The Dishonorable Bachelor

by mirlinblue

Summary:

Taking place during “His Last Vow,” with a case based on “The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor.”
After finding out that Mary had a previous life as an assassin, John isn’t sure how to handle it. He can’t talk to her, can barely look at her, and so he moves back into 221B Baker Street until he feels ready to see her again.

Mary doesn’t want to be alone while she’s pregnant, and her husband is no longer any help. So she enlists in the help of the consulting detective to keep her company.

Sherlock is caught in the middle of it. He knows John and Mary still love each other, so what’s the point in tiptoeing past each other and only talking through him? But there are things even Sherlock can’t see coming, and it may save the relationship or make things worse.

Notes:

Fellas, is it healthy to cope with a really bad and long overdue breakup by *checks notes* writing BBC Sherlock fix-it fic in 2025?

Sure why not lol

Sherlock holds a special place in my heart. I loved it as a teen, now I have a weird love-hate relationship with the show. I just think some things could’ve gone differently. The original title for this story was “Couvade Syndrome” and I’d tried to write it somewhere around 2014 possibly later. Another alternative title was going to be “The Middle,” but I decided that, in BBC Sherlock fashion, I was going to work with a fitting case from the Holmes canon.

Chapter 1

Here Sherlock was, being wheeled by gurney back into an ambulance, back to the hospital before his heart gave out…again. It was frustrating. Just when things were starting to come together, his body fails him.

Typical.

At least he knew his body would fail him at a certain time. At least he said what he needed to say before that time ran out.
As they shut the ambulance door, all Sherlock could think about was the couple he left in the flat. Could he even call them a couple anymore? He wasn’t sure. He could cut the tension in that room with a butter knife. The two stood so far from each other.

John, the army doctor. He was accustomed to danger. He had tried being domestic, and he succeeded once Sherlock was gone. After returning (and after beating his face in), John was tired of being lied to. He was owed the truth at the very least… even if it hurt, even if it meant everything would have to fall apart.

Mary, John’s wife and former assassin. Perhaps she still was, considering the bullet wound in Sherlock’s chest. She had begged him not to say anything. He couldn’t stand by and say nothing, not to John, not when it concerned his wife. She was different. She was good for John. She was having his baby. Sherlock enjoyed her company. Then she shot him. She saved his life, but the bullet had left her gun, so none of that seemed to matter.
John and Mary made sense. They made a good couple. If only he didn’t go into cardiac arrest, then maybe he could have…
A cold spike went through the veins of his right arm. Morphine, no doubt, or some other painkiller. He didn’t fight it this time; he didn’t want to fight the pain anymore. He could feel his heartbeat coarse through his entire body.

