Fic: Multiply (the sum of our parts) - Chapter Five
Title: Multiply (the sum of our parts)
Author: 1electricpiratexkeijukainenx
Rating: M
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (BBC)
Author's Notes: This is an AU and I have not even *tried* to be true to the original canon timelines. You have been warned. The story has been beta'd rather thoroughly and any mistakes that remain are mine and mine alone.
I am neither a scientist nor a mathematician, so if any of this is scientifically inaccurate... well, I apologize. I did try to research but you know what they say about Wikipedia.
Disclaimer: I do not pretend to own any of these characters (besides the two or three I have conjured from thin air). Credit for that brilliance falls to ACD and the Godtiss.
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four
Chapter Five - One plus one equals one (an interlude from reality)
Sherlock’s mother - Celeste Marie Holmes, Sherlock tells John, though in John’s head he is unable to call her anything but Sherlock’s mother, for now at least - has given them just enough warning to have several suits (morning wear, garden wear, evening wear, and various other bits and pieces of haberdashery) rushed through at great expense and calling in of personal favours (though the staff at Anderson & Sheppard nearly fall over themselves when Sherlock tells them whose account to charge) before they find themselves bundled into a black sedan trundling down the M20 sat across from a particularly annoying version of Mycroft that looks rather a lot like the cat who got the cream.
He had smirked a, “I believe congratulations are in order, gentlemen?” as John and Sherlock clambered into the car (John being extra careful not to cause any wrinkles, as the suit he was currently clad in cost more money than he had ever spent on clothes in his life put together), and finished with a particularly desultory, “How kind of you to make an honest man of my baby brother at last, Doctor Watson,” before Sherlock’s venomous glare had silenced him.
Now, John sits with one hand on Sherlock’s thigh, trying to calm him though he himself is fighting a vague sense of impending doom.
In a last ditch attempt to stave off some kind of implosion occurring on Sherlock’s side of the car, John tears his eyes from the window and looks across to Mycroft, pretending to be absorbed in a paper while instead watching his brother not-so-surreptitiously. “I didn’t know you were from Kent.”
Sherlock huffs and stares more intently out the window. Mycroft, ever the face of politeness, folds his paper and smiles beatifically at John, as if butter wouldn’t melt. John wonders how long one has to be married to someone’s brother before they are allowed to call them by their highly embarrassing nickname - and whether Mycroft would ever tolerate it anyway. John decides to reserve it for a time when Mycroft really pisses him off, and beams back at him, the very picture of innocence. Sherlock squeezes his hand, pleased.
“The Holmes estate is just outside of Ashford,” Mycroft tells him. “It’s small but comfortable. And of course Mummy keeps the place immaculate.”
“Of course, she has a prodigious deal of help in doing so,” Sherlock mutters, rolling his eyes.
“I had no idea you still had family living, other than each other,” John continues, a small barb to remind Sherlock that he had promised to be on his best behaviour.
“Sherlock seems to resent the implication that he is not, in fact, a one-man island,” Mycroft agrees. “I believe most of the family will be there today. They would have been at the wedding, of course, but...” The slight inclination of his head means he knows Sherlock is only here because John is making him. The slight crease at the corner of one eye means, Thank You. John thinks maybe one day he will write a dictionary of Holmesian gesture.
John knows now (after extensive wheedling and emotional blackmail) that Sherlock sees his mother twice a year - at Christmas and on her birthday. Mycroft keeps her abreast of his movements (daily, knowing Mycroft) and they have a longstanding agreement that she will keep her nose out of his business and let him live his life - except where important milestones are concerned. These were laid out in some kind of written document that Sherlock was forced to sign before being given access to his trust fund and include: any and all ceremonies in which Sherlock is to be presented with an award or certificate or diploma, weddings or other civil ceremonies, births of any potential grandchildren, and funerals.
Sherlock seems convinced that this fixation she has on milestones in his life stems from her infuriating obsession with societal prestige and inherent need to make a fuss and rub everyone else’s nose in her business. John is not entirely inclined to believe him, and has decided to reserve judgement until he has met the woman in question.
When they pull up into the circular drive in front of Eastwell Manor, however, John’s thoughts and speculations about the kind of woman he might find Celeste Holmes to be are knocked out of him and it is all he can do to keep his jaw off of the floor.
“This is your house?” he asks incredulously, turning wide eyes to stare at the Holmes brothers, who seem unmoved as they begin to climb out of the door, being held open by - yes, that does indeed seem to be a footman.
“You guys aren’t secret Earls are you,” John wonders aloud as he follows them outside, a small nervous smile thrown to the man holding the door with white gloved hands.
“Don’t talk nonsense, John, it’s unbecoming,” Sherlock sighs. “Parker, the bags to my quarters, if you don’t mind. John and I will freshen up before the party.” The words fall from his tongue as if they are the most normal thing in the world and man in white gloves nods, briskly, and busies himself about the boot of the car. Sherlock waves away John’s protests about being able to carry his own bags and sweeps up the steps towards the house.
It is not, John thinks, overly large when compared with some other stately homes, but it is still imposing, framed by immaculately trimmed hedges. There is something charming about it’s ivy-covered facade, though, and though John feels ill at ease, he can tell instantly that this is Sherlock’s natural habitat.
He feels rather like there ought to be some sort of orchestral soundtrack as they walk into the house and it’s vaulted hallways, but Sherlock barely spares his surroundings a glance, leading them quickly down a corridor towards the west wing of the house. John catches glimpses of priceless antiques, exquisite pieces of furniture, tastefully decorated rooms before Sherlock suddenly takes a turn through a pair of double doors into what John assumes are his rooms.
Rooms, plural. John shakes his head in brief amazement. He’d spent most of his childhood sharing a room with Harry and most of his adolescence in the barely converted attic room on a single bed they’d found at a charity store.
Sherlock seems to breathe easier in here, though, and John sees instantly why. He must have gone on various raids throughout the house as a child, absconding with the things he liked most and hoarding them, magpie-like, in his own rooms. It is a familiar sort of chaos, much like the one back at 221b; mismatched furniture in the sitting area (ginormous fireplace, John notes, and a rug in front of it that must have cost a small fortune to have shipped from Turkey), on one wall an enormous glass case full of meticulously preserved insects. There are stuffed animals (not the plush kind, the kind which were once alive and have now been preserved in various disturbing postures) peeking out from various corners and enormous stacks of books dot the room (though John learns that there is an entire library waiting behind a door hidden by a tapestry that looks as if it is possibly Georgian).
Through a door on the right hand side of the lounge is the most sumptuous bedroom John has ever seen, dominated by an enormous four-posted bed with blue velvet hangings. Sherlock shrugs his coat off and sits down on the periwinkle blue silk duvet that John is afraid to touch, much less crease by sitting on.
“What do you think,” he asks, his eyes following John’s every reaction, and John does not miss the hint of fear that is swimming behind them.
“I think that if I’d known you were this rich I’d have pushed for a pre-nup,” John quips, scratching the back of his head with one slightly nervous hand. Sherlock winces and John’s face softens. He moves to stand between Sherlock’s legs and takes his face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over those aristocratic cheekbones. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and he leans into John’s right hand, exhaling slowly.
“I love your rooms,” John says quietly, kissing Sherlock’s nose lightly. Sherlock’s lips quirk in half a smile and John grins. “Your house is beautiful. I can’t wait to meet your family. This is all a part of you and you know full well that I want all of you, even if you are a privileged bastard.”
Sherlock nods and opens his eyes again. “I hate it here,” he whispers; John kisses his lips this time and ruffles his hair.
“Two days, love, and then we can go back to London. Just two days.”
“Two days of hell is two days too many.” Sherlock winces again and then stands, kissing John swiftly before moving towards the bathroom. “I’m going to wash up quickly and then I’ll go find Mother.” He gives John a perfunctory once over and grimaces. “John, you’ve creased your suit.”
“Have I?” John looks down and realises that despite his best efforts he has, in fact, created several deep creases in the delicate material. Sherlock sighs. “You’ll have to stay up here while Maggie steams it straight for you. I’ll send her up. Alright?”
John nods - of course they have a maid, what else was he expecting? - and takes the suit off, laying it out on the bed before wandering around Sherlock’s lounge and settling into a deep leather arm chair with a book. Sherlock pauses on his way out to kiss the top of his head and instruct him on the way to the garden. “By the way,” he says immediately before sweeping through the double doors, “it is entirely likely that this gathering won’t be contained to just family. Fair warning.”
Half an hour later John, in a newly creaseless suit, is completely lost. He is not worried though. The house is big but it is not that big, and it is only a matter of time and several locked doors before he finds his way out several large french doors to the back garden.
He pauses briefly to take in the scene before him, the likes of which he has seen only on television and in the movies. The garden (immaculately and tastefully groomed, of course; at once imposing and utterly charming) is teeming with people dressed in what John understands vaguely to be Garden Party Chic - the women are resplendent in flowing pastels and hats that frankly defy gravity perched as they, the men dashing in light coloured leisure suits. John even sees several boater hats and wonders if perhaps he has been transported into an Oscar Wilde play (or, perhaps, a particularly uppity gathering on Made in Chelsea).
He spots Sherlock instantly, trained as he is to find his husband (still thrilling, even 10 days on. Maybe it will never stop being exciting, that word. Husband, husband, husband) in even the most crowded and dark of places. He is surrounded by several men his own age, and his face is a study in carefully guarded disgust and ... was that ... Apprehension? (No one that did not know Sherlock intimately would see anything but polite indulgence.)
John knows that look though, and moves closer instinctively.
“Where is she then, Holmes?” One of the men is saying as John moves into hearing range, and John is suddenly reminded of college. “We’re beginning to doubt she exists at all, you know.”
