Chapter Text
It’s his wedding day. His wedding day. He stands outside the chapel, tightly wound and full of nervous energy. His best man, Bill, hands him a boutonniere and as he pins it to his lapel he wonders briefly at the unconventional choice of a sprig of lilacs; their heady scent taking him back to springtime as a child, having jousting matches and pirate adventures with the sweet – and bossy – girl next door.
Mary. They had remained friends through university, through his years at medical school and hers at university as a postgraduate, writing long emails to each other during his deployment. It wasn’t until he was sent back with a busted shoulder and a limp that their friendship blossomed into something else. The moment he was allowed visitors, she burst into his hospital ward and flung her arms around him, her lips pressed against his in desperation, fear, and relief. He remembers thinking at that moment how nice it would be to spend the rest of his life with his best friend.
So here he is. Ten minutes and one long aisle away from the rest of his life. He fingers the ring in his pocket and finds he’s not nervous at all.
++
In the back of her parents’ car, Mary drums her fingers impatiently against her bottom lip. Outside the window, the oak-shaded homes of Marylebone Street pass. She thinks wryly of the bridal magazines she’d read and their advice for butterflies in the stomach and cold feet; she has neither. All she feels is excitement: to see John in his tux – he’d rejected wearing mess dress and she’d agreed, knowing his unease about his army past – to say her vows, to drink champagne and dance with her husband and retire, dizzy, drunk and in love, to a too-smart hotel room and collapse into bed and order midnight room service.
Sometimes she feels like her life has been one long adventure with the same ever-present co-conspirator. The first time they met Mary had shoved John into the grass and gotten a time-out for her troubles. They had just moved and she was angry, so angry, that this stupid boy, with his skinned knees and his rugby shirt, wasn’t her best friend and next-door neighbour Judith. It had taken a few weeks, but when she walked into her yard one day and saw him perched in the big oak tree between their houses, she thought he might not be too bad. She had climbed the tree and he had never once told her she couldn’t because she was just a girl, like other boys at school, but had called out the best hand-holds as she climbed and grinned when she reached him.
He was her best, her most important constant. With the tearful call from his mother – attack – shot – hospital – unconscious – the drop of her stomach and the grip on her heart made her realize that one word. Love. They fell like they did everything else – breathless and excited and together. And now, a wedding. An excuse for a party and a big white dress, really. She already knows she wants to spend the rest of her life with him.
Next to Mary, her bridesmaids sit, Molly touching up her lipstick and Sally adjusting the strap of her dress. In the front seat John’s 8-year-old sister, Harry, fidgets, alternately twisting around to look at them and kicking her trainer-clad feet against the bottom of her seat. A floral comb is already falling out of her dark blonde hair and her taffeta dress is wrinkled. As usual, she’s keeping up a steady running commentary, describing the buildings they pass and people in the other cars. Mary’s mum, Elizabeth, keeps her eyes on the road, patiently mmmhmm-ing Harry’s comments.
The car pulls up to St. Marylebone Church; hefting the heavy skirt of her dress, Mary climbs out after Sally and Molly. John’s mother, Joan, meets them, one hand holding Harry’s shiny patent shoes, which had been left behind that morning. She manages to get Harry to almost stand still for a minute; the girl hops on one foot while Joan patiently struggles with the tiny buckle. Mary has a flash of her own future; it’s a bit scary, but she thinks of John’s gentle hands and smiles.
Mary glances up through the verdant trees, not quite able to see the tip of the cupola. Standing on the steps, they’re dwarfed by the imposing granite columns and the grand mahogany doors. Neither she nor John are church-goers but St. Marylebone is near the home they’ve made in St. John’s Wood and she appreciates its literary history. How do I love thee? she thinks, imagining Elizabeth Barrett, forty years old and already sick with the mysterious illness that will kill her, stealing away to meet Robert Browning here for their clandestine wedding. She does hope she and John will have a few more years than the Brownings, though.
Molly’s fussing with Mary’s veil and Sally, ever the pragmatist, is asking if she needs to pee before they head in. Mary answers no with a laugh. On the pavement, Harry spins, watching her skirt swirl out. As she twirls nearer the edge of the steps, she almost bowls into a figure rounding the corner. Somehow, he sidesteps, despite the enormous box of flowers obstructing his view. He sets the box down on nearby ledge and Mary hears Molly squeak with surprise as from behind the blooms the florist emerged, tall and slim with a tangle of dark, curly hair and a neatly tailored suit.
“Molly.” He inclines his head toward her slightly as he moves to greet Mary. He shakes her hand and gives her a perfunctory and bland compliment regarding her appearance – more because it’s expected in his profession than because it is a real opinion, she suspects.
“You know Molly?”
“Ah, yes,” he glances over to where Molly is murmuring something to Sally, who is eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. “Dr Hooper and I have encountered one another before.” He doesn’t seem keen to offer further details so she doesn’t ask.