Sherlock did not want to think about his heart right now.

~~~

Sherlock woke up back in the same hospital room he’s previously escaped from. Turning his head to the window, he noticed they had sealed it shut. No getting out this time. He was only a little disappointed, mostly because he wasn’t going to beat his personal record (it was three).

He became very aware of all the noises in the room - the heart monitor beeping, the hum of the fluorescent lights, the drip of morphine, his own breathing, and…somebody else’s. Sherlock turned his head the other way, and -

John.

John was next to him on a chair, his upper body slumped forward as he lay on his arms. He had fallen asleep at Sherlock’s bedside.
Sherlock was puzzled. He tried to look his friend over, tried to deduce what had happened at the flat after he left. It was difficult to come to conclusions when the person was asleep. It was even more difficult when his brain was muddled by morphine. Unfortunately, he had to reach past John to adjust the drip. The movement was enough to wake him, having never been much of a heavy sleeper.

“Oh, you’re awake - what are you doing?” John was quick to assume, watching Sherlock reach for the buttons to adjust his morphine dosage. “Sherlock, no.” He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist before he could do anything else. “You have enough morphine. You don’t need to up your dose-”

“Less,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry?” He caught John off guard.

“Less. I need less. I can’t think. I need to focus.”

“You,” John said as he placed Sherlock’s arm back down on the bed, “need to rest. Just focus on that, yeah? You don’t need to worry about -”

“Where’s Mary?”

John hesitated. He pressed his lips into a thin line, continued to look downward, and then let out a sigh.

“Probably at home?” was John’s answer. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

Not good.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. Should he apologize? Was this a moment to apologize for? He couldn’t focus enough to read John; he was usually so easy to read. The little details were foggy; only the obvious appeared - exhaustion, confusion, frustration. Hell, John wouldn’t even make eye contact with him.

Sherlock took that opportunity to try once again to lower his morphine, but John still noticed and moved his hand away.

“Seriously?” John said. “Jesus, Sher, you’re insufferable.”

“Is wanting less morphine a crime?” Sherlock asked.

“It is when it sounds like a lie.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Well maybe I don’t trust someone with a history of drug abuse to handle his own drugs at the moment.” Before Sherlock could retort, John added, “A recent history of drug abuse, might I add.”

Sherlock huffed. “Then can you do it? Just a few notches down?”

“I don’t think being in more pain is going to help you, either.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Sherlock, stop! Just…I don’t want to argue this. It’s been a long night. I…I need a break. You need a break. Just take a break, mate. Please.”

Oh. Definitely not good.

Sherlock swallowed. Now might be a good time to apologize.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

John sighed. It was long and exasperated. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with his hands.

“It…it’s fine, Sherlock,” said John.

“Clearly not.”

“Yeah, clearly not, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m just…”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Sherlock could clearly see it, even with the morphine.

“Why don’t you go home?” Sherlock asked.

“You serious?” John looked at Sherlock. Thankfully he wasn’t tired enough to jump to too many conclusions. He recognized that this was Sherlock making an effort to be considerate. He sighed again. “I…I think I ought to stay with you right now, keep an eye on you in case you try to escape again.”

A lie, or perhaps a joke. Maybe both.

“They sealed the windows,” said Sherlock. “Besides, it’s too much of a risk now. I have to be alive…unfortunately.”

“How unfortunate,” John said while rolling his eyes. “You poor thing.”

John pulled up the blanket to Sherlock’s chest. There was a moment of hesitation, possibly trying to be careful of the wound. He felt almost too aware of it. It made his blood boil.

Sherlock could see John’s free hand clench tightly into a fist. He noticed John’s gaze lingered on his chest. Hell, he could nearly hear John’s teeth grinding in his mouth.

This wasn’t his typical frustration. This was an anger Sherlock had rarely seen.

This was rage.

When Sherlock came back to London and surprised John that night at the restaurant, there was a similar rage. John physically beat him a few times over the course of the night. Of course, Sherlock deserved it for making his friend grieve him for two years.

In this moment, however, the rage was quieter. He had already let out most of his frustration at the flat.

 

Why is everything always my fault?

 

Sherlock could tell that John was trying to keep whatever composure he had left. He was stiff, like he was back in the army. As he helped Sherlock adjust in the hospital bed, his breathing became less rigid.

Sherlock tried to reach for his morphine drip a third time. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand one last time, being careful with the IV.

“Enough,” said John. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Sorry,” said Sherlock. “I thought third time would be the charm.”

He managed to get a small smile out of John. It was brief, but it was there nonetheless.

“Well,” said John, “now I’m definitely going to have to keep an eye on you…are you comfortable, at least?”

“As comfortable as one can be while in the hospital after cardiac arrest, yes.”

There was about a minute of silence and nervous fidgeting from John before he finally spoke up again.

“Do you mind if I stay at Baker Street for a while? Just until I’ve…figured things out?”

“I figured you might ask,” Sherlock replied as he shut his eyes. “Your chair will be waiting for you.”

Chapter 2

Notes:

Sorry for the delay of this chapter, I was out of the country…and also being a perfectionist and making sure everything read well. Anyway, I’m tired and kind of sick. Hopefully I can get the next few chapters out soon!