She? John frowns, tilting his head slightly, until he remembers the invitation: “You have been cordially invited to celebrate the recent nuptials of our beloved son, Sherlock Holmes,” it said. Nothing about John himself. Sherlock’s mother was obviously saving his identity as some kind of piece de resistance.
Another one of the men joins in, his voice dripping with condescension. “Nearly fell over when I got the invite,” he says. John wants to punch him instantly. The smiles on these men’s faces are not friendly, they are derisive, condescending, predatory. “Sherlock Holmes, married? I just had to see the nutter with my own eyes.”
“She must be half mad herself. Never thought you’d manage to land a bird at all, much less get her to sign up for life. What’ve you, mellowed out a bit since Eton?”
“Maybe they finally got him to take his meds, Warrington. I always did say...”
But John does not want to know what the snide man had always said. Sherlock had spotted him several minutes before and locked eyes with him over Warrington’s shoulder; John quickly decides he never wants to see him look so trapped and haunted ever again.
He clears his through and steps around Warrington (shoulders back, chin up, right fist clenched; Army-straight and as powerful as he can make himself seem with a dodgy leg and a gimp shoulder and a less-than impressive maximum height) and comes right up to Sherlock, sliding his left hand into Sherlock’s right. They are not accustomed to public displays of affection, Sherlock likes to keep himself to himself and doesn’t think any of this is anyone’s business but his own (and John tends to agree) but it will be worth it to wipe the smirks off the faces of these overgrown bullies.
“Sorry, love. Got a bit lost in that house of yours and you know how stairs bug that gimp leg of mine. Hullo,” he says, giving the four men grouped around Sherlock an icily cool smile. “Don’t believe we’ve met. Sherlock, do us the honour?”
Sherlock’s eyes are a study in relief and adoration, registering John’s icy tone and the hint about his leg. They are a finely oiled machine, Sherlock&John, with a several bullet-proof alliases available to them at a moment’s notice. They have never play acted at being themselves, though, but Sherlock is an excellent judge of John’s intentions (when they concern other people) and an even better actor. Below his icy cool facade, John glows with affection for the brilliant man at his side. His tone when he addresses his old classmates is the one he saves for Anderson, full of haughty disgust. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my husband, Captain John Watson, formerly of the RAMC. John, this is Arnold Warrington, James Pritchard, Colin Abernathy and Hugh Donnegall. We were at Eton together.”
John nods at them cordially in turn, grip still tight on Sherlock’s hand. The four men have been stunned into an unattractive silence. One of them seems to have lost control of his jaw. John squashes a smirk. Sherlock continues in the farce, looking down at John with convincing concern. “I thought your leg was okay today, you ought to have said something.”
“It was fine,” John replies; the men are still staring at them in shock. “Bullet wound, you know how it is, usually it’s fine but sometimes... Well, it’s not to be helped. Still, at least I’m still mostly in one piece, eh? Can’t say the same for the other bloke.” John laughs, and they look even more uncomfortable, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Enough, John decides, peering up at Sherlock who looks positively gleeful at their discomfit. “You promised to show me around, remember, Sherlock?”
“Of course, love,” Sherlock says, squeezing his hand. This time, John smirks despite himself. Sherlock has never once called him anything but his name. It is disconcerting, hilarious, and sightly lovely. “Mummy has been dying to meet you. Gentlemen, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but you are just as asinine as you were at the age of sixteen. Enjoy the party. The canapés are particularly delicious. Good afternoon.”
And suddenly John finds himself swept away on Sherlock’s arm, aware that many more than just four pairs of eyes are fixed on them. To be expected, John reminds himself, after all it is their wedding reception, and he doubts (despite himself) that those were the only four people to be shocked that someone would want to marry Sherlock.
“Who were those idiots?” John asks under his breath.
“We shared quarters at boarding school,” Sherlock answers.
“All the way through?”
“Most of the way. In my final two years the school saw fit to give me my own room.” Sherlock plucks a glass of champagne off of a tray that a white-clad waiter is carrying around on one hand and hands it to John, grabbing another for himself. “For their safety, as much as my own, you understand.”
John stops short. “What, they used to...”
“Every once in a while one of them was aggravated enough to express it physically, yes,” Sherlock admits, tipping his head. He studies John’s face, expression going soft at whatever he must see there. (Rage, John assumes. He’s never dealt well with people causing Sherlock harm of any kind.) “John, it was years ago. And I gave as good as I got, I assure you.”
“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t pummel them into a bloody pulp,” John mutters. “Smug bastards. How dare they speak to you like that? In your own home?!”
“John.” Sherlock says his name softly; John closes his eyes, collects himself, and lets the red tinge of rage recede. “Come along, I really might not make it to the end of the day if I don’t introduce you to Mummy immediately. She nearly threw a plate at my head earlier, you know.”
“Did she?” John lets himself be led to the other side of the garden, sparing one cold, calculating glare over his shoulder for the huddle of men they’d just left. Judging by the way their eyes widened collectively, it did not go unnoticed.
It takes just two minutes for John to decide that Celeste Holmes is his second favourite person in the world. It is clear that Mycroft takes after her in most ways, but her pale almond-shaped eyes are strikingly familiar. She holds herself with the kind of grace that John usually associates with royalty; dressed demurely but immaculately, with tasteful but obviously expensive jewellery and her thick white hair done up in a perfect loose bun.
“John Watson, I presume,” she says upon turning around from a group of friends at Sherlock’s soft cough, and after giving John a brief but calculating once over, she continues. “Oh yes, you’ll do very nicely indeed. And that suit is just lovely. Sherlock, dear, you’ve done well for yourself. But now I’ve discovered him - no more keeping John Watson all to yourself, you selfish thing.”
“Mummy,” Sherlock begins, but he stops abruptly at a dismissive wave of her hand, gloved in exquisitely delicate lace.
“Oh, hush child. Honestly, it’s as if you never give that lip of yours a break. John, darling, come, meet my friends. I’m sure you can also use a break from my son’s incessant chatter.”
In that instant, John falls head-over-heels in love with her. He smiles warmly and offers her his arm, winking at Sherlock and his thinly veiled contempt.
The garden party is, frankly, insufferable. John does not like being in the spotlight and Sherlock likes it even less (unless the spotlight happens to be composed of awe-filled eyes staring at him in barely-concealed wonderment as he enumerates to them in no uncertain terms why they are all idiots and then elaborates on just how the murder was accomplished without even pausing for breath). John is cooed over and spun around and talked over and admired as if he is a prize horse for sale. Sherlock, quietly seething, stands at his side. John has to step on his foot several times to stop him from outing some secret or other; Celeste sees him do it and sends him quiet, calculating smiles of approval.
After what feels like hours, Sherlock finally reclaims his husband from his mother’s clutches and drags him away to a secluded corner of the garden, stopping only to hijack an entire tray of champagne and pale lilac macarons.
“Your mother is fantastic, Sherlock,” John says, leaning back against the faintly warmed marble of the bench. They are mostly hidden from sight by yet another immaculate hedge. Sherlock huffs but joins John on the bench, sliding down enough so he can lay his head on his shoulder. “I’m quite vexed you didn’t let me meet her earlier. Oh god, what are these?” The delicate flavour of almond bursts across John’s tongue as he bites into a macaron.
“Macaron. Probably flown in from Paris, knowing Mummy. She does so love her spectacles.”
“You’re a prat, Sherlock. This whole thing has been very tasteful. Bit over the top, but tastefully so.”
Sherlock huffs again, nuzzling his way into John’s neck, as if he could climb inside the curve of it, hide there forever, and never come out again.
“They’re all only here to see what kind of mad person could possibly have taken me on,” he says, after a few minutes. John smiles softly and lets his arm fall over Sherlock’s shoulders.
“Well of course,” he says, pressing a kiss onto Sherlock’s forehead. They sit like that a few minutes, letting the sounds of party chatter wash around them. Sherlock sighs again and slides one arm around John’s waist, clutching gently.
“You really hate it here, don’t you?” John muses, taking another bite of macaron. They really are to die for. The decadence puts him slightly on edge but he can tell Celeste (she had given him a choice: either Celeste, or Mummy, but never, on pain of death, Mrs. Holmes) has put an effort into keeping the entire affair rather on the tasteful side of opulent in deference to John’s decidedly more humble background.
Sherlock is quiet for another long moment and John lets his fingers play idly in his hair. “They were .... I hated them all, it was all so tiresome and they were all so horrid and they hated me right back. I don’t like to stand and jump on ceremony, John, as you very well know, and growing up among this lot - it’s... It was insufferable. They used to look at me with this horrible pity in their eyes, like you would look at some mutt in the street.”
John hums his understanding into Sherlock’s curls and tightens his grip on his slim shoulder. Suddenly, Sherlock snorts.
“The look on Warrington’s face when you showed up.”
John snorts, recalling the expression with pleasure. “Like a guppy gasping for air, wasn’t it?”
“It was the best thing I’ve seen all day. All week. I used to dream of showing them up like that, John, and you did it with a single sentence. It was fantastic.”
John smiles a thin smile and kisses Sherlock’s forehead again. “You looked like a deer trapped in the headlights. I couldn’t let them keep torturing you like that. Bastards.”
Sherlock’s voice is barely above a whisper when he says “Thank you,” pressing his face into John’s neck again.
“Any time,” John says. “Guess we should go rejoin them. We are the main event, right?”
“Can’t we just stay here?” Sherlock whines, nuzzling further into John’s neck. “They’re all so hateful and dull, and I haven’t said one thing about anything bad about anyone, and it’s awful, there are so many things.”
“Yes, I had noticed. You’ve been very good. You deserve a reward for it.”
John felt Sherlock’s smirk against his neck.
“Oh really, Captain? What kind of reward do you have in mind?”
