Fill: Bound in Gold 6cpennin_inkFebruary 27 2011, 00:37:20 UTC
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.
Fill: Bound in Gold 6dpennin_inkFebruary 27 2011, 00:38:19 UTC
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.
Fill: Bound in Gold 6epennin_inkFebruary 27 2011, 00:38:56 UTC
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...”
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.
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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.
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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...”
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