It took a few days before Sherlock was allowed to go home. He was surprised the hospital staff wasn’t completely fed up with him asking when he could go home. Perhaps they were used to people giving them a hard time. That would explain why one of the nurses talked to him about “hospital anxiety.” It wasn’t anxiety, Sherlock thought. It was boredom.

Once he was back home, he could feel his muscles relax and his mind clear up. He no longer had to see or hear the fluorescent lights or smell the cleaning chemicals. It occurred to him that he had been overstimulated the whole time. That made more sense than “hospital anxiety.”

John came down from his room in the morning to find Sherlock lying on the couch in his robe and pajamas.

“Sit up for a sec, yeah?” John asked. Sherlock complied, confused before John placed a pillow under him. “There you go. It’s more comfortable this way.”

Sherlock lay back down. “I’m fine,” he said.

“You’re not, but okay.” John walked over to the kitchen to make some tea. He noticed the bin was pretty full. He looked down to see what was in it. “Sherlock, your flowers!”

“What about them?” Sherlock asked.

“You threw them in the bin.”

“There were too many and they were wilting,” said Sherlock, his hands steepled under his chin. “I suppose you can compost them if you feel so inclined.”

“I’ll admit, you did get a lot of flowers.”

“Too many. It’s not like I was dying.”

“You were dying, Sherlock. A lot of people thought you weren’t going to pull through. It’s what people do to wish you well.”

“There are other forms of communication. A text will suffice. No need to waste time and money on flowers.”

John rolled his eyes with a huff. “Did you at least keep the cards?”

“The what?”

“The cards, Sherlock. The ‘get well soon’ cards on the flowers saying who they’re from?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, for sentimental reasons? Because it’s a gesture of good faith?”

“It’s just paper, John. It’s not like I’m going to forget who sent me flowers at the hospital. Even if I do forget, they can tell me again, and I can thank them for it, if I absolutely must. It’s not a big deal.”

John shook his head as he put the kettle on. He didn’t know why he expected Sherlock to be outwardly sentimental about this. The fact that he was willing to remember let alone thank people for flowers was novel of him, though. Sherlock was at least willing to try and be polite, which was really all anyone could ask for. John even thought briefly to quiz him, but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Once his tea was done, John poured it into a travel thermos he had. They had a kettle at work, but he needed his tea sooner than that to get him through the day.

“Alright,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the hook, “I gotta head out…you sure you’ll be alright by yourself?”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, I will be alright,” he replied dejectedly.

John gave a small smile. “Just checking.”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. “Where are you going?”

“Work. I have a job, remember?”

“Oh, right.” That would explain the thermos and his hurried pace.

“Where did you think I was going?”

“I thought maybe you were going to see Mary.”

John paused a moment. It was the first time since that night that her name was even mentioned. His pace slowed, his demeanor becoming more sullen. The tension in the room rose.

“Why would I do that?” he asked in a lower tone.

“I don’t know…for ‘sentimental reasons?’ Because it’s a ‘gesture of good faith?’”

John scoffed. “Very funny.”

“You’ve been thinking about her,” said Sherlock, “thinking about visiting her, but you’re holding yourself back. Your jaw clenches when you think about her.”

John unclenches his jaw. “Well, I’m not ready to talk to her right now.”

“Of course not. You have to go to work. Are you still biking?”

“Too far to bike. I’ll have to bus it.” John hoped that was the end of the questioning, but of course Sherlock had to keep talking.

“Does she know you’re here?” Sherlock asked.

John sighed dejectedly. “Well, considering I told her I needed some space to think about things and I haven’t gone back to our flat, I think she knows.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded. “When are you planning on going back?”

“Jesus, I don’t know, Sherlock. Why does it matter?”

“I was just wondering if you had a time frame for how long you planned on staying here.” As John became more tense, Sherlock remained unnerved. “Not that there’s necessarily a time limit on how long I’ll let you stay. We also agreed to take her case. On top of that, she’s your wife and is carrying your child. Some things are more time sensitive than others.”

John huffed, now too aware of his jaw starting to clench at the thought. “Right,” he said carefully, “we are taking her case. She is a client, and right now that’s all she is. That is all she can be, Sherlock. That was how you wanted it to be, need I remind you, so humor me.” He walked over to the sofa and met Sherlock at eye level. “Right now, I am not in the mood to talk about her in any other way. In fact, I’d rather not talk about her at all in any capacity, so if you could mention her as little as possible, I’d appreciate it greatly. Understood?”

 

She’s the woman who is carrying my child, who has lied to me since the day I met her.

 

Sherlock could hear the pain well up inside his friend as he spoke. John was trying hard to be stern, military, but his resolve was failing quickly. He didn’t want to say any of these things, hadn’t thought he’d ever need to, but this was the reality he was living in. A sinking feeling went through Sherlock as well. For John’s sake, Mary had to be a client. Not his wife. Not a friend. This meant no feelings could get involved. Avoiding feelings was Sherlock’s strong suit.

“I understand,” he answered.

“Good,” John said, nodding his head and regaining some composure. He put his jacket on fully and grabbed his thermos. “Glad we got that sorted. I’m off to work. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Lestrade knows you’re still recovering so he knows better than to have a case for you. Do not wear him down.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock sighed, lying back on the sofa, returning to his usual position. In reality, he might’ve bothered Lestrade for the sake of curing his boredom, but he was reminded that he was already on a case, and the most complicated one yet.

 