“Something that involves you being spread out buck naked on those gorgeous blue sheets of yours, I rather think.” A shiver runs through Sherlock’s body and John grins. “I’ve been dying to get you naked on it since I saw it. That blue silk and your pale skin - the very image of decadence.”
“Hmmmmm,” Sherlock murmurs, kissing gently at John’s neck. There is the faintest hint of tongue against John’s earlobe before it is gone again and Sherlock’s face is in front of John, grinning at him wolfishly. “I used to spend hours on that bedspread,” he says, in a low rumble that hits John straight in between his legs as he presses in close, his sharp, aristocratic nose ghosting the golden brown skin below John’s skin. “Hours, when I was younger, writhing around on the silk, completely naked and desperate to get off.”
“Bastard,” John huffs, grabbing at Sherlock’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss.
They are interrupted after a few minutes by a distinctly Mycroftian cough. Sherlock pulls away reluctantly, pale eyes full of promises for later, and John flushes.
“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but Mummy sent me to make sure you two didn’t cause any more scandal than is your particular due. She also says it’s time for the speeches, before the dessert buffet and the string quartet.”
“Speeches?” John winces, and Sherlock groans.
“That insufferable woman,” he mutters, but stands up anyway, brushing his down his suit quickly and hauling John to his feet. “Did no one ever teach you how to sit in a suit?” he snips, brushing at John’s suit with impatient hands. “Honestly, you look like you’ve been rolling around in a haystack.”
“Oi, you’re the one that jumped me, you bastard.”
“Quite,” Mycroft interrupts. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hurry this affair along. The French Ambassador is ever so trying.”
“Still pretending he’s a Parisian?” Sherlock enquires with a smirk; he takes John’s hand as they walk around the hedgerow, and John has to suppress a grin. He is not an overly physical person, outside the bedroom, but Sherlock generally is (though of course he reins it in in public). It is pleasant to be lead through this tiny slice of paradise by the hand of this fantastic man that he’s somehow acquired as a permanent fixture in his life. Ever so slightly pedestrian, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind, and John won’t complain. Anyways, Sherlock is busy being amused by the way Mycroft is wincing as they weave through the now-abandoned tables towards the back of the garden.
“Yes, it’s unbelievable how he will persist in that particular attempt at deception. It’s clear to all he’s from a dire little hovel outside of Marseilles but the man will keep at that dreadful charade of his.”
“Sounds dreadful,” John mutters, rolling his eyes. At least with Mycroft and Sherlock, he knows where he stands. Mycroft narrows his eyes and purses his lips while Sherlock smirks and squeezes his hand and John feels very happy indeed.
Celeste, on seeing them, breaks away from a group of people that contains the Duke of Fife and his twenty-five year old ‘assistant’. (Sherlock had murmured into John’s ear earlier that the Duke’s wife is currently in Norway with their three children, that she knows of the affair - of course - but allows it to persist because she herself has a female lover, most likely named Ingrid. John wonders how he can even think to posit a name but has long since decided against questioning Sherlock’s deductions when they are little more than gossip.)
“Ah, there you are boys. All decent, I hope? Sherlock, I did say no disappearing acts.”
Sherlock glares, about to retort something cutting, but John tugs on his hand and smiles his most winning smile at Celeste.
“It was my fault, Celeste, sorry, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. Won’t happen again.”
She does not buy his story for one second but she purses her lips in a vaguely appreciative gesture and pets him gently on the back of his free hand. “Of course, dear, I understand. It must be so trying, all these new people and new faces.”
John nods and Sherlock snorts, but thankfully says nothing.
“Now, boys. Sherlock, pay attention please. It’s as if no one ever taught you decent manners and I know for a fact that’s not the truth. Thank you. Mycroft, you too. Here’s what is going to happen, and there will be no arguments because I need this party to go off without a hitch and all three of you owe me. Am I understood?”
John feels about five years old, but he nods his agreement as Sherlock and Mycroft do the same.
“Mycroft, in a moment, you will move to the bottom of the stairs where the soundsystem is and call for attention. You will deliver your best man’s speech, and then hand over to John. John, dear, I don’t expect much from you, you’ve not had the training my boys had, but try and put your heart in it, will you? The more tears we get, the better. Charlotte Shappley is already crowing about how many people were in floods at her daughter’s reception and though the idea is abhorrent, I do so hate to see that woman preen. Then, darling,” she turns to Sherlock and fixes him with a stare that is uncannily similar to his own. “It’s your turn. You have always wanted a chance to show these people up, but I beg of you, please do it graciously. If you offend even one single person here, I will personally flay the skin from your body. Am I understood?”
Sherlock’s glare is icy, his stance that of an indignant child. John thinks it is wonderful. It is all he can do to stop himself laughing. Celeste leans towards her youngest son, narrowing her eyes and brandishing one long lace-clad finger in his direction. “Am I understood?”
“Yes Mummy,” Sherlock mutters. Celeste looks pleased, clapping her hands and wandering away to gather people in the direction of the makeshift dancefloor that has suddenly appeared at the top of the garden below the stairs to the main house.
There is a chill in the evening air as it draws in (April in Britain, of course; they’re lucky to have managed a whole day without rain) and the shadows are lengthening as Mycroft steps forward, claims a microphone from one of the stands and smiles down at the crowd who are now looking on in shameless curiosity.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, dearest family and friends, if I could have a brief moment of attention. On behalf of my mother and my dear younger brother, I’d like to thank you all for attending this humble celebration at such short notice. This is, of course, an impromptu wedding reception, and as such I believe it is traditional for the best man to give a speech. However, as in this case the best man was in fact a young homeless man named Spike -” Mycroft pauses for comedic effect while Sherlock shoots daggers at him with his eyes, “- I will be filling in for the time being.”
He pauses to look over to where Sherlock and John stand, slouched against each other and hiding in the shadows thrown by one of the hedges, and his eyes appear to soften. It is the most perplexing thing John has ever seen happen on Mycroft’s face, usually a study in immovable British posterity.
“Many of you know Sherlock, but few people know Sherlock well. I used to count myself among the lucky few to really know my brother, but ever since the intractable Doctor John Watson very literally appeared from nowhere and inserted himself in our lives, I have regularly had the very perplexing feeling that perhaps I did not know my younger brother as well as I thought I did. John Watson is one of the very best men I have ever had the pleasure to know, and I am ... I am vastly proud to be able to call him my brother-in-law.”
There is a smattering of applause (proof, once more, that the guests are much less interested in the actual marriage than in gossip. John is beginning to understand more and more why Sherlock hates it here). Despite himself, John flushes and grips Sherlock’s hand tight. He does not like this, he does not ever like to be the centre of attention and having some of the best and brightest and very definitely richest people in Britain fixed on him and him alone, knowing that they must be speculating about him, wondering who he is and where he came from and what he’s doing with Sherlock (wondering that Sherlock could be desirable to anyone at all) upsets something right at the very core of him. Sherlock’s eyes are calm, but John can see the rage behind them; he hates being made to perform like a circus animal.
John takes a moment to hate Celeste with every fibre of his being. This situation, being expected to stand up and make a speech declaring their everlasting love for each other in front of a group of people John doesn’t know and Sherlock actively dislikes (and a great many of whom have caused him a great deal of pain in the past), is both their ideas of hell.
So when Mycroft offers John the microphone, he does not step towards it alone. He makes a decision, without even pausing to check that Sherlock would go along with his plan, and drags Sherlock along with him towards Mycroft. Celeste is raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him but he ignores it, sets his shoulders, and smiles as best he can.
“Hullo,” he says, clearing his throat a bit. Sherlock’s hand flexes in his. He squeezes it back and continues. “Thank you all for coming out. We never intended to... To celebrate and it’s lovely to have been surprised with such a beautiful party. Celeste, thank you.” He nods at her and she smiles, warily, watching him like Sherlock might watch a suspect on a stakeout. “I... I think Celeste meant for us to read out vows, or something equally soppy and romantic, but to be honest, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less.”
Sherlock’s head whips around to stare at him, eyes wide with the particular mixture of shock and hunger and pleasure he gets when John does something that surprises him, and John winks at him openly and squeezes his hand.
“I will, however, say one thing: I am an incredibly lucky man, and Sherlock is an even luckier one.” The audience laugh, but it is an uncertain laugh, thin and tentative (he is an outsider, they do not know how to deal with that; they are evaluating him with every second that passes). Undaunted, John grins. “I hope very much that our good luck lasts for the rest of our lives. Thank you very much for coming out this afternoon, it’s been lovely. I hope to meet you all again very soon.”
He drops Sherlock’s hand and turns to move off stage, to flee the limelight, but Sherlock is suddenly frozen in place, staring at him as if he is the greatest puzzle the world has ever presented him. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock shakes his head and smiles, a soft, winning smile that John only sees once in a blue moon, the smile that means, John Watson, you are a wonder.
Then, suddenly, he is talking. John grimaces in anticipation of the imminent destruction and Mycroft groans and Celeste is silently livid, but Sherlock ploughs on regardless.
“I think it’s high time we drop the pretence. Ninety percent of you are here out of abject curiosity about the kind of person that would willingly associate with me. I find your interest dull and predictable and, if we’re being frank - and I believe we really ought to, at this point - hateful, but I cannot say I do not understand it. I am not and I have never been an ... an easy person. Several of you have personally predicted to my face that I would live my life alone and I must admit, I agreed with you. I never expected to ... to encounter someone quite like John Watson, and even if I had I could never have made him up. He is a solider and a doctor and an unshakeably good, kind man, all things I am not nor could ever aspire to be. I do not deserve him, and yet he continues to grace me with his presence in my life and I find that I am ... I am, despite everything I ever thought I knew about myself, I am desperately in love with him.”
Something in the region of John’s chest clenches desperately and he has to grab hold of Mycroft’s arm to steady himself.
