete idiot. He took a breath to steady his nerves and got a heady wiff of Sherlock’s cologne. Oh, bad idea, John. He took a moment to settle his nerves and forced his voice to come out steadily. “Look, Sherlock, about tonight--”
“We’re going to my room at the estate.” Shelock informed him. “I’m told we’ll actually be riding in the same car for a change.”
John’s stomach began to turn somersaults inside of him, but he made himself go on.
“Yes, that’s...fine. But, listen, I know there are certain...expectations, but I’m honestly not expecting anything. I meant it. Before. Last month I mean. You remember?”
Sherlock smiled, but there was no mirth behind it. It was almost...sad. “Yes, I recall it perfectly. It was the first time I heard your voice.” He looked down briefly. “You said you wouldn’t intrude on my life.”
“I meant it.”
“You were wrong. We’re married now.” He held up his left hand demonstrably. The golden band glinted against his milky skin. “You can’t help but intrude. We’ll be living together, I’m sure my mother and Mycroft will drag us off to countless functions like this.” He tilted his head to indicated the elegantly dressed chaos of the reception. “We’ll have no choice but to impact one another. But, I take your meaning. I’ll try not to interfere with your life either. Whenever possible.”
John gulped. “And...the bed?” He tried to hold back the blush rising in his cheeks. He failed.
Sherlock just shrugged. “I’ve been awake for nearly seventy-two hours at this point. I expect I’ll just collapse by the end of tonight.”
John knew he was meant to be reassured by that, but the doctor in him wouldn’t be mollified. “Seventy-two-- Sherlock you can’t do that! You need to sleep.” He looked his husband up and down, focussing more intently on the thinness of his arms. “And when was the last time you ate?”
Sherlock smiled a more genuine, amused smile. “Is this how you refrain from intruding, doctor? Relax. My mother ensures I eat at least one full meal per day. And I expect I’ll be drawn and quartered if I don’t eat something at this overpriced dinner of theirs.” He nodded toward the elevated table with its crystal centrepiece and elaborate place settings where the wedding party would be sat for dinner.
“We’ll have to dance.” Sherlock remarked, his eyes trained on the expanse of space that would become the dance floor after dinner.
“Yeah, I know.” John grumbled.
“Will that be a problem for you? Your limp is psychosomatic but it could still flare up on the floor. You’ve done admirably to keep it in check for the day.”
John blinked. “How did you--”
“I expect it’s interfered with your dance lessons, but I’m confident I’ll be able to compensate for any awkwardness you experience. I expect you’ll want to lead, though. I doubt they taught you the follow position.”
John floundered, desperately trying to grab hold of the conversation. “Um, no...they didn’t. Is that a problem?”
Sherlock smirked. “Hardly. There’s no challenge in directing a dance from the lead. It’s far more fun to manipulate from a seemingly submissive position.”
“Erm...right.” Christ, Sherlock was turning out to be as bad as Mycroft! John quickly shoved that thought out of his head. Sherlock had to be different, better. He just had to be. For fuck’s sake, John was married to the man.
“Hm. They’re about to announce dinner. Shall we?” Sherlock presented his arm. In a daze, John took it and followed Sherlock to their table. Just as they were taking their seats, Mycroft’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, announcing the imminent arrival of food. Harry came to sit at John’s right, Bill in the seat beside hers. Sherlock was sat at John’s left, fiddling absently with his myriad utensils. He was right handed. Mycroft sat just beyond him, still as a statue. Toasts were made, long winded and dry from Mycroft, effusive and giddy from Harry, stately and commanding from Lady Holmes, and slightly awkward and low brow from Bill. Food was served, exquisite as promised, champagne was drunk (although Harry had sparkling white grape juice instead, and even permitted John a taste-test to be sure) and John was left fumbling through awkward conversation with his new spouse.
“Hm?” John had been a bit distracted and missed Sherlock’s last remark.
“I said your sister looks lovely.” Sherlock repeated, slightly louder. He gave every impression of being genuinely affable and interested in their conversation, but John couldn’t shake a strange, deep-seated sense that Sherlock was cringing inwardly.
