Fill: Bound in Gold 2apennin_inkFebruary 26 2011, 06:46:26 UTC
Dr John H Watson was not a poor man. He wasn’t a wealthy man, but his family had been comfortable throughout his childhood, and he had never wanted for much beyond a flashier car or trendier clothes than were necessary for an adolescent boy. As a man, John had wanted for even less. And as a soldier, he had wanted for nothing.
He’d been content, between the bouts of terror and agony, to simply be Captain Watson of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. He’d been proud. He’d been happy. He’d been useful.
And then he’d been shot. And just like that, John Watson wanted for everything. He wanted two good legs, instead of an excruciating limp from a wound he’d never received. He wanted a healthy shoulder, instead of ravaged muscle and torn sinew that ached and seized in damp and cold weather. He wanted a good night’s sleep, instead of nightmares that left him gasping and crying into his cold and empty bed.
But right now? In this moment? More than anything, John Watson craved sanity.
“This is just too much, Johnny!” Harriet cried for the eighty-sixth time. “Of all people! Of all people! You!” She waved her arms demonstrably, and the charcoal suit jacket in her right hand waved like a somber banner at the world’s most depressing football match.
“Harry, please stop that. If you wreck the suit, we’ll have to buy it.”
“Spare no expense, bro!” She trilled. “You’ll have more money than you’ll know what to do with after next month!”
John snatched the jacket from her and gently replaced it on its hangar. “Yes, well that doesn’t help me now, does it? And, anyway, I’m still not convinced--”
“Oh, John!” She groaned. “Don’t start again. You’re going through with it, and that’s final.” She started pawing through the displays, comparing shades of grey and black with a clinical and (thankfully) clear eye. “At least, you will if you want me to keep going to AA.”
John let his head droop to his chest. Oh, God. Oh buggering God. How could he do this? How could he marry a complete stranger? How could he go from simple, matter-of-fact Dr Watson to Lord Watson or whatever the Holmeses were? Would he still be Watson then? Would he have to take his husband’s name? Oh God.
“Breathe, John. You’re having a panic attack again.” Harry said boredly, eyeing a selection of ties.
“Right. Right. Sorry. Er...”
Harry rolled her eyes. “You know, you should see your therapist again. If you freak out during the ceremony, I’ll never live it down. Probably drink myself into the A&E.”
John scowled. It was getting old, this threat of Harry’s. But it still worked. As long as John went through with every bit of wedding preparation Harry dreamed up, his sister stayed sober. He’d gotten into the habit, when her withdrawal symptoms were severe enough that she was on the verge of robbing a wine bar, of reciting his wedding vows and listing off all of the tasks still un-checked on Harry’s wedding planner list. It wasn’t terribly long, since the Holmes estate was tending to the bulk of the ceremony, but there was enough to keep Harry occupied and distracted through the nausea and the shaking. The symptoms were largely faded by now, but Harry kept John in line with the very real threat of relapse.
Fill: Bound in Gold 2bpennin_inkFebruary 26 2011, 06:47:09 UTC
“Fine. I’ll go to my therapist. And you’ll call Clara. You’ve been on the apology step for almost a week, stop putting it off.”
She rolled her eyes, but her voice was soft and a little broken. “How is she?”
John licked his lips. “She’s...fine. Lonely. Worried. She looks beautiful. Sad, but beautiful.”
Harry smiled, a small, wistful thing. “I’ll bet. I’ll bet she’s radiant.” Her eyes shone with tears and memories of love, but she rounded on him in the next instant, her face composed. “And I’m sure he’ll be radiant, too.”
John didn’t meet her eyes. It was frustrating, he thought. He’d seen photographs of Mycroft Holmes and Lady Holmes in virtually every publication, but there was no sign of Sherlock in even the trashiest of tabloids. Harry had once managed to find a picture of the Holmes estate during a charity gala where Sherlock’s elbow and a bit of his hair were in frame, so John knew he was slim and had dark, curly hair. That was about it. And, of course, they weren’t allowed any contact until the ceremony, so in all likelihood John wouldn’t know what his fiancee looked like until it was time to kiss him in front of God and the viewing public. Hell, last he’d heard BBC Worldwide had signed to cover the blasted thing. It would be the smooch seen round the world. Fan. Tastic.