He did not need Sherlock to say it to know he felt it, but something about hearing it from his mouth, in that deep baritone with the plummy vowels and the clipped consonants, made him feel like he was soaring.
The grounds are silent. John knows this kind of silence. It is the eerie, horrible silence before a storm. Sherlock, biting his lip in uncharacteristic uncertainty, looks away from his mother, who he’s been staring at for the latter half of his impromptu speech, to stare John straight in the eye for a brief second.
It feels like a small slice of eternity before Sherlock turns back to the crowd, most of whom are staring at him in some sort of dumb shock.
“I hope this little outing has satisfied your curiosity, but I cannot share my husband’s benevolence in hoping to meet any of you again soon. Knowing him, he genuinely means it as well. I believe my mother has now arranged for deserts and dancing, if you are so inclined. I refuse to stoop to the petty traditions my mother seems to deem so necessary so please, if you want to dance, do not feel you have to wait for John and I to set the way because quite frankly, he is an appalling dancer and I simply cannot be bothered trying to teach him to waltz. Good night.”
Sherlock storms off the stage, his face as red as John has ever seen it, and grabs John by the wrist. “Come on, John,” he mutters. John, feeling slightly dazed, just nods. He catches a brief glimpse of some horrible white monstrosity that seems to be some kind of wedding cake in amongst a table practically sagging with delightful looking desserts before being swept into the house by Sherlock’s death grip on his wrist.
Suddenly, they are in Sherlock’s rooms, double doors banging shut behind them, and the haze that had crowded John’s vision when he heard Sherlock say those lovely things to all those horrible people is gone. Sherlock’s hands are suddenly everywhere, stripping the hideously expensive jacket off John’s shoulders and tossing it away to one side, where it lands on what John briefly thinks might actually be a polar bear’s head.
“Sherlock,” John gasps, as Sherlock’s lips find his pulse point and his hands start to fumble with his buttons. Sherlock ignores him and carries on trying to kiss every inch of his neck and strip him of his shirt simultaneously, breathing quickly and unevenly. John scrunches his eyes against the desire to give in to Sherlock’s lips and nearly loses but finally finds the strength to grasp him by the shoulders and shove him gently, but hard enough to get him to back up a few paces and catch his breath.
“Sherlock, what was that?”
Sherlock’s eyes have gone dark and dangerous, and he advances towards John like some sort of predator.
“I gave them what they wanted, the vultures.” His voice is low and rumbling, and John wants nothing but to give in to him, but he knows that if they don’t talk about this now they never will, and he wants to understand.
“What does that mean?”
“It means... Dammit, John, don’t you see?” Sherlock tears himself away from John, backing up abruptly, nearly upsetting a lamp. His hands tear at his hair and John, though he wants to wrap him in his arms, is frozen in apprehension. “All they want, all they have ever wanted, is to assure themselves that I am human, that I have weaknesses that they could exploit if they wanted to. For years ... For more than thirty years that pack of vultures have carried around the assumption that I am some kind of... Some kind of circus animal, to be pitied and hated and paraded around at parties. It was easier for me to let them assume I was untouchable and they believed it. Didn’t you see their faces? They all thought you were likely to be some ... some tainted woman so desperate for a husband she would stoop even to marry the psychopath, or ... or some sort of golddigger, marrying me for the money. I couldn’t ... I can’t ... They can say what they like about me, I don’t care, but you - how dare they say those things about you? About us? About... About the one good thing I have ever done in my life? It makes me sick and I hate it, I hate this whole spectacle, this is exactly why I didn’t tell her we were getting married. How dare she take my life and turn it into some kind of social event?! I could... I could throttle her.”
It often startles John, in moments like these, just how much Sherlock resembles a wild animal. He is pacing the room, eyes fierce and full of fire, looking for all the world like a trapped, angry animal, raging against his restraints. In moments like this, John wonders what it must be like in Sherlock’s head, to be presented at every waking moment with a barrage of information and have to navigate your way through it. The inside of Sherlock’s head is a battle zone, more so even than the rest of his life, and it is the one war John cannot fight for him.
Sherlock’s hands are in his hair, and he is looking at John as if he is begging him to understand, and John does, of course, John almost always understands when it comes to Sherlock.
“Okay, it’s okay.” He moves slowly away from the door Sherlock had slammed him against, approaching his husband as you might approach a trapped deer. “I just wanted to know why you said anything at all. It’s alright, Sherlock.” Sherlock sags in relief; his hands fall from his hair and his shoulders slouch; he all but falls into John’s arms when John reaches him.
Burying his face into John’s neck, Sherlock takes a deep breath - John can feel him trying to force the tension away. “I hate them,” he whispers. “They’re insipid and petty and hypocritical and loathsome and I hate them.”
“I know, love.”
They stand there in the middle of Sherlock’s childhood room for several minutes, holding each other tight. Sherlock is the one to break the silence, pressing a kiss to John’s earlobe and whispering, “I meant it, you know. I meant every word I said up there.”
“I know, Sherlock.”
“I needed to... I needed to be sure you knew.”
“I know. I’ve always known.”
“How,” Sherlock asks, low and breathless, talking into the crease between John’s neck and his shoulder. “How did you know, I never said, never. It’s always been true, ever since day one, remember, you shot the cabbie for me and I thought.... I thought, I have to have him, but I’ve never said - I’m... I can’t... I didn’t know how...”
“Shut up, shut up, Sherlock, christ,” John murmurs, prying Sherlock’s fingers from where they are tangled in the tails of his shirt and backing up a little to look him in the eyes. “What’s got into you, eh?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, merely lets his eyes drop to the floor. John wonders what it was like for him here, as a young boy, trapped in such a beautiful house that was obviously no more than a prison for his fantastic mind, with people who misunderstood him and treated him like dirt under their shoes.
“Do you want to leave?” John asks, suddenly, grabbing Sherlock’s chin and forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Do you want to go home? I’ll take you home if you like. We can... We can call Lestrade or something, get him to send a car. We don’t have to stay.”
Once more John is treated to the way Sherlock looks at him when he is pleasantly surprised; to see that look twice in one night is a personal record that John will hold dear.
But then Sherlock is shaking his head and smiling ruefully. “Thank you, but it’s not worth risking Mummy’s wrath.”
“No, I suppose not.” John sighs, smoothing his hands down Sherlock’s arms. “It was lovely, what you said. Mycroft had to hold me up. I came over all Victorian.”
Sherlock smiles at him shyly, slowly regaining his self possession. John retrieves his jacket from the polar bear’s head and takes Sherlock by the hand, leading him out the door and towards the party again.
“For the record though, you’ve got it backwards. I’m the one that doesn’t deserve you.” John leans forward and kisses Sherlock soundly on the lips. “But that’s an argument for another day. Come on, I want some of that monstrous cake before Mycroft scoffs it all. And then later I’ll bring you back in here and spread you out across that bedspread and fuck you until you can’t remember your name, how’s that sound?”
Sherlock grins widely. “Perfect. Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Mmm. Exactly. Come on, let’s go rub their faces in our smug happiness, the bastards.”
“Have I told you I love you?” Sherlock asks, gleefully, following John down the corridor.
“I seem to remember something like that cropping up in conversation, maybe once. I don’t think anyone heard it though.”
“Well I do. For the record. Love you. Wow, that feels fantastic to say, why did you never tell me?”
“I never thought you’d want to, to be honest. I love you too, you daft bastard. Come now. Cake, and then you’re going to teach me to waltz, and then hopefully most of the pricks will be gone and I can finally fuck you like I’ve been aching to since we got out of that damn car.”
“You just really like that duvet.”
“I really, really do.”
“I’ll buy you one.”
“I’ll let you.”
They grin at each other, kissing quickly one last time before exiting the house once more and pasting their best politely apologetic faces on as Celeste drags them bodily towards the dance floor.
Later, much later, John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him towards the gloriously decadent four poster bed. They stand facing each other and silently unbutton their shirts before moving together. John’s brand new suit is left in a crumpled heap on top of what appears to be a bear pelt by the small fire place, complete with a small crackling fire that Sherlock had stirred to life when they came in against the natural chill of the old room. Sherlock’s silver grey shirt joins John’s and then John finally pushes his husband down onto the periwinkle blue of the bedspread and sits back on his haunches to stare down at him, drinking him in. The blue silk makes Sherlock’s unnaturally eyes appear like ice, and his flawless pale skin stretches like acres of snow against a light blue sky. Sherlock’s curls, always unruly, are slightly mussed and splay wantonly around his head, like some kind of inverse halo.
“God, if you could see yourself,” John mutters, swallowing hard. He lets one of his fingers trail mindlessly down Sherlock’s chest, moving heavily under John’s soldier’s scrutiny.
“I love you,” Sherlock says, earnestly, looking him straight in the eyes - it’s as if saying it once earlier has opened the flood gates, and he is now powerless to stop himself. Sherlock hates repetition but John does not mind it, could listen to those three words (or really, anything Sherlock had to say, anything at all) all day.
“I know,” he says. “I’ve always known. I’ve known since I first laid eyes on you, you daft bastard.”
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock huffs and shakes his head. “Impossible. Love at first sight. Total myth. Don’t be so tedious, John, I had thought you above all that.”
“When we first met, you deduced me with scathing accuracy,” John punctuates his words with kisses; Sherlock arches into them, gasping. “You lied to me and left me behind and I still tracked you down and killed a man to save your life, within twelve hours of meeting you. Tell me that’s not love at first sight.”
“Impossible. Stuff and nonsense.”
“I love you,” John says, and Sherlock stops protesting and melts into the periwinkle blue silk beneath him.
“I know,” he says, and the words are delicious around his tongue. When John kisses him, he can taste them there. They taste of champagne, wedding cake, and violet macarons.
It is the happiest John can ever remember being, when he looks back at it six months later. He thinks, it is the happiest he is ever likely to be.