“Oh, yes. She does. Um...thank you.”
“Marvelous job on the make-up. I can’t even see the damaged veins in her cheeks.”
John fumbled and nearly dropped his fork. “S-sorry? How did you...”
“You tasted her drink earlier. Before you tasted your own. She let you, but she rolled her eyes. Irritated, not mocking. You didn’t linger on the taste, so you weren’t just pinching your sister’s beverage to be cute, though I doubt you would based on what I know of you so far. You appraised it, obviously making sure there was no alcohol content. Even if your sister was an embarrassing drunk, you wouldn’t deny her champagne at your own wedding so she must be a recovering alcoholic. Going by her unclouded irises and decent coordination, not to mention her infrequent glances at other people’s glasses, I’d say she’s been sober for at least the duration of our engagment.” He turned his head to look into John’s eyes. The gaze was beyond intense, and John began to feel a bit overheated. “That’s why you did it, isn’t it? You could have lived with the social stigma of refusing to marry me, and likely would have, but your sister quite liked the idea so you struck a bargain. She’d sober up and you’d go through with the marriage.”
John glanced at Harry, who was talking animatedly to Bill. They were both laughing, probably at something frightfully embarrassing about John. Once he was sure Harry was sufficiently distracted, he leaned closer to Sherlock and lowered his voice. “You’re utterly brilliant. You must know that.” Sherlock blinked and jerked back a bit in surprise, then hurriedly leaned his head back down, making their discussion look terribly intimate. “Yes. Yes to all of it. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re a wonderful man, but I really would rather have avoided all this.” He flicked his eyes up, indicating the dining hall, the guests, the whole wedding in general. To his surprise, Sherlock smiled. “But she’s all I have left. We don’t get on, usually, but she’s my sister and...” he shook his head. “I’d do anything.”
“You would.” Sherlock said slowly, as though coming to a realization. “You honestly would.”
John met his eyes. “I have.”
An instant later, Sherlock’s lips were pressed against his, Sherlock’s hand gripping the back of his neck. He jerked a little in surprise, but soon found himself reciprocating automatically. God, Sherlock tasted good. His lips were so soft...
Sherlock pulled away and whispered into John’s ear. “Sorry. Cameras. I promised Mycroft I’d put on a show.”
Despite the words, John felt his eyelids flutter closed at the sound of that decadent voice so close, and the feel of hot breath against his ear. He nuzzled a bit against Sherlock’s cheek without realizing it and whispered back. “I really, really don’t mind.”
Sherlock pulled away with a smile. It transformed his whole face, with deep dimples beside his lips and crinkles around his eyes. He looked impossibly younger, and so utterly pleased. It took John all of an instant to realize that he really liked that smile. In fact, he was fairly sure he’d be willing to do all kinds of strange things to see it again. The smile vanished, and Sherlock’s face smoothed out as though it had never been there.
Seeing no harm in it, John spent the rest of the meal indulging Sherlock’s performance, even participating from time to time. John being left handed, their elbows were continually rubbing together as they ate, and Sherlock more often than not took this as a cue to smile and lean in close so that their shoulders were pressed together. John would lean in as well, and once even risked a quick kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. The younger man seemed perfectly okay with it, but John didn’t try it again, at the risk of overkill.
Sherlock relaxed over the course of the meal, and his happiness began to approach something like genuine, though he was still reserved. After the final course, John decided to test a theory and gingerly lowered his hand over Sherlock’s, twining their fingers together with bated breath. Sherlock froze, then looked down at their hands, then up at John, his brow furrowed.
“John--”
“Briliant.” John whispered. “You are absolutely brilliant. I honestly can’t believe how brilliant you are.”
Sherlock flushed and lowered his gaze. “What are you doing?”
“Experiment.” John responded, and Sherlock’s head jerked up. He glared at John, but without anger. More...confusion. As though John had just said something completely unlikely.