~~~

 

It took Sherlock less than two hours to finally get bored being kept up in the flat. He was currently making an attempt to distract himself with the violin, thinking of composing something new. Every note came out somber, however, and he didn’t want to be so obtuse.

Looking through his old sheet music for a change of pace, he stumbled upon the piece he wrote for John and Mary’s wedding. He hadn’t touched it since that eventful day. Looking over the original sheet music again, he could see all of the smudges of erased markings and corrections to make the piece perfect for them. He’d wanted things to be good for John and Mary…but nothing could ever be simple. Sherlock placed the sheet music on the stand and set his violin under his chin. It was a happy tune, a hopeful tune. He got lost in it, not even noticing when Mrs. Hudson came in to drop off a tray of tea. She didn’t say anything, just let him be.

 

Don’t smile.

It’s my wedding day!

 

Did I do it wrong?

No, you bloody didn’t.

 

When he finished, he didn’t feel the same as he had back at the wedding. Back there, he’d felt proud and advantageous. Now he just felt empty.

 

What have I ever done in my life to deserve you?

Everything.

 

“Beautiful as always.”

Sherlock turned around to face who had walked into the flat without him noticing.

Mary.

Mary gave Sherlock a bit of an awkward smile, wanting to be friendly but not too friendly. She stood a fair distance away, one step in front of the doorway, barely in the flat. Sherlock could tell that she didn’t feel welcome. Something was on her mind.

“John’s not here, is he?” Mary asked.

“He left for work almost two hours ago,” Sherlock answered, setting his violin bow on the stand.

“But this is where he has been the past week?”

“Did you think he wouldn’t be?”

“I wasn’t sure if he was angry with you, but…of course he’s not.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “That’s always subject to change.”

“You don’t have to make it seem like he hates you, too. He never could.” Mary finally managed to feel comfortable enough to sit on the sofa. Either that or her feet were tired. She was pregnant, after all; Sherlock tried not to forget that detail. “Besides,” she continued, “I imagine it’s good for you two to solve cases together and worry about your real problems later.” She briefly grinned.

“At the moment,” said Sherlock, moving to sit in his own chair, “I am on a ‘medical leave.’ Doctor’s orders, unfortunately…” He sat down, violin still in his hands as he plucked at the strings. He looked at Mary. As much as a mystery she’d been previously, she was now an open book. “Clearly you were hoping John was here, something important you have to do, despite the fact that he doesn’t wish to see you -”

“I don’t care that John doesn’t want to see me right now,” Mary stated out right.

“You don’t?”

“I mean I do, but…that’s not important right now. I can’t…”

“You have an appointment.”

“Yes, with my OB.”

“An important one?”

“All of them are important, but…yes.”

“John usually goes with you to these appointments.”

“Of course he does, Sherlock. He’s the father, and still my husband as far as I know. He made a commitment, but obviously things have gotten…”

“Complicated.”

“Exactly, no thanks to you…”

That hurt Sherlock more than he thought it would. There was a bit of venom in her words, which was understandable. He felt his heart sink; it hurt more than usual, reminded again of exactly why things were so complicated. He tried to mask the physical pain, continuing to pluck at his violin strings.

“Maybe if you ring him,” Mary continued, “he can -”

“He has expressed disinterest in me saying anything about you in any capacity at this time,” Sherlock said in monotone.

“Seriously?”