I wish, I wish, I wish.
Author: 1electricpiratexkeijukainenx
Rating: M
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (BBC)
Author's Notes: This is an AU and I have not even *tried* to be true to the original canon timelines. You have been warned. The story has been beta'd rather thoroughly and any mistakes that remain are mine and mine alone.
I am neither a scientist nor a mathematician, so if any of this is scientifically inaccurate... well, I apologize. I did try to research but you know what they say about Wikipedia.
Disclaimer: I do not pretend to own any of these characters (besides the two or three I have conjured from thin air). Credit for that brilliance falls to ACD and the Godtiss.
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four
Chapter Five - One plus one equals one (an interlude from reality)
Sherlock’s mother - Celeste Marie Holmes, Sherlock tells John, though in John’s head he is unable to call her anything but Sherlock’s mother, for now at least - has given them just enough warning to have several suits (morning wear, garden wear, evening wear, and various other bits and pieces of haberdashery) rushed through at great expense and calling in of personal favours (though the staff at Anderson & Sheppard nearly fall over themselves when Sherlock tells them whose account to charge) before they find themselves bundled into a black sedan trundling down the M20 sat across from a particularly annoying version of Mycroft that looks rather a lot like the cat who got the cream.
He had smirked a, “I believe congratulations are in order, gentlemen?” as John and Sherlock clambered into the car (John being extra careful not to cause any wrinkles, as the suit he was currently clad in cost more money than he had ever spent on clothes in his life put together), and finished with a particularly desultory, “How kind of you to make an honest man of my baby brother at last, Doctor Watson,” before Sherlock’s venomous glare had silenced him.
Now, John sits with one hand on Sherlock’s thigh, trying to calm him though he himself is fighting a vague sense of impending doom.
In a last ditch attempt to stave off some kind of implosion occurring on Sherlock’s side of the car, John tears his eyes from the window and looks across to Mycroft, pretending to be absorbed in a paper while instead watching his brother not-so-surreptitiously. “I didn’t know you were from Kent.”
Sherlock huffs and stares more intently out the window. Mycroft, ever the face of politeness, folds his paper and smiles beatifically at John, as if butter wouldn’t melt. John wonders how long one has to be married to someone’s brother before they are allowed to call them by their highly embarrassing nickname - and whether Mycroft would ever tolerate it anyway. John decides to reserve it for a time when Mycroft really pisses him off, and beams back at him, the very picture of innocence. Sherlock squeezes his hand, pleased.
“The Holmes estate is just outside of Ashford,” Mycroft tells him. “It’s small but comfortable. And of course Mummy keeps the place immaculate.”
“Of course, she has a prodigious deal of help in doing so,” Sherlock mutters, rolling his eyes.
“I had no idea you still had family living, other than each other,” John continues, a small barb to remind Sherlock that he had promised to be on his best behaviour.
“Sherlock seems to resent the implication that he is not, in fact, a one-man island,” Mycroft agrees. “I believe most of the family will be there today. They would have been at the wedding, of course, but...” The slight inclination of his head means he knows Sherlock is only here because John is making him. The slight crease at the corner of one eye means, Thank You. John thinks maybe one day he will write a dictionary of Holmesian gesture.
John knows now (after extensive wheedling and emotional blackmail) that Sherlock sees his mother twice a year - at Christmas and on her birthday. Mycroft keeps her abreast of his movements (daily, knowing Mycroft) and they have a longstanding agreement that she will keep her nose out of his business and let him live his life - except where important milestones are concerned. These were laid out in some kind of written document that Sherlock was forced to sign before being given access to his trust fund and include: any and all ceremonies in which Sherlock is to be presented with an award or certificate or diploma, weddings or other civil ceremonies, births of any potential grandchildren, and funerals.
Sherlock seems convinced that this fixation she has on milestones in his life stems from her infuriating obsession with societal prestige and inherent need to make a fuss and rub everyone else’s nose in her business. John is not entirely inclined to believe him, and has decided to reserve judgement until he has met the woman in question.
When they pull up into the circular drive in front of Eastwell Manor, however, John’s thoughts and speculations about the kind of woman he might find Celeste Holmes to be are knocked out of him and it is all he can do to keep his jaw off of the floor.
“This is your house?” he asks incredulously, turning wide eyes to stare at the Holmes brothers, who seem unmoved as they begin to climb out of the door, being held open by - yes, that does indeed seem to be a footman.
“You guys aren’t secret Earls are you,” John wonders aloud as he follows them outside, a small nervous smile thrown to the man holding the door with white gloved hands.
“Don’t talk nonsense, John, it’s unbecoming,” Sherlock sighs. “Parker, the bags to my quarters, if you don’t mind. John and I will freshen up before the party.” The words fall from his tongue as if they are the most normal thing in the world and man in white gloves nods, briskly, and busies himself about the boot of the car. Sherlock waves away John’s protests about being able to carry his own bags and sweeps up the steps towards the house.
It is not, John thinks, overly large when compared with some other stately homes, but it is still imposing, framed by immaculately trimmed hedges. There is something charming about it’s ivy-covered facade, though, and though John feels ill at ease, he can tell instantly that this is Sherlock’s natural habitat.
He feels rather like there ought to be some sort of orchestral soundtrack as they walk into the house and it’s vaulted hallways, but Sherlock barely spares his surroundings a glance, leading them quickly down a corridor towards the west wing of the house. John catches glimpses of priceless antiques, exquisite pieces of furniture, tastefully decorated rooms before Sherlock suddenly takes a turn through a pair of double doors into what John assumes are his rooms.
Rooms, plural. John shakes his head in brief amazement. He’d spent most of his childhood sharing a room with Harry and most of his adolescence in the barely converted attic room on a single bed they’d found at a charity store.
Sherlock seems to breathe easier in here, though, and John sees instantly why. He must have gone on various raids throughout the house as a child, absconding with the things he liked most and hoarding them, magpie-like, in his own rooms. It is a familiar sort of chaos, much like the one back at 221b; mismatched furniture in the sitting area (ginormous fireplace, John notes, and a rug in front of it that must have cost a small fortune to have shipped from Turkey), on one wall an enormous glass case full of meticulously preserved insects. There are stuffed animals (not the plush kind, the kind which were once alive and have now been preserved in various disturbing postures) peeking out from various corners and enormous stacks of books dot the room (though John learns that there is an entire library waiting behind a door hidden by a tapestry that looks as if it is possibly Georgian).
Through a door on the right hand side of the lounge is the most sumptuous bedroom John has ever seen, dominated by an enormous four-posted bed with blue velvet hangings. Sherlock shrugs his coat off and sits down on the periwinkle blue silk duvet that John is afraid to touch, much less crease by sitting on.
“What do you think,” he asks, his eyes following John’s every reaction, and John does not miss the hint of fear that is swimming behind them.
“I think that if I’d known you were this rich I’d have pushed for a pre-nup,” John quips, scratching the back of his head with one slightly nervous hand. Sherlock winces and John’s face softens. He moves to stand between Sherlock’s legs and takes his face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over those aristocratic cheekbones. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and he leans into John’s right hand, exhaling slowly.
“I love your rooms,” John says quietly, kissing Sherlock’s nose lightly. Sherlock’s lips quirk in half a smile and John grins. “Your house is beautiful. I can’t wait to meet your family. This is all a part of you and you know full well that I want all of you, even if you are a privileged bastard.”
Sherlock nods and opens his eyes again. “I hate it here,” he whispers; John kisses his lips this time and ruffles his hair.
“Two days, love, and then we can go back to London. Just two days.”
“Two days of hell is two days too many.” Sherlock winces again and then stands, kissing John swiftly before moving towards the bathroom. “I’m going to wash up quickly and then I’ll go find Mother.” He gives John a perfunctory once over and grimaces. “John, you’ve creased your suit.”
“Have I?” John looks down and realises that despite his best efforts he has, in fact, created several deep creases in the delicate material. Sherlock sighs. “You’ll have to stay up here while Maggie steams it straight for you. I’ll send her up. Alright?”
John nods - of course they have a maid, what else was he expecting? - and takes the suit off, laying it out on the bed before wandering around Sherlock’s lounge and settling into a deep leather arm chair with a book. Sherlock pauses on his way out to kiss the top of his head and instruct him on the way to the garden. “By the way,” he says immediately before sweeping through the double doors, “it is entirely likely that this gathering won’t be contained to just family. Fair warning.”
Half an hour later John, in a newly creaseless suit, is completely lost. He is not worried though. The house is big but it is not that big, and it is only a matter of time and several locked doors before he finds his way out several large french doors to the back garden.
He pauses briefly to take in the scene before him, the likes of which he has seen only on television and in the movies. The garden (immaculately and tastefully groomed, of course; at once imposing and utterly charming) is teeming with people dressed in what John understands vaguely to be Garden Party Chic - the women are resplendent in flowing pastels and hats that frankly defy gravity perched as they, the men dashing in light coloured leisure suits. John even sees several boater hats and wonders if perhaps he has been transported into an Oscar Wilde play (or, perhaps, a particularly uppity gathering on Made in Chelsea).
He spots Sherlock instantly, trained as he is to find his husband (still thrilling, even 10 days on. Maybe it will never stop being exciting, that word. Husband, husband, husband) in even the most crowded and dark of places. He is surrounded by several men his own age, and his face is a study in carefully guarded disgust and ... was that ... Apprehension? (No one that did not know Sherlock intimately would see anything but polite indulgence.)
John knows that look though, and moves closer instinctively.
“Where is she then, Holmes?” One of the men is saying as John moves into hearing range, and John is suddenly reminded of college. “We’re beginning to doubt she exists at all, you know.”
She? John frowns, tilting his head slightly, until he remembers the invitation: “You have been cordially invited to celebrate the recent nuptials of our beloved son, Sherlock Holmes,” it said. Nothing about John himself. Sherlock’s mother was obviously saving his identity as some kind of piece de resistance.