Returning to the flowers, he hands out corsages to Joan and Elizabeth and bouquets to Molly and Sally, wiping the stems first to avoid drips. Molly giggles a bit when his hand touches hers and Mary smiles as she watches him quietly readjust her grip so the bouquet is situated properly. It’s not that she’s a matchmaker, but she would like to see Molly settle down, and the florist is quite attractive in a Byronic, brooding sort of way.
Harry’s buzzing around the steps now, feeding off the heightened excitement as everyone completes their last preparations. Joan is fussing with her collar and sighs wearily at Harry’s constant stream of questions.
“Why do flowers need water? Why do people need water? Why isn’t there water in space? What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?” This last question is directed at Mary, who always has time for Harry’s questions.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that one, H.”
Sherlock surprises them all by glancing at her as he imperceptibly readjusts a stem in Mary’s bouquet and stating, “It’s a trick question. If an unstoppable force exists, than an immovable object cannot and vice versa. They’ll never meet because it is a physical impossibility for them to exist in the same universe.”
Harry stares at him with some wonderment before grabbing his hand and declaring, “I want to sit next to you at the wedding.” They all laugh; Sherlock considers – so far, the eight-year-old is the most interesting person in attendance – then nods briefly before extricating his hand to continue his duties. He removes the last and grandest bouquet and cleans it meticulously before bringing it to Mary.
“It’s lovely,” she says, and means it. Like John’s boutonniere, it has sprigs of lilac, mixed with large white daisies and deep purple chrysanths. Sherlock smiles distractedly at her, with a mild expression of satisfaction on his face. Although he finds weddings themselves generally quite painful – far too much earnest emotion and forced familiarity – they do provide ripe experimental grounds. He’s good at his job and takes pride in choosing the flowers to best suit a client, but in some cases the temptation is far too great to administer a bit of comeuppance to particularly onerous couples. He’s particularly fond of introducing a subtle allergen into a bouquet or boutonniere. Mary, however, had been a pleasantly hands-off sort of bride, giving him general requests then allowing him a great amount of leeway in creating the final product. His creations were not just aesthetically pleasing but also held layers of historic symbolic meaning; he had restrained himself from including any small white marigolds for suffering, hydrangeas for heartlessness, or begonias as a warning against flightiness.
Satisfied that all is at the ready, he follows Harry into the chapel and installs her into one of the front family pews. She’s still chatting away rapidly, now asking him questions about himself. “What’s the name Sherlock mean? I’ve never heard it before, it’s a bit of a weird name.”
“It’s from my parents, obviously. My family is a bit…unusual,” he concedes, with a slightly rueful grimace.
“My name’s short for Harriet. But my brother and Mary call me H sometime, which John says is short for Jesus H. Christ, which is what my mum said when she found out she was pregnant.” Sherlock snorts; it’s clear, given the age difference between the groom and Harry, that little Harriet would have come as somewhat of a surprise. Her mother takes that moment to slip into her seat and Sherlock takes his leave, slipping off to the side as the groom and best man enter.
He pauses when the men stop at the altar, his eyes drawn to the small but firmly built man about to get married. He’d walked in with a cane – silver-tipped mahogany and clearly new for the occasion – but he handles it carelessly as if he’s embarrassed to need it at all. When he stands, he doesn’t lean on it as if he’s forgotten its presence. His bearing is authoritative – military – and his free hand tremors slightly. Sherlock is so busy watching him that he doesn’t notice at once when the groom’s eyes fall onto him. He looks up to the groom’s face and their eyes meet; Sherlock feels the intensity and heat behind the man’s quiet demeanour and thinks, oh. This is inconvenient.
++
The walk up the side aisle is blindingly quick; he leans as little as possible on his cane. A present from Mary’s parents: it’s beautiful, much finer than his hospital-issued aluminium one, but he finds he hates it. Hates having to use it, especially today. Even though Mary loves him, useless leg, bad temper, and gnarled shoulder and all, he knows she deserves perfection. He pushes his doubts out of his mind, straightening up to stand at attention at the altar.
He hears the first strains of the bridal march begin and turns, his eyes sweeping the assembled crowd of family and friends. A movement at the side of the chapel catches his eye, and standing there, staring back at him, is a man he’s never seen before. Their eyes meet and John feels his mouth go dry and his breath catch. He feels, under the intense stare of the stranger, stripped naked and pieced apart and yet more whole than he’s felt in a long time. For one brief moment, his controlled, projected air of normalcy shatters and his secrets, his nightmares and thrills, the niggling little reminders of a life lived on the margins of risk, are revealed. The thought flashes through his mind that he’s just found someone that sees – and understands – his very core and it’s far less terrifying than it should be.
The moment’s broken by the collective gasp of the crowd and John turns his attention to his bride, who has just appeared, radiant and smiling, at the head of the aisle. She walks towards him and he feels himself relax, comforted by the easy knowledge of their shared love.