It wouldn’t be such a big deal, John thought, if Lady Holmes weren’t the queen’s childhood friend. Sherlock was infamous as the black sheep of the line, but his mother’s involvement ensured that her son’s wedding would be the social event of the year. Mycroft’s wedding, should he ever marry, would probably outshine the coronation.
“Here!” Harry whirled round with a dark, pinstripe suit in her hands, pressing it against her chest as though checking its fit against her breasts. “Perfect! What do you think, John?”
John bit his lower lip. “Will I be able to dance in it?” Would he be able to dance full stop? His lessons weren’t going terribly well.
“Oh, yeah. Just a few alterations and it’ll fit like a glove! You’ll look smashing at the reception!”
“Smashing?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Oi!” She swatted his arm and he giggled. “I’m trying for a bit of class! You know I’ll be the sister of a lord in a month.”
“Really? I hadn’t a clue.” He deadpanned. “Are you sure it’s worth it? A second suit? Maybe I could just wear my wedding tux to the reception and spare the expense.”
“No way! It’s bad enough Mummy Holmes is springing for the tux, I’m not giving up my rights to the reception! This is your wedding too, John. Not just his.”
John sighed. “All right. All right. But speaking of, I’ve got a fitting in about two hours so we should probably wrap this up.”
Harry rolled her eyes but lead John to the attendant, pinstripes in hand, to give his measurements and do a preliminary fitting for his second overpriced suit. His inner soldier rebelled at the waste of time and money, but at this point he’d pretty much accepted that he’d do anything to keep Harry out of the bottle. Hell, he was getting married for it. An additional unnecessary bespoke suit was significantly less of a sacrifice. And, hey, at least this one he could possibly wear again, unlike that black silk and brocade monstrosity they were swaddling him in at the estate.
A short time later, he and Harry said their good-byes and he was climbing into a gleaming black sedan. It pulled away from the kerb and he was once more headed for the sprawling mansion that housed his future in-laws and the fiancee he had yet to meet.
He’d been content, between the bouts of terror and agony, to simply be Captain Watson of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. He’d been proud. He’d been happy. He’d been useful.
And then he’d been shot. And just like that, John Watson wanted for everything. He wanted two good legs, instead of an excruciating limp from a wound he’d never received. He wanted a healthy shoulder, instead of ravaged muscle and torn sinew that ached and seized in damp and cold weather. He wanted a good night’s sleep, instead of nightmares that left him gasping and crying into his cold and empty bed.
But right now? In this moment? More than anything, John Watson craved sanity.
“This is just too much, Johnny!” Harriet cried for the eighty-sixth time. “Of all people! Of all people! You!” She waved her arms demonstrably, and the charcoal suit jacket in her right hand waved like a somber banner at the world’s most depressing football match.
“Harry, please stop that. If you wreck the suit, we’ll have to buy it.”
“Spare no expense, bro!” She trilled. “You’ll have more money than you’ll know what to do with after next month!”
John snatched the jacket from her and gently replaced it on its hangar. “Yes, well that doesn’t help me now, does it? And, anyway, I’m still not convinced--”
“Oh, John!” She groaned. “Don’t start again. You’re going through with it, and that’s final.” She started pawing through the displays, comparing shades of grey and black with a clinical and (thankfully) clear eye. “At least, you will if you want me to keep going to AA.”
John let his head droop to his chest. Oh, God. Oh buggering God. How could he do this? How could he marry a complete stranger? How could he go from simple, matter-of-fact Dr Watson to Lord Watson or whatever the Holmeses were? Would he still be Watson then? Would he have to take his husband’s name? Oh God.