Another one of the men joins in, his voice dripping with condescension. “Nearly fell over when I got the invite,” he says. John wants to punch him instantly. The smiles on these men’s faces are not friendly, they are derisive, condescending, predatory. “Sherlock Holmes, married? I just had to see the nutter with my own eyes.”
“She must be half mad herself. Never thought you’d manage to land a bird at all, much less get her to sign up for life. What’ve you, mellowed out a bit since Eton?”
“Maybe they finally got him to take his meds, Warrington. I always did say...”
But John does not want to know what the snide man had always said. Sherlock had spotted him several minutes before and locked eyes with him over Warrington’s shoulder; John quickly decides he never wants to see him look so trapped and haunted ever again.
He clears his through and steps around Warrington (shoulders back, chin up, right fist clenched; Army-straight and as powerful as he can make himself seem with a dodgy leg and a gimp shoulder and a less-than impressive maximum height) and comes right up to Sherlock, sliding his left hand into Sherlock’s right. They are not accustomed to public displays of affection, Sherlock likes to keep himself to himself and doesn’t think any of this is anyone’s business but his own (and John tends to agree) but it will be worth it to wipe the smirks off the faces of these overgrown bullies.
“Sorry, love. Got a bit lost in that house of yours and you know how stairs bug that gimp leg of mine. Hullo,” he says, giving the four men grouped around Sherlock an icily cool smile. “Don’t believe we’ve met. Sherlock, do us the honour?”
Sherlock’s eyes are a study in relief and adoration, registering John’s icy tone and the hint about his leg. They are a finely oiled machine, Sherlock&John, with a several bullet-proof alliases available to them at a moment’s notice. They have never play acted at being themselves, though, but Sherlock is an excellent judge of John’s intentions (when they concern other people) and an even better actor. Below his icy cool facade, John glows with affection for the brilliant man at his side. His tone when he addresses his old classmates is the one he saves for Anderson, full of haughty disgust. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my husband, Captain John Watson, formerly of the RAMC. John, this is Arnold Warrington, James Pritchard, Colin Abernathy and Hugh Donnegall. We were at Eton together.”
John nods at them cordially in turn, grip still tight on Sherlock’s hand. The four men have been stunned into an unattractive silence. One of them seems to have lost control of his jaw. John squashes a smirk. Sherlock continues in the farce, looking down at John with convincing concern. “I thought your leg was okay today, you ought to have said something.”
“It was fine,” John replies; the men are still staring at them in shock. “Bullet wound, you know how it is, usually it’s fine but sometimes... Well, it’s not to be helped. Still, at least I’m still mostly in one piece, eh? Can’t say the same for the other bloke.” John laughs, and they look even more uncomfortable, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Enough, John decides, peering up at Sherlock who looks positively gleeful at their discomfit. “You promised to show me around, remember, Sherlock?”
“Of course, love,” Sherlock says, squeezing his hand. This time, John smirks despite himself. Sherlock has never once called him anything but his name. It is disconcerting, hilarious, and sightly lovely. “Mummy has been dying to meet you. Gentlemen, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, but you are just as asinine as you were at the age of sixteen. Enjoy the party. The canapés are particularly delicious. Good afternoon.”
And suddenly John finds himself swept away on Sherlock’s arm, aware that many more than just four pairs of eyes are fixed on them. To be expected, John reminds himself, after all it is their wedding reception, and he doubts (despite himself) that those were the only four people to be shocked that someone would want to marry Sherlock.
“Who were those idiots?” John asks under his breath.
“We shared quarters at boarding school,” Sherlock answers.
“All the way through?”
“Most of the way. In my final two years the school saw fit to give me my own room.” Sherlock plucks a glass of champagne off of a tray that a white-clad waiter is carrying around on one hand and hands it to John, grabbing another for himself. “For their safety, as much as my own, you understand.”
John stops short. “What, they used to...”
“Every once in a while one of them was aggravated enough to express it physically, yes,” Sherlock admits, tipping his head. He studies John’s face, expression going soft at whatever he must see there. (Rage, John assumes. He’s never dealt well with people causing Sherlock harm of any kind.) “John, it was years ago. And I gave as good as I got, I assure you.”
“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t pummel them into a bloody pulp,” John mutters. “Smug bastards. How dare they speak to you like that? In your own home?!”
“John.” Sherlock says his name softly; John closes his eyes, collects himself, and lets the red tinge of rage recede. “Come along, I really might not make it to the end of the day if I don’t introduce you to Mummy immediately. She nearly threw a plate at my head earlier, you know.”
“Did she?” John lets himself be led to the other side of the garden, sparing one cold, calculating glare over his shoulder for the huddle of men they’d just left. Judging by the way their eyes widened collectively, it did not go unnoticed.
It takes just two minutes for John to decide that Celeste Holmes is his second favourite person in the world. It is clear that Mycroft takes after her in most ways, but her pale almond-shaped eyes are strikingly familiar. She holds herself with the kind of grace that John usually associates with royalty; dressed demurely but immaculately, with tasteful but obviously expensive jewellery and her thick white hair done up in a perfect loose bun.
“John Watson, I presume,” she says upon turning around from a group of friends at Sherlock’s soft cough, and after giving John a brief but calculating once over, she continues. “Oh yes, you’ll do very nicely indeed. And that suit is just lovely. Sherlock, dear, you’ve done well for yourself. But now I’ve discovered him - no more keeping John Watson all to yourself, you selfish thing.”
“Mummy,” Sherlock begins, but he stops abruptly at a dismissive wave of her hand, gloved in exquisitely delicate lace.
“Oh, hush child. Honestly, it’s as if you never give that lip of yours a break. John, darling, come, meet my friends. I’m sure you can also use a break from my son’s incessant chatter.”
In that instant, John falls head-over-heels in love with her. He smiles warmly and offers her his arm, winking at Sherlock and his thinly veiled contempt.
The garden party is, frankly, insufferable. John does not like being in the spotlight and Sherlock likes it even less (unless the spotlight happens to be composed of awe-filled eyes staring at him in barely-concealed wonderment as he enumerates to them in no uncertain terms why they are all idiots and then elaborates on just how the murder was accomplished without even pausing for breath). John is cooed over and spun around and talked over and admired as if he is a prize horse for sale. Sherlock, quietly seething, stands at his side. John has to step on his foot several times to stop him from outing some secret or other; Celeste sees him do it and sends him quiet, calculating smiles of approval.
After what feels like hours, Sherlock finally reclaims his husband from his mother’s clutches and drags him away to a secluded corner of the garden, stopping only to hijack an entire tray of champagne and pale lilac macarons.
“Your mother is fantastic, Sherlock,” John says, leaning back against the faintly warmed marble of the bench. They are mostly hidden from sight by yet another immaculate hedge. Sherlock huffs but joins John on the bench, sliding down enough so he can lay his head on his shoulder. “I’m quite vexed you didn’t let me meet her earlier. Oh god, what are these?” The delicate flavour of almond bursts across John’s tongue as he bites into a macaron.
“Macaron. Probably flown in from Paris, knowing Mummy. She does so love her spectacles.”
“You’re a prat, Sherlock. This whole thing has been very tasteful. Bit over the top, but tastefully so.”
Sherlock huffs again, nuzzling his way into John’s neck, as if he could climb inside the curve of it, hide there forever, and never come out again.
“They’re all only here to see what kind of mad person could possibly have taken me on,” he says, after a few minutes. John smiles softly and lets his arm fall over Sherlock’s shoulders.
“Well of course,” he says, pressing a kiss onto Sherlock’s forehead. They sit like that a few minutes, letting the sounds of party chatter wash around them. Sherlock sighs again and slides one arm around John’s waist, clutching gently.
“You really hate it here, don’t you?” John muses, taking another bite of macaron. They really are to die for. The decadence puts him slightly on edge but he can tell Celeste (she had given him a choice: either Celeste, or Mummy, but never, on pain of death, Mrs. Holmes) has put an effort into keeping the entire affair rather on the tasteful side of opulent in deference to John’s decidedly more humble background.
Sherlock is quiet for another long moment and John lets his fingers play idly in his hair. “They were .... I hated them all, it was all so tiresome and they were all so horrid and they hated me right back. I don’t like to stand and jump on ceremony, John, as you very well know, and growing up among this lot - it’s... It was insufferable. They used to look at me with this horrible pity in their eyes, like you would look at some mutt in the street.”
John hums his understanding into Sherlock’s curls and tightens his grip on his slim shoulder. Suddenly, Sherlock snorts.
“The look on Warrington’s face when you showed up.”
John snorts, recalling the expression with pleasure. “Like a guppy gasping for air, wasn’t it?”
“It was the best thing I’ve seen all day. All week. I used to dream of showing them up like that, John, and you did it with a single sentence. It was fantastic.”
John smiles a thin smile and kisses Sherlock’s forehead again. “You looked like a deer trapped in the headlights. I couldn’t let them keep torturing you like that. Bastards.”
Sherlock’s voice is barely above a whisper when he says “Thank you,” pressing his face into John’s neck again.
“Any time,” John says. “Guess we should go rejoin them. We are the main event, right?”
“Can’t we just stay here?” Sherlock whines, nuzzling further into John’s neck. “They’re all so hateful and dull, and I haven’t said one thing about anything bad about anyone, and it’s awful, there are so many things.”
“Yes, I had noticed. You’ve been very good. You deserve a reward for it.”
John felt Sherlock’s smirk against his neck.
“Oh really, Captain? What kind of reward do you have in mind?”
“Something that involves you being spread out buck naked on those gorgeous blue sheets of yours, I rather think.” A shiver runs through Sherlock’s body and John grins. “I’ve been dying to get you naked on it since I saw it. That blue silk and your pale skin - the very image of decadence.”