++
The reception is bustling; Mary’s making the rounds, chatting amicably with aunts, cousins, and co-workers, her soft smile charming everyone she speaks with. Harry sneaked three pieces of cake and is whirling around the dance floor madly, high on sugar and relishing the attention given to her crazed, made-up dance moves. John’s slipped away to get something to drink as the excitement has left him parched, but found himself in a predicament. He’s fishing through the punch bowl with a ladle when a deep voice behind him says, “excuse me.”
He turns and it’s him – the stranger from the ceremony. Up close, his eyes are even more startling, pale, long-lashed, and searching. He finds himself blushing – actually blushing – under their scrutiny. “We haven’t been introduced yet. Sherlock Holmes. I did your flowers.”
“Oh! The flowers are lovely. The lilac – did you pick that? It always reminds me of my childhood; we had a huge lilac bush in the back garden that bloomed spectacularly every spring.” He’s babbling, a failed effort to regain composure.
Sherlock’s eyes are intent on him now. He quirks an odd little smile, like he’s laughing at his own joke, before responding, “I suggested them. Lilacs are symbolic of the first emotions of love and of memory. Always a nice reminder at a wedding, I find.”
“Reminding the couple what they first felt before they fall into the tedium of married life, you mean?” John’s teasing makes Sherlock’s smile a bit wider and John suddenly feels in on the joke.
“I was just…” Sherlock gestures to the punch bowl half-hidden behind John’s body.
John shifts to block him and stutters, “no! I mean, it’s not any...you don’t want...” he trails off as Sherlock’s eyebrow raises in a silent question. “Oh, all right. I was scooping out some punch when, well, my ring fell off.”
“Your wedding ring?” John nods. “It’s in...” Sherlock gestures at the punch bowl and John, blushing furiously with embarrassment, nods again. “Well, then, given that you’ve been unable to retrieve it using any implements, the situation will clearly have to be handled manually.”
“What?!” John watches as Sherlock unbuttons his cuff and rolls up the sleeve of his aubergine shirt. His slim, pale forearm is dotted with freckles and the muscles shifting underneath his skin betray a hidden strength. He plunges his hand into the bowl, fishing around the bottom as John anxiously keeps his eyes on the guests. With a triumphant noise, Sherlock plucks the small gold circle out and shows it to John. John takes it with relief and slips it back onto his finger still wet; he finds himself laughing, almost giggling, and is surprised to hear Sherlock join in.
Just as they’ve finished the exchange, trying to stifle their giggles, Molly shows up, with a shy word of congratulations for John and a blushing invitation to dance for Sherlock. Sherlock looks startled and awkwardly clears his throat before offering a stilted acceptance for one dance. That’s enough for Molly, who gleefully takes his hand and leads him out onto the floor just as a slow song starts up. Harry sulks off the dance floor, upset that boring slow songs are playing now, and Sally’s dancing with her husband Mike. Across the tent, John’s eyes catch Mary’s and they smile and walk toward each other. As he slips his arms around her waist and leans into her comfortable embrace, he feels at home.
++
Bill’s regaled the crowd with a mortifying story about John in his pants and four cases of off-brand lime-flavoured gelatine stolen from the mess hall at their base in Afghanistan and Molly’s tearfully stated how pleased she is that her best friend has found a soul mate, which means it’s his turn. John’s given talks at medical conferences before, he can speak in front of groups, but he’s still unaccountably nervous to stand up and talk. His hand shakes a bit and he flexes his fingers under the table. When he stands, Mary squeezes his hand and doesn’t let go. He smiles at her with gratitude and feels the tremors begin to subside as he faces the crowd.
“Hi. I’m John. You may know me.” Titters of laughter sweep through the tent. He smiles and begins to relax. “Mary and I want to thank you all for being here with us on our day. Most of you would probably say it’s been a long, long time coming. Even though it may have taken me a while to realize it, I’m so happy to have found a partner in this wonderful woman sitting next to me.” At the back of the tent he sees a movement; it’s Sherlock, slipping out while everyone’s attention is on the head table. John feels a tightening in his chest and momentarily loses his train of thought.
When he shakes off his daze the crowd is still looking at him expectantly. He looks down at Mary, who is beaming up at him proudly, and regains his thread. “I’m lucky to be spending the rest of my life with my best friend. Mary,” he turns to look at her, “I love you.” She stands and they kiss to the cheers of their friends and family.
++
Sherlock slips out when John stands to give his toast. He’s radiantly happy, up there with his pretty bride on his arm, and Sherlock hates hearing wedding speeches from radiantly happy people. They’re always unaccountably dull. If he’s being truthful to himself, he knows he especially doesn’t want to hear John, happy and in love, and that means it’s time to take off and keep his distance.
He lets himself into his flat and checks up on an aquarium in his kitchen in which a hoard of dermestid beetles is feeding on a large piece of decomposing pig flesh. He records some notes but, too distracted to make a proper study that night, retires to his bedroom.
Flopping down on the bed with a sigh, he thinks, at least London’s a big city.