He turned his head back to the violin. “In any case, having an absent husband isn’t too uncommon, even with children involved.” Mary looked at him in disbelief as he continued. “You’ve spent the past week going over your options, I’m sure. You told me you would lose him forever if he found out. Clearly you were prepared for this outcome -”

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock!” Mary snapped. She got up from the sofa and reached for the violin in Sherlock’s hands. He was quick to pull away before she could grab hold of it. She huffed. “I didn’t come here to be judged. I came for help. You said you’d help me.”

Sherlock set his violin out of Mary’s reach. “You don’t want me,” he said. “You want John, despite his resistance.”

“It’s his child! He should be here regardless of how he feels about me. I shouldn’t have to do this by myself. I wasn’t supposed to do this by myself!”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say. No simple apology could fix this. A part of him wanted to make an effort to comfort her, but he had to keep his word to John. She was a client, and that was all she could be. He swallowed. The longer he tried to come up with something to say, the more he noticed that she was getting less focused on her current situation and more focused on his face. What did his expression look like? He knew his brow was furrowed at least. Did she think he was angry? When their eyes met, both of their expressions softened.

Neither of them truly wanted to be in this position.

“You look tired,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

“I’m always tired,” said Mary with a small smile. “That’s what growing a baby inside you will do…on top of everything else that’s happened.”

“You’ve managed this far.”

Mary sighed. “I really really don’t want to do this on my own. I know I can, and I will if I absolutely have to, but…I was hoping he’d be here for the baby at the very least.” Mary looked to Sherlock, and suddenly her eyes lit up. “Would you be willing to come to the appointment with me?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. “You want -”

“I know it’s a bit of an ask - well, it’s a lot of an ask at this point. I really just don’t want to be alone right now, and you’re already here, and you don’t have to think about it as helping me in any capacity if that’s what it takes. You can think of it as helping the baby if you want. Anything, anything at all, just so I don’t have to go alone -”

Sherlock thought it through as Mary rambled on. It technically wasn’t a breach of any agreement he’d made with John that morning. As long as he didn’t say anything, it would be fine, right? But this didn’t concern just Mary. It was about the child, too. Was it overstepping the detective-client relationship? Mary wouldn’t be asking unless she was desperate, which she was. She was desperate to talk to someone, anyone. Her husband was giving her radio silence. She had no real friends who she could explain any of her situation to. The only person she could really go to was…

“- and I could even pay you if you really wanted. I doubt you’re too tight on money right now but everyone has a price -”

“Okay.”

Mary blinked. “Really?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “I will accompany you to your appointment…and I’m not going to accept any payment you’ll give me. I will, however, demand one thing of you in return.”

“And what would that be?”

“Never touch my violin again.”

Chapter 3

Despite the fact that Sherlock spent a lot of his time in hospitals, he wasn’t too familiar with the maternity ward. In fact, he usually avoided it as much as possible. After all, his work was usually in the morgue with cadavers. Very rarely were there juvenile cadavers. He once had a case that involved getting the results of a child’s autopsy. He never got a chance to look over the body though. Molly had, though, but refused to go into too much detail out of “respect.” 

Mary sat next to him in the waiting room with a magazine that was provided on the coffee table. She wasn’t too worried, despite the fact that the man sitting next to her was wearing ear defenders and sunglasses indoors, impatiently bouncing his leg.

“Nervous?” Mary asked him.

“Trying to not get too overwhelmed,” Sherlock replied. 

Mary nodded. “I guess babies can be pretty overwhelming. I’ve been here so much recently I barely notice.”

“Not the babies.”

“What is it, then?”

Sherlock pointed upward. Mary looked to see the light fixtures above. 

“Fluorescents?” she said. Sherlock nodded. “You work in a lab with fluorescents all the time.”

“I only go in on days where I can tolerate it,” said Sherlock. “This is not one of those days.” 

“You could’ve told me that when I asked you to come.”

“If you can go through months of physical and emotional discomfort for a baby, I can go through a couple hours of this for your sake.”

Mary nodded, going back to her magazine. She wasn’t even really reading it, just skimming through, passing time. Had she leafed through this one before? It had clearly been sitting on the table for months now according to the date on the issue and the tiniest rips in some of the pages. She glanced over at Sherlock. He didn’t have to be here with her at all, and yet here he was. Did he actually care, or was there some ulterior motive?