“Hmmmmm,” Sherlock murmurs, kissing gently at John’s neck. There is the faintest hint of tongue against John’s earlobe before it is gone again and Sherlock’s face is in front of John, grinning at him wolfishly. “I used to spend hours on that bedspread,” he says, in a low rumble that hits John straight in between his legs as he presses in close, his sharp, aristocratic nose ghosting the golden brown skin below John’s skin. “Hours, when I was younger, writhing around on the silk, completely naked and desperate to get off.”
“Bastard,” John huffs, grabbing at Sherlock’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss.
They are interrupted after a few minutes by a distinctly Mycroftian cough. Sherlock pulls away reluctantly, pale eyes full of promises for later, and John flushes.
“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but Mummy sent me to make sure you two didn’t cause any more scandal than is your particular due. She also says it’s time for the speeches, before the dessert buffet and the string quartet.”
“Speeches?” John winces, and Sherlock groans.
“That insufferable woman,” he mutters, but stands up anyway, brushing his down his suit quickly and hauling John to his feet. “Did no one ever teach you how to sit in a suit?” he snips, brushing at John’s suit with impatient hands. “Honestly, you look like you’ve been rolling around in a haystack.”
“Oi, you’re the one that jumped me, you bastard.”
“Quite,” Mycroft interrupts. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hurry this affair along. The French Ambassador is ever so trying.”
“Still pretending he’s a Parisian?” Sherlock enquires with a smirk; he takes John’s hand as they walk around the hedgerow, and John has to suppress a grin. He is not an overly physical person, outside the bedroom, but Sherlock generally is (though of course he reins it in in public). It is pleasant to be lead through this tiny slice of paradise by the hand of this fantastic man that he’s somehow acquired as a permanent fixture in his life. Ever so slightly pedestrian, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind, and John won’t complain. Anyways, Sherlock is busy being amused by the way Mycroft is wincing as they weave through the now-abandoned tables towards the back of the garden.
“Yes, it’s unbelievable how he will persist in that particular attempt at deception. It’s clear to all he’s from a dire little hovel outside of Marseilles but the man will keep at that dreadful charade of his.”
“Sounds dreadful,” John mutters, rolling his eyes. At least with Mycroft and Sherlock, he knows where he stands. Mycroft narrows his eyes and purses his lips while Sherlock smirks and squeezes his hand and John feels very happy indeed.
Celeste, on seeing them, breaks away from a group of people that contains the Duke of Fife and his twenty-five year old ‘assistant’. (Sherlock had murmured into John’s ear earlier that the Duke’s wife is currently in Norway with their three children, that she knows of the affair - of course - but allows it to persist because she herself has a female lover, most likely named Ingrid. John wonders how he can even think to posit a name but has long since decided against questioning Sherlock’s deductions when they are little more than gossip.)
“Ah, there you are boys. All decent, I hope? Sherlock, I did say no disappearing acts.”
Sherlock glares, about to retort something cutting, but John tugs on his hand and smiles his most winning smile at Celeste.
“It was my fault, Celeste, sorry, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. Won’t happen again.”
She does not buy his story for one second but she purses her lips in a vaguely appreciative gesture and pets him gently on the back of his free hand. “Of course, dear, I understand. It must be so trying, all these new people and new faces.”
John nods and Sherlock snorts, but thankfully says nothing.
“Now, boys. Sherlock, pay attention please. It’s as if no one ever taught you decent manners and I know for a fact that’s not the truth. Thank you. Mycroft, you too. Here’s what is going to happen, and there will be no arguments because I need this party to go off without a hitch and all three of you owe me. Am I understood?”
John feels about five years old, but he nods his agreement as Sherlock and Mycroft do the same.
“Mycroft, in a moment, you will move to the bottom of the stairs where the soundsystem is and call for attention. You will deliver your best man’s speech, and then hand over to John. John, dear, I don’t expect much from you, you’ve not had the training my boys had, but try and put your heart in it, will you? The more tears we get, the better. Charlotte Shappley is already crowing about how many people were in floods at her daughter’s reception and though the idea is abhorrent, I do so hate to see that woman preen. Then, darling,” she turns to Sherlock and fixes him with a stare that is uncannily similar to his own. “It’s your turn. You have always wanted a chance to show these people up, but I beg of you, please do it graciously. If you offend even one single person here, I will personally flay the skin from your body. Am I understood?”
Sherlock’s glare is icy, his stance that of an indignant child. John thinks it is wonderful. It is all he can do to stop himself laughing. Celeste leans towards her youngest son, narrowing her eyes and brandishing one long lace-clad finger in his direction. “Am I understood?”
“Yes Mummy,” Sherlock mutters. Celeste looks pleased, clapping her hands and wandering away to gather people in the direction of the makeshift dancefloor that has suddenly appeared at the top of the garden below the stairs to the main house.
There is a chill in the evening air as it draws in (April in Britain, of course; they’re lucky to have managed a whole day without rain) and the shadows are lengthening as Mycroft steps forward, claims a microphone from one of the stands and smiles down at the crowd who are now looking on in shameless curiosity.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, dearest family and friends, if I could have a brief moment of attention. On behalf of my mother and my dear younger brother, I’d like to thank you all for attending this humble celebration at such short notice. This is, of course, an impromptu wedding reception, and as such I believe it is traditional for the best man to give a speech. However, as in this case the best man was in fact a young homeless man named Spike -” Mycroft pauses for comedic effect while Sherlock shoots daggers at him with his eyes, “- I will be filling in for the time being.”
He pauses to look over to where Sherlock and John stand, slouched against each other and hiding in the shadows thrown by one of the hedges, and his eyes appear to soften. It is the most perplexing thing John has ever seen happen on Mycroft’s face, usually a study in immovable British posterity.
“Many of you know Sherlock, but few people know Sherlock well. I used to count myself among the lucky few to really know my brother, but ever since the intractable Doctor John Watson very literally appeared from nowhere and inserted himself in our lives, I have regularly had the very perplexing feeling that perhaps I did not know my younger brother as well as I thought I did. John Watson is one of the very best men I have ever had the pleasure to know, and I am ... I am vastly proud to be able to call him my brother-in-law.”
There is a smattering of applause (proof, once more, that the guests are much less interested in the actual marriage than in gossip. John is beginning to understand more and more why Sherlock hates it here). Despite himself, John flushes and grips Sherlock’s hand tight. He does not like this, he does not ever like to be the centre of attention and having some of the best and brightest and very definitely richest people in Britain fixed on him and him alone, knowing that they must be speculating about him, wondering who he is and where he came from and what he’s doing with Sherlock (wondering that Sherlock could be desirable to anyone at all) upsets something right at the very core of him. Sherlock’s eyes are calm, but John can see the rage behind them; he hates being made to perform like a circus animal.
John takes a moment to hate Celeste with every fibre of his being. This situation, being expected to stand up and make a speech declaring their everlasting love for each other in front of a group of people John doesn’t know and Sherlock actively dislikes (and a great many of whom have caused him a great deal of pain in the past), is both their ideas of hell.
So when Mycroft offers John the microphone, he does not step towards it alone. He makes a decision, without even pausing to check that Sherlock would go along with his plan, and drags Sherlock along with him towards Mycroft. Celeste is raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him but he ignores it, sets his shoulders, and smiles as best he can.
“Hullo,” he says, clearing his throat a bit. Sherlock’s hand flexes in his. He squeezes it back and continues. “Thank you all for coming out. We never intended to... To celebrate and it’s lovely to have been surprised with such a beautiful party. Celeste, thank you.” He nods at her and she smiles, warily, watching him like Sherlock might watch a suspect on a stakeout. “I... I think Celeste meant for us to read out vows, or something equally soppy and romantic, but to be honest, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less.”
Sherlock’s head whips around to stare at him, eyes wide with the particular mixture of shock and hunger and pleasure he gets when John does something that surprises him, and John winks at him openly and squeezes his hand.
“I will, however, say one thing: I am an incredibly lucky man, and Sherlock is an even luckier one.” The audience laugh, but it is an uncertain laugh, thin and tentative (he is an outsider, they do not know how to deal with that; they are evaluating him with every second that passes). Undaunted, John grins. “I hope very much that our good luck lasts for the rest of our lives. Thank you very much for coming out this afternoon, it’s been lovely. I hope to meet you all again very soon.”
He drops Sherlock’s hand and turns to move off stage, to flee the limelight, but Sherlock is suddenly frozen in place, staring at him as if he is the greatest puzzle the world has ever presented him. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock shakes his head and smiles, a soft, winning smile that John only sees once in a blue moon, the smile that means, John Watson, you are a wonder.
Then, suddenly, he is talking. John grimaces in anticipation of the imminent destruction and Mycroft groans and Celeste is silently livid, but Sherlock ploughs on regardless.
“I think it’s high time we drop the pretence. Ninety percent of you are here out of abject curiosity about the kind of person that would willingly associate with me. I find your interest dull and predictable and, if we’re being frank - and I believe we really ought to, at this point - hateful, but I cannot say I do not understand it. I am not and I have never been an ... an easy person. Several of you have personally predicted to my face that I would live my life alone and I must admit, I agreed with you. I never expected to ... to encounter someone quite like John Watson, and even if I had I could never have made him up. He is a solider and a doctor and an unshakeably good, kind man, all things I am not nor could ever aspire to be. I do not deserve him, and yet he continues to grace me with his presence in my life and I find that I am ... I am, despite everything I ever thought I knew about myself, I am desperately in love with him.”
Something in the region of John’s chest clenches desperately and he has to grab hold of Mycroft’s arm to steady himself.
He did not need Sherlock to say it to know he felt it, but something about hearing it from his mouth, in that deep baritone with the plummy vowels and the clipped consonants, made him feel like he was soaring.
