Fill: Bound in Gold 8apennin_inkMarch 1 2011, 05:46:47 UTC
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.
Fill: Bound in Gold 8bpennin_inkMarch 1 2011, 05:48:13 UTC
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 millimetre 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?”
Fill: Bound in Gold 8cpennin_inkMarch 1 2011, 05:49:17 UTC
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.”
Fill: Bound in Gold 8dpennin_inkMarch 1 2011, 05:50:11 UTC
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.
Fill: Bound in Gold 8epennin_inkMarch 1 2011, 05:51:58 UTC
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!”
Fill: Bound in Gold 8fpennin_inkMarch 1 2011, 05:52:46 UTC
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.
Re: Fill: Bound in Gold 8fpennin_inkMarch 9 2011, 05:25:21 UTC
I am, I am! In truth, I just hit part 17, and I anticipate reaching anywhere from 20 to 23. I'm just finishing it up before I post any more because formatting is a NIGHTMARE when you're as addicted to italics as I am. I have to go through every line and re-do the italics in html so they'll show up here. It's a headache.
Re: Fill: Bound in Gold 8fpennin_inkMarch 9 2011, 05:30:09 UTC
If you use firefox you can use the addons "Livejournal addon" or "BBCodeXtra" and then all you have to do is highlight and it'll add in the appropriate coding for you,
Re: Fill: Bound in Gold 8dpennin_inkMarch 13 2011, 19:32:20 UTC
I love this fic, but there was one thing niggling at my mind when I was reading this part. Because of European-style etiquette (which would especially be applies to a high-brow event like this, and in which Sherlock would have had to endure lessons) all people regardless of their handedness would eat with the fork in their left hand and the knife in their right. Also, it's considered bad form for one's elbows to hit another's while eating, so one would actually try to keep his or her elbows as close to the body as possible to prevent contact.
Seems like years of etiquette lessons in my childhood finally paid off. :D *scurries off*
Re: Fill: Bound in Gold 8dpennin_inkMarch 13 2011, 23:24:23 UTC
Likely, but remember that John and, indeed, a good portion of the wedding guests are, for lack of a better word, "commoners". It's very likely that those rules would apply to one of the fancy galas or charity events the Holmeses host, but this is a much less aristocratic event.
Beyond that, I'm American and know virutally nothing about etiquette. I also doubt Sherlock would bother with it. Even so, I'm gonna have to pull the old, tired and vaguely annoying excuse of "It's an AU, so the rules are different".
Thanks for the information, though. I'll probably use it in another fic if I have to drag Sherlock and John to a non AU formal gathering. Also, don't scurry! I need concrit peoples! Stay, please!!!
(And if I could figure out how to edit these posts I'd totally change it, anyway.)
Re: Fill: Bound in Gold 8dpennin_inkMarch 13 2011, 23:55:57 UTC
As long as you are accepting concrit...
As much as I love the scene of John resenting Mycroft using his umbrella like a gratuitous cane, I doubt that Mycroft would be carrying his umbrella with him at a formal, indoor event like a wedding reception.
A formal wedding (and often even informal ones) has a reception line where the bride and groom (or groom and groom) (and parents?) greet each guest. At a large reception like this it would be long and tedious and both John and Sherlock would absolutely hate it, but I don't see how it could be avoided when the entire event is built around tradition. It's used precisely to avoid any guests being overlooked; it's one way to ensure everyone has a chance to speak with the couple.
Re: Fill: Bound in Gold 8dpennin_inkMarch 14 2011, 00:05:03 UTC
None of the weddings I've been to have had that. But then, they all tended to be back-yard affairs.
I know I should have looked more into wedding traditions, but in all honesty I didn't want to dwell on it. It would be boring to experience, and boring to read, so I skipped it. There was probably something like that before this point, but it would've been dull to read about.
Well, I probably could've gotten in some good dialogue and had some fun with Sherlock sniping, but I was impatient to get through the ceremonial part and just get to Sherlock and John being married already. So I cut a lot of corners. Sorry if it's jarring you out of the story, though.