Sherlock glanced in Mary’s direction a few times, watching her fingers tap on the table. For a moment, he thought there might be some code that she was trying to give him, but there was no discernible pattern. It didn’t have a meter that he recognized from a song, either. Upon seeing her face, staring intently at a random page in the magazine, he realized he was looking for more than what was there. Her mind was riddled with problems that had no easy solutions, not too dissimilar from his own mind. He wondered if they were worried about the same things. 

 

John can’t ever know I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever. And Sherlock, I will never let that happen. 

 

“Mary Watson?” A nurse had popped into the corridor. Mary and Sherlock look up at her as she wraps her fingers around a clipboard. “You can come back now.”

Mary swallowed before closing the magazine and standing up. She walked towards the nurse to be escorted to the exam room, but then she turned and looked at Sherlock with a confused expression. 

“You coming?” Mary asked, motioning in the exam room’s direction with her head. 

Sherlock perked up a bit, pointing at himself. “You want me to-”

“Yes, come, come on.” Mary beckoned him with her hand. Sherlock stood and walked up behind her. 

“And is this your husband with you?” the nurse asked. 

Both Mary and Sherlock’s faces paled. 

“Oh, no,” Mary quickly answered. “No, no, no. He is not - ha! He’s not my husband.” 

“Oh,” said the nurse, embarrassed. “So sorry, what’s the relation?”

Sherlock cleared his throat before answering. “Friend of the family.” 

“Okay…right this way.”

Once the nurse had turned to walk and wasn’t looking, Mary gave Sherlock a knowing glance. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was stifling laughter. Sherlock gave Mary an awkward grin, containing his own amusement. 

 

~~~

 

The obstetrician was an older woman, probably in her fifties, married with at least two children of her own. So far it had been a good day for her with no surprises, but she was always prepared for that to change. She had no infractions and felt she was good at what she did. It wasn’t what she thought she was going to do with her career, but she liked it and took it seriously. She wasn’t an exceptionally interesting person in Sherlock’s mind as she stepped into the room. 

“Hi Mary,” greeted the OB. “Oh, John couldn’t make it today?”

“No,” Mary replied, “he got caught up at work.” Not a total lie, but still far from the full truth. She was good at putting on the facade that everything was fine. “I had to get a stand-in.”

Sherlock gave a silent nod and raised his hand to wave. He had taken off his sunglasses and had his ear defenders around his neck to help keep up appearances; the fluorescent hum was the least of his worries at this point. 

He was uncharacteristically quiet, and Mary could tell. The awkward tension hadn’t left since they entered the exam room. It occurred to her that this was the first time in a long time that they’d been alone together without John around. Two weeks ago she’d shot him in the chest, and now they were sitting together in an exam room as a doctor prepped an ultrasound.

This was weird for the both of them.

“Everything is looking good for baby,” said the OB. “Everything looks normal, perfectly healthy. Nothing eventful.” 

“That’s a good thing,” Mary said to Sherlock in an attempt to reassure him.

“I know that’s a good thing,” Sherlock replied. “It would be eventful if there was a problem.” 

“Some people get upset that I call their baby ‘uneventful,’” the OB chimed in, “especially if it’s the first baby. The ‘miracle of life’ and all that. Sometimes the only miracle is that they even agreed to sleep together.” 

Mary chuckled awkwardly at the joke, turning to Sherlock with a look that said “shut up.” 

Sherlock kept quiet. Aside from the occasional awkward moment, everything about this was domestic and simple and…rather boring. He didn’t understand why Mary wanted him to come for this trivial appointment, why she didn’t want to go by herself. Was it solely because she was used to going with John? 

“Sherlock,” said Mary, tapping him on the arm, “look.” 

Sherlock looked over at the screen with the ultrasound. Everything became clear. He’d seen ultrasound photos before. When he’d told John and Mary about the pregnancy at their wedding, it wasn’t that big of a deal to him. People have sex, sex makes children. It was the natural progression of things, albeit pretty fast in John and Mary’s case. But now, looking at this ultrasound, it all became…real. The nervousness that Mary had been feeling all day made sense to him. For some reason, despite being well aware of how far along Mary was, it didn’t click until now. 

Mary grabbed Sherlock’s hand instinctively. Every voice seemed to fade. Sherlock turned his face away. 

He was not supposed to be here in this moment with her. 

It was supposed to be John. 

“Sherlock,” Mary said, “do you mind waiting outside? I just need to speak with the doctor privately. I’ll meet back with you in a bit, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, kind of relieved. Perhaps Mary sensed his own apprehension when she grabbed his hand. Perhaps the tension was becoming too much. Either way, he moved his hand from Mary’s, then walked out of the exam room, and then out of the hospital entirely. 

This was wrong. Everything was wrong. Why did he agree to this? What an idiot. He was just trying to help. He didn’t think about the implications. This was too intimate, too friendly. Mary was supposed to be a client, and yet…

Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. 

Don’t get involved. 

Sherlock groaned at the Mycroft in his head. It was worse because he was right. 

If John found out…Sherlock worked through every scenario in his head, even if it wasn’t statistically probable. If anything, John would be disappointed at the very least. He’d asked his friend for one simple favor, one he thought he’d be good at, and he was failing spectacularly within hours of the request. 

If only Sherlock had a cigarette. A cigarette sounded good right now, maybe something more - no. He couldn’t get high again. Everything was already a mess, no need to make things worse for himself. No need to make things worse for them. 

Mary found him stood outside the hospital near the pavement, her expression going from worry to relief. 

“Thought you’d left without me,” she said with a smile. “I couldn’t find you in the waiting room.”

Sherlock turned to her, realizing he was biting at his finger to deter the itch coming back and quickly correcting himself. 

“You said outside,” he replied. “I’m outside.” 

Mary nodded. “Can’t argue with that…you want to get lunch?” 

“That wasn’t part of the agreement.” 

“Yeah, but it’s tradition - appointment then lunch. It’s tradition for me, anyway. We can discuss the case if it would make you feel better about seeing me.” Mary gave him a promising smile. 

Sherlock was going to need nicotine patches after this. 

 