The grounds are silent. John knows this kind of silence. It is the eerie, horrible silence before a storm. Sherlock, biting his lip in uncharacteristic uncertainty, looks away from his mother, who he’s been staring at for the latter half of his impromptu speech, to stare John straight in the eye for a brief second.
It feels like a small slice of eternity before Sherlock turns back to the crowd, most of whom are staring at him in some sort of dumb shock.
“I hope this little outing has satisfied your curiosity, but I cannot share my husband’s benevolence in hoping to meet any of you again soon. Knowing him, he genuinely means it as well. I believe my mother has now arranged for deserts and dancing, if you are so inclined. I refuse to stoop to the petty traditions my mother seems to deem so necessary so please, if you want to dance, do not feel you have to wait for John and I to set the way because quite frankly, he is an appalling dancer and I simply cannot be bothered trying to teach him to waltz. Good night.”
Sherlock storms off the stage, his face as red as John has ever seen it, and grabs John by the wrist. “Come on, John,” he mutters. John, feeling slightly dazed, just nods. He catches a brief glimpse of some horrible white monstrosity that seems to be some kind of wedding cake in amongst a table practically sagging with delightful looking desserts before being swept into the house by Sherlock’s death grip on his wrist.
Suddenly, they are in Sherlock’s rooms, double doors banging shut behind them, and the haze that had crowded John’s vision when he heard Sherlock say those lovely things to all those horrible people is gone. Sherlock’s hands are suddenly everywhere, stripping the hideously expensive jacket off John’s shoulders and tossing it away to one side, where it lands on what John briefly thinks might actually be a polar bear’s head.
“Sherlock,” John gasps, as Sherlock’s lips find his pulse point and his hands start to fumble with his buttons. Sherlock ignores him and carries on trying to kiss every inch of his neck and strip him of his shirt simultaneously, breathing quickly and unevenly. John scrunches his eyes against the desire to give in to Sherlock’s lips and nearly loses but finally finds the strength to grasp him by the shoulders and shove him gently, but hard enough to get him to back up a few paces and catch his breath.
“Sherlock, what was that?”
Sherlock’s eyes have gone dark and dangerous, and he advances towards John like some sort of predator.
“I gave them what they wanted, the vultures.” His voice is low and rumbling, and John wants nothing but to give in to him, but he knows that if they don’t talk about this now they never will, and he wants to understand.
“What does that mean?”
“It means... Dammit, John, don’t you see?” Sherlock tears himself away from John, backing up abruptly, nearly upsetting a lamp. His hands tear at his hair and John, though he wants to wrap him in his arms, is frozen in apprehension. “All they want, all they have ever wanted, is to assure themselves that I am human, that I have weaknesses that they could exploit if they wanted to. For years ... For more than thirty years that pack of vultures have carried around the assumption that I am some kind of... Some kind of circus animal, to be pitied and hated and paraded around at parties. It was easier for me to let them assume I was untouchable and they believed it. Didn’t you see their faces? They all thought you were likely to be some ... some tainted woman so desperate for a husband she would stoop even to marry the psychopath, or ... or some sort of golddigger, marrying me for the money. I couldn’t ... I can’t ... They can say what they like about me, I don’t care, but you - how dare they say those things about you? About us? About... About the one good thing I have ever done in my life? It makes me sick and I hate it, I hate this whole spectacle, this is exactly why I didn’t tell her we were getting married. How dare she take my life and turn it into some kind of social event?! I could... I could throttle her.”
It often startles John, in moments like these, just how much Sherlock resembles a wild animal. He is pacing the room, eyes fierce and full of fire, looking for all the world like a trapped, angry animal, raging against his restraints. In moments like this, John wonders what it must be like in Sherlock’s head, to be presented at every waking moment with a barrage of information and have to navigate your way through it. The inside of Sherlock’s head is a battle zone, more so even than the rest of his life, and it is the one war John cannot fight for him.
Sherlock’s hands are in his hair, and he is looking at John as if he is begging him to understand, and John does, of course, John almost always understands when it comes to Sherlock.
“Okay, it’s okay.” He moves slowly away from the door Sherlock had slammed him against, approaching his husband as you might approach a trapped deer. “I just wanted to know why you said anything at all. It’s alright, Sherlock.” Sherlock sags in relief; his hands fall from his hair and his shoulders slouch; he all but falls into John’s arms when John reaches him.
Burying his face into John’s neck, Sherlock takes a deep breath - John can feel him trying to force the tension away. “I hate them,” he whispers. “They’re insipid and petty and hypocritical and loathsome and I hate them.”
“I know, love.”
They stand there in the middle of Sherlock’s childhood room for several minutes, holding each other tight. Sherlock is the one to break the silence, pressing a kiss to John’s earlobe and whispering, “I meant it, you know. I meant every word I said up there.”
“I know, Sherlock.”
“I needed to... I needed to be sure you knew.”
“I know. I’ve always known.”
“How,” Sherlock asks, low and breathless, talking into the crease between John’s neck and his shoulder. “How did you know, I never said, never. It’s always been true, ever since day one, remember, you shot the cabbie for me and I thought.... I thought, I have to have him, but I’ve never said - I’m... I can’t... I didn’t know how...”
“Shut up, shut up, Sherlock, christ,” John murmurs, prying Sherlock’s fingers from where they are tangled in the tails of his shirt and backing up a little to look him in the eyes. “What’s got into you, eh?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, merely lets his eyes drop to the floor. John wonders what it was like for him here, as a young boy, trapped in such a beautiful house that was obviously no more than a prison for his fantastic mind, with people who misunderstood him and treated him like dirt under their shoes.
“Do you want to leave?” John asks, suddenly, grabbing Sherlock’s chin and forcing him to look him in the eyes. “Do you want to go home? I’ll take you home if you like. We can... We can call Lestrade or something, get him to send a car. We don’t have to stay.”
Once more John is treated to the way Sherlock looks at him when he is pleasantly surprised; to see that look twice in one night is a personal record that John will hold dear.
But then Sherlock is shaking his head and smiling ruefully. “Thank you, but it’s not worth risking Mummy’s wrath.”
“No, I suppose not.” John sighs, smoothing his hands down Sherlock’s arms. “It was lovely, what you said. Mycroft had to hold me up. I came over all Victorian.”
Sherlock smiles at him shyly, slowly regaining his self possession. John retrieves his jacket from the polar bear’s head and takes Sherlock by the hand, leading him out the door and towards the party again.
“For the record though, you’ve got it backwards. I’m the one that doesn’t deserve you.” John leans forward and kisses Sherlock soundly on the lips. “But that’s an argument for another day. Come on, I want some of that monstrous cake before Mycroft scoffs it all. And then later I’ll bring you back in here and spread you out across that bedspread and fuck you until you can’t remember your name, how’s that sound?”
Sherlock grins widely. “Perfect. Just what the doctor ordered.”
“Mmm. Exactly. Come on, let’s go rub their faces in our smug happiness, the bastards.”
“Have I told you I love you?” Sherlock asks, gleefully, following John down the corridor.
“I seem to remember something like that cropping up in conversation, maybe once. I don’t think anyone heard it though.”
“Well I do. For the record. Love you. Wow, that feels fantastic to say, why did you never tell me?”
“I never thought you’d want to, to be honest. I love you too, you daft bastard. Come now. Cake, and then you’re going to teach me to waltz, and then hopefully most of the pricks will be gone and I can finally fuck you like I’ve been aching to since we got out of that damn car.”
“You just really like that duvet.”
“I really, really do.”
“I’ll buy you one.”
“I’ll let you.”
They grin at each other, kissing quickly one last time before exiting the house once more and pasting their best politely apologetic faces on as Celeste drags them bodily towards the dance floor.
Later, much later, John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him towards the gloriously decadent four poster bed. They stand facing each other and silently unbutton their shirts before moving together. John’s brand new suit is left in a crumpled heap on top of what appears to be a bear pelt by the small fire place, complete with a small crackling fire that Sherlock had stirred to life when they came in against the natural chill of the old room. Sherlock’s silver grey shirt joins John’s and then John finally pushes his husband down onto the periwinkle blue of the bedspread and sits back on his haunches to stare down at him, drinking him in. The blue silk makes Sherlock’s unnaturally eyes appear like ice, and his flawless pale skin stretches like acres of snow against a light blue sky. Sherlock’s curls, always unruly, are slightly mussed and splay wantonly around his head, like some kind of inverse halo.
“God, if you could see yourself,” John mutters, swallowing hard. He lets one of his fingers trail mindlessly down Sherlock’s chest, moving heavily under John’s soldier’s scrutiny.
“I love you,” Sherlock says, earnestly, looking him straight in the eyes - it’s as if saying it once earlier has opened the flood gates, and he is now powerless to stop himself. Sherlock hates repetition but John does not mind it, could listen to those three words (or really, anything Sherlock had to say, anything at all) all day.
“I know,” he says. “I’ve always known. I’ve known since I first laid eyes on you, you daft bastard.”
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock huffs and shakes his head. “Impossible. Love at first sight. Total myth. Don’t be so tedious, John, I had thought you above all that.”
“When we first met, you deduced me with scathing accuracy,” John punctuates his words with kisses; Sherlock arches into them, gasping. “You lied to me and left me behind and I still tracked you down and killed a man to save your life, within twelve hours of meeting you. Tell me that’s not love at first sight.”
“Impossible. Stuff and nonsense.”
“I love you,” John says, and Sherlock stops protesting and melts into the periwinkle blue silk beneath him.
“I know,” he says, and the words are delicious around his tongue. When John kisses him, he can taste them there. They taste of champagne, wedding cake, and violet macarons.
It is the happiest John can ever remember being, when he looks back at it six months later. He thinks, it is the happiest he is ever likely to be.
I wish, I wish, I wish.