Re: Fill: Bound in Gold 7bpennin_inkFebruary 27 2011, 00:47:32 UTC
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 reenforce 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.
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 reenforce 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.”
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You're doing a fantastic job and I hope to see more soon! ♥
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