~~~

 

“I can’t believe that actually happened,” Mary laughed, holding onto her sandwich. She and Sherlock were sat in a cafe next to a window. “I didn’t even think about it,” she continued, “I’ve been so many times, I figured everyone had seen my husband. It’s pretty hilarious! You only hear about these things happening in books or movies. It’s such a trope.” She sighed wistfully. “I’ve always wanted to be in a romantic comedy. Too much tragedy in my life to really achieve something like that. I’m glad I get funny little moments like that so I can look back on them and laugh.” 

Sherlock stared out the window as Mary rambled on. She clearly wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing. They’d been sitting at the table for ten minutes and she hadn’t stopped talking. Nothing she said was about the case. 

He glanced at her when he noticed she’d stopped talking. She was looking at him curiously. 

“What are you thinking about?” Mary asked. “Where’s your mind going?”

“You’re very chatty today,” said Sherlock. 

Mary scoffed playfully. “I haven’t talked to anyone but myself in like a week! I need to let it all out now while I can. You can join the conversation at any time. You don’t have to keep letting me prattle on about silly things.” 

“It’s a wonder you had the career you did with how much you talk.” 

Mary raised her eyebrows. “As long as it’s not on the job or about the job, I could talk as much as I liked. I like to talk. You do, too.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “It’s good for both of us that John is a good listener.” The smile faded quickly at the mention of John. Before the moment could linger, she changed the subject. “You just got a coffee?”

“Not really hungry,” Sherlock replied, taking a sip of the aforementioned coffee. “This is enough.”

“I cannot relate, as you can imagine.” Mary smiled. Her cheeriness was starting to get annoying. “Always hungry, always way too hot, always -”

“Why are you being friendly with me right now?” Sherlock finally asked. 

Mary looked confused. “Why wouldn’t I be, Sherlock?”

“Because I probably ruined your marriage. I figured after you got cross with me at the flat that you were angry. Most people would be in your situation.”

“I’m not most people.” Mary ate a bit more of her sandwich. “Besides, I can’t be angry at you. You’re genuinely trying to help, and I’m grateful for that. This entire situation is just frustrating. I shouldn’t take it out on you.” 

“Your situation is more complicated, ‘no thanks to me.’”

“I…yeah, well, it is, but you’re not fully -”

“I would understand if you were mad at me. You’re allowed.” 

“If anything, you should be mad at me for putting a bullet through your chest and lying to your best friend. When a couple argues, usually you’d side with your friend, not their lying wife.”