“Breathe, John. You’re having a panic attack again.” Harry said boredly, eyeing a selection of ties.
“Right. Right. Sorry. Er...”
Harry rolled her eyes. “You know, you should see your therapist again. If you freak out during the ceremony, I’ll never live it down. Probably drink myself into the A&E.”
John scowled. It was getting old, this threat of Harry’s. But it still worked. As long as John went through with every bit of wedding preparation Harry dreamed up, his sister stayed sober. He’d gotten into the habit, when her withdrawal symptoms were severe enough that she was on the verge of robbing a wine bar, of reciting his wedding vows and listing off all of the tasks still un-checked on Harry’s wedding planner list. It wasn’t terribly long, since the Holmes estate was tending to the bulk of the ceremony, but there was enough to keep Harry occupied and distracted through the nausea and the shaking. The symptoms were largely faded by now, but Harry kept John in line with the very real threat of relapse.
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She rolled her eyes, but her voice was soft and a little broken. “How is she?”
John licked his lips. “She’s...fine. Lonely. Worried. She looks beautiful. Sad, but beautiful.”
Harry smiled, a small, wistful thing. “I’ll bet. I’ll bet she’s radiant.” Her eyes shone with tears and memories of love, but she rounded on him in the next instant, her face composed. “And I’m sure he’ll be radiant, too.”
John didn’t meet her eyes. It was frustrating, he thought. He’d seen photographs of Mycroft Holmes and Lady Holmes in virtually every publication, but there was no sign of Sherlock in even the trashiest of tabloids. Harry had once managed to find a picture of the Holmes estate during a charity gala where Sherlock’s elbow and a bit of his hair were in frame, so John knew he was slim and had dark, curly hair. That was about it. And, of course, they weren’t allowed any contact until the ceremony, so in all likelihood John wouldn’t know what his fiancee looked like until it was time to kiss him in front of God and the viewing public. Hell, last he’d heard BBC Worldwide had signed to cover the blasted thing. It would be the smooch seen round the world. Fan. Tastic.
It wouldn’t be such a big deal, John thought, if Lady Holmes weren’t the queen’s childhood friend. Sherlock was infamous as the black sheep of the line, but his mother’s involvement ensured that her son’s wedding would be the social event of the year. Mycroft’s wedding, should he ever marry, would probably outshine the coronation.
“Here!” Harry whirled round with a dark, pinstripe suit in her hands, pressing it against her chest as though checking its fit against her breasts. “Perfect! What do you think, John?”
John bit his lower lip. “Will I be able to dance in it?” Would he be able to dance full stop? His lessons weren’t going terribly well.
“Oh, yeah. Just a few alterations and it’ll fit like a glove! You’ll look smashing at the reception!”
“Smashing?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Oi!” She swatted his arm and he giggled. “I’m trying for a bit of class! You know I’ll be the sister of a lord in a month.”
“Really? I hadn’t a clue.” He deadpanned. “Are you sure it’s worth it? A second suit? Maybe I could just wear my wedding tux to the reception and spare the expense.”
“No way! It’s bad enough Mummy Holmes is springing for the tux, I’m not giving up my rights to the reception! This is your wedding too, John. Not just his.”
John sighed. “All right. All right. But speaking of, I’ve got a fitting in about two hours so we should probably wrap this up.”
Harry rolled her eyes but lead John to the attendant, pinstripes in hand, to give his measurements and do a preliminary fitting for his second overpriced suit. His inner soldier rebelled at the waste of time and money, but at this point he’d pretty much accepted that he’d do anything to keep Harry out of the bottle. Hell, he was getting married for it. An additional unnecessary bespoke suit was significantly less of a sacrifice. And, hey, at least this one he could possibly wear again, unlike that black silk and brocade monstrosity they were swaddling him in at the estate.
A short time later, he and Harry said their good-byes and he was climbing into a gleaming black sedan. It pulled away from the kerb and he was once more headed for the sprawling mansion that housed his future in-laws and the fiancee he had yet to meet.
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