“What--what are you--”
But John was already leaning in, whispering directly into Sherlock’s ear. “Two can play at this game, Sherlock Holmes.” He said. “You’re so clever. And you’re a bloody good actor. But you don’t want to be here, do you? You make it look like you do, like you’re happy with me, like you’re glad we’re married, but you’re not.” He pressed a kiss to the shell of Sherlock’s ear, just enough pressure to register, and went on. “I’d like to change that, for tonight. I’d like to see you smile again. Really smile. Because you’re so beautiful, Sherlock. And you’re so,” a kiss to his temple. “Completely.” His cheekbone. “Brilliant.” And with a slight pressure of his fingers against Sherlock’s jaw, he found Sherlock’s lips and kissed him. Hard.
He worried for a moment that it hadn’t worked, but then Sherlock was kissing back, almost in spite of himself. And his hands came up to John’s shoulders, clutching him tight as they moved together, their mouths parting, their tongues darting tentatively, then daringly, into the heat of their contact.
They broke apart, flushed and panting. Sherlock’s eyes were dialated, and his face was stunned. John fought to get his breathing under control, then said, “There. That should satisfy your brother. I think we can relax for the rest of the night.”
Sherlock just gaped at him. After a moment, he seemed to find his voice. “You...how did you...who are you?” He demanded.
John checked to make sure the cameras were once more focussed on Mycroft and Lady Holmes and shrugged. “I told you. I’m nobody.”
“You’re lying. You have to be.”
John ignored him and nodded toward the floor. “They’re clearing out. Time for the dance. You ready?” And he made to stand from his chair, but Sherlock’s hand darted out and seized him by the wrist.
“No. Stay. I need to figure you out.”
John just smiled. “We’re married, Sherlock. You’ve got years and years to do that.” And he twisted his wrist a bit so he could grab Sherlock’s arm and pulled him up. “Now dance with me. Pretend I’m not rubbish at it, pose for a few photographs and we can get the hell out of here.”
And there it was! That smile! The smile that hijacked not just Sherlock’s face, but his whole body. “It is you.” He breathed. “It really is you.”
John wallowed a bit in his confusion at that, then shook it off and led Sherlock to the dance floor just as Mycroft’s voice once again thundered the announcement they had already anticipated. He had to grit his teeth a bit to keep his leg from buckling, and he knew he’d pay for it later, but it was worth it to be seen without that bloody cane on national television.
There was, naturally, a spotlight trained on them from the moment their feet touched the dance floor. Music began to play. A slow and stately waltz, and John pulled Sherlock closer, one hand on his waist, the other clasping his hand. Sherlock placed his free hand lightly on John’s shoulder, and John nervousely began the steps he’d had drilled into his head and legs over the past three months.
Sherlock smirked and lowered his head. “Let me show you how to lead me.” He whispered. John nodded, and he felt Sherlock taking over, guiding his steps even as he appeared to follow. Each time John nearly misstepped, there was a squeeze to his hand or a gentle push against his shoulder, and Sherlock would imperceptibly bring him back to position. The dance became easier, and John found he could follow the pattern almost perfectly after a while. There was a bit of panic at the trickier flourishes, but Sherlock knew exactly how to move, when to follow, how to read John’s intentions even when John didn’t know them. It was, actually, kind of fun. Spinny.
The music slowed, and he brought Sherlock in close, their chests pressed together. It was far, far too tempting for John to resist resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. There was a huff of breath against his hair, and Sherlock’s seductive voice saying, “Follow me?”
“Yes. Okay.” John murmured, and Sherlock adjusted their holds just as the song changed to something faster, more modern, and suddenly John was whirling, moving and spinning and always, always held firm by strong and confident hands. Sherlock guided him through familiar steps, done backward, and all the suppressed dominance he’d shown in their waltz rushed to the surface. Sherlock controlled every move, every turn, every step. Far from emasculating, it was somehow...exciting. There was almost a sense of madness to Sherlock, and it was quite like being swept up in a storm.
The music ended. There was one last, dizzying spin and John was left reeling, slightly unsure of his footing. Sherlock kept him close enough for a whisper, and asked, “How’s your leg?”
John furrowed his brow. “I...my..what?”
“Your leg, doctor. Surely all that dancing must have aggrivated it.” Sherlock didn’t look concerned, though. He looked amused.