(I know it's weird, but I simply couldn't separate Mycroft from his umbrella. It felt wrong, like unnecessary surgery, so I let him keep it.)
Re: Fill: Bound in Gold 8dpennin_inkMarch 14 2011, 07:28:11 UTC
Ah, okay, I understand that reasoning, but the reason I mentioned the whole "eating-with-fork-in-left-hand-is-oh-so-high-brow" is because you mention that John is left-handed. I assumed that the reason Sherlock's elbow hits John's is because Sherlock eats with his fork in his right hand during the reception.
Even considering the fact that Sherlock doesn't like social convention, the emphasis one's parents (and I'm betting Sherlock's mum, too) put on this sort of thing means that this training would become second-nature very young. With my family, as soon as I and my siings started using cutlery, we were made to hold the fork in the left hand. There is literally no time for a child who can still be considered a toddler to complain, especially when the kid is young enough that handedness isn't yet concrete.
Re: Fill: Bound in Gold 8dpennin_inkMarch 14 2011, 07:32:29 UTC
Is there a time like that? Man, I can't remember a time when I wasn't right handed.
This is fascinating. I honestly knew absolutely none of this. (You'd be surprised at how little of Anthropology focuses on modern Western Europe. It's basically a footnote after you finish with Chinese Footbinding and African Female Husbands. And then it's basically just bashing Norman Rockwell. Le sigh.)
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.
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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?”
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“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.”
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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.
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“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!”
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“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?”
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F5 F5 F5 F5 :)
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Seems like years of etiquette lessons in my childhood finally paid off. :D
*scurries off*
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Beyond that, I'm American and know virutally nothing about etiquette. I also doubt Sherlock would bother with it. Even so, I'm gonna have to pull the old, tired and vaguely annoying excuse of "It's an AU, so the rules are different".
Thanks for the information, though. I'll probably use it in another fic if I have to drag Sherlock and John to a non AU formal gathering. Also, don't scurry! I need concrit peoples! Stay, please!!!
(And if I could figure out how to edit these posts I'd totally change it, anyway.)
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As much as I love the scene of John resenting Mycroft using his umbrella like a gratuitous cane, I doubt that Mycroft would be carrying his umbrella with him at a formal, indoor event like a wedding reception.
A formal wedding (and often even informal ones) has a reception line where the bride and groom (or groom and groom) (and parents?) greet each guest. At a large reception like this it would be long and tedious and both John and Sherlock would absolutely hate it, but I don't see how it could be avoided when the entire event is built around tradition. It's used precisely to avoid any guests being overlooked; it's one way to ensure everyone has a chance to speak with the couple.
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I know I should have looked more into wedding traditions, but in all honesty I didn't want to dwell on it. It would be boring to experience, and boring to read, so I skipped it. There was probably something like that before this point, but it would've been dull to read about.
Well, I probably could've gotten in some good dialogue and had some fun with Sherlock sniping, but I was impatient to get through the ceremonial part and just get to Sherlock and John being married already. So I cut a lot of corners. Sorry if it's jarring you out of the story, though.
(I know it's weird, but I simply couldn't separate Mycroft from his umbrella. It felt wrong, like unnecessary surgery, so I let him keep it.)
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Even considering the fact that Sherlock doesn't like social convention, the emphasis one's parents (and I'm betting Sherlock's mum, too) put on this sort of thing means that this training would become second-nature very young. With my family, as soon as I and my siings started using cutlery, we were made to hold the fork in the left hand. There is literally no time for a child who can still be considered a toddler to complain, especially when the kid is young enough that handedness isn't yet concrete.
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This is fascinating. I honestly knew absolutely none of this. (You'd be surprised at how little of Anthropology focuses on modern Western Europe. It's basically a footnote after you finish with Chinese Footbinding and African Female Husbands. And then it's basically just bashing Norman Rockwell. Le sigh.)
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