“I...no.” John shook his head. Incredible. He really, truly felt nothing. No pain, just giddy endorphins. He felt...strong. He grinned. “How did you do that?”
Sherlock’s lips quirked upward at the corners. “Your leg only hurts when you’re thinking about it. All I had to do was distract you.”
John beamed, his smile was so wide it hurt. “You...are amazing.” He breathed, and Sherlock blushed.
“Look at you!” A voice squealed behind him. John turned, and saw Harry positively glowing at him. “You looked smashing out there!”
John blushed, but smiled at her warmly. She was still stone sober, so she hadn’t snuck off to the open bar after dinner. That alone was cause for celebration. He was genuinely pleased to do the next bit.
“Harry, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is my sister, Harriet Watson.”
They shook hands, and Harry said, “I never got the chance to talk to you at dinner. You and John were so busy with each other.”
Sherlock donned a smile that would charm a nun and replied, “Well you were quite occupied with that soldier chap, I noticed. I hated to interrupt.” His voice and words were silk smooth, polished and oozing sincerity. It was a bloody good performance.
“Yeah, that Bill. I owe him my brother’s life, you know.”
“And by extention mine, I suppose.” Sherlock remarked.
Harry’s grin widened. “Such a catch, John! You’re a lucky man.” Her eyes widened. “Oh! Have you seen Clara? She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”
John swiveled his head, as though he’d find Harry’s ex just over his shoulder. “I glimpsed her in the pews, but I haven’t seen her since I got here. It’s so damnably crowded.” He paused and regarded Harry carefully. “Have you spoken to her?”
Harry’s enthusiasm faded a bit. “Yes. We were both very civil and polite. It went well, John. Better than last time.” Harry’s apology hadn’t gone exactly to plan.
She shook it off and smiled. “Now, dance with your sister before someone else snatches you up.”
“Or you could dance with me.” A lighter, softer voice said. They turned, and Clara was standing there, her dress as black as night and studded with star-like sequins. She was, indeed, radiant. Harry tensed.
John was torn, and he looked from his sister to his former sister-in-law, unsure where to turn. Sherlock stepped in, extending his hand to Harry.
“Actually, I’d quite like a chance to hear what you can tell me about my new husband.” He said calmly. Harry nodded and took his hand.
Just as Sherlock was sweeping her away, he heard her remark, “Oh the stories I could tell! Did you know that once, when we were kids, Johnny tried to--”
The rest was lost to the music and the crowd, and he turned back to Clara. She didn’t look happy. She didn’t look cross. She looked...disappointed.
“Are you all right?” He asked, taking her into his arms and following the music as best he could.
She looked down, studying their feet. “I can’t believe you went through with this, John.” She said.
John went cold. “Clara, I...”
“This isn’t you. Buying into the whole material life. Marrying a complete stranger. I know coming back was hard but...this? Really?”
“Clara, it’s not like that. I didn’t want this.”
“No, but she did. How could you let her manipulate you like this? This is your life John! The whole rest of your life, tied to this other person and you don’t even know him.”
“I like him though.” John said weakly. “So far. He’s...interesting.”
“John. This is a commitment. It’s forever.”
“So was the army.” He replied, bitterly. “Maybe this one will actually stick.”
She shook her head and looked down again. “I know she’s romantic. I know the idea of you with a title, all your needs met, no more money troubles, all that is appealing to her. But you’ve gone and handed her your entire future and for what?”
“I’ve handed Sherlock my entire future, Clara, not Harry. And you saw her! That’s not just today, that’s the last three months. She’s been going to meetings, she’s gotten rid of all the alcohol in the flat, she’s got her bloody 90 day chip. She’s making an effort, getting well.”
“And you think that’ll last? You think once you and your husband leave she won’t dive on the champagne and drink herself into a coma?”
“She swore. She’s kept her word so far. I...I need to believe in her. She’s strong, Clara. She’s so much stronger than we thought.”
Clara looked at him, but she didn’t say anything more. They danced in slience until the song ended, then Clara slipped away without a backward glance. Sherlock materialized and tapped John on the shoulder, making him jump and spin round.
“So, darling. Who’s Clara?”
Parts 9-10
::