 

My lying wife.

 

“This isn’t about sides,” Sherlock said. “This has nothing to do with how I feel. The only thing I’m concerned about is catching Magnussen and bringing him to justice so no one else gets hurt. You know perfectly well how dangerous this is.” 

“And how do you feel, Sherlock?” Mary asked. “I mean, what’s going to happen if we take Magnussen down and John is still upset with me? What’s going to happen when he decides to leave?”

Sherlock looked up at Mary. He was caught off guard. No one had asked him how he felt, except in the context of the bullet wound. Outside of that, he didn’t think his feelings were that important. He couldn’t allow them to be important, not now. This wasn’t about him. His expression softened. 

To Mary, the way he looked at her was unexpected. She expected him to look upset, angry even, but he wasn’t. She also thought he might be expressionless and calculated, but there was an expression. His eyes had widened a bit. His lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out. He turned away quickly before she could say anything. To her, he almost seemed…lost.

“Sorry,” Mary said softly, “I shouldn’t be -”

“Did Janine ever find out about your involvement?” Sherlock asked, changing the subject entirely. 

“Oh my God, Janine,” Mary sighed, smiling a bit. “Well, I haven’t really talked to her since I knocked her out. She wasn’t exactly happy with me when I did.”

“I imagine it was a mix of surprise and betrayal.” 

“Pretty much.” Mary laughed. “Oh God, I’m laughing but it’s not funny. We tricked that poor woman just to get to her boss.”

“She’ll be alright. She got a good amount of money from the tabloids. I think this was a good thing for her, all things considered.” 

“Are we just…the worst people on the planet?” 

“Given our track record with people, I’d say we’re the best of the worst.” Sherlock gave Mary a smile. 

Mary laughed at that. It was a relief to laugh like this, a moment of brevity after the fallout. It gave her some hope. 

Chapter 4

John found Sherlock in the same position he was in when he’d left for work - lying on the sofa with his fingers steepled under his chin. The only evidence that he’d moved at all that day was that he was dressed. That and the nicotine patches. It had been a while since John had seen the three nicotine patches on his friend’s forearm. He could hear Sherlock taking deep breaths, letting the patches do their work. 

“I’m home,” John announced. 

“I know,” said Sherlock without opening his eyes. “You don’t have to say it.” 

“Just letting you know. Didn’t want to startle you.” 

“I heard your keys in the door, the door itself, and your feet shuffling on the wooden floor. You did not startle me by any means.” 

John looks down at Sherlock’s arm. “Rough day?”

“Long day.” 

John hummed and nodded in response, hanging up his jacket. He was familiarizing himself with 221B yet again. Not much had changed since he left; Sherlock moved back in and somehow returned the flat to its former organized mess, skulls and all. In this last week alone, it almost felt like the past three years were all a bad dream. John took it all in as he sat in his chair, looking over to Sherlock on the sofa. It was almost unreal that this was his life right now… He wondered if he was going to wake up any time soon. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John for the first time since he’d been home. “You tried to bike to work after all?” he asked. 

John blinked. “Sorry?”

“There are scratches in your thermos from an aluminum bottle cage. The thermos just barely fits. The scratches are new, so this must be a new attachment. Also, your shirt, but Billy deduced that ages ago, so we don’t have to go over it again.” 

“Er, yeah, tried to. Thought I could make it, but...”

“You took the bus instead.” 

“Yeah. I don’t need a run down, Sherlock. I was there.”

“The wrinkles in your pants -”

“I said I don’t need a run down.”

Sherlock huffed. He looked at John to try and discern a reasoning for his impatience. Perhaps he hadn’t really recovered from the discussion they had this morning and was still feeling short-tempered. Looking over the doctor, noting the dark circles under his eyes, it was clear he hadn’t recovered from much this week. He’d been occupying his old room and yet he hadn’t gotten much sleep. Was he losing sleep over Mary? No, there was more to it. He hadn’t been sleeping well for a while now. 

“How are you feeling?” John asked. 

Sherlock looked up at him. “What?” Was John also going to inquire about his feelings?

“Your chest?”

Never mind. “Oh, it’s fine.”    

John nodded. “Were you…itching for a fix at all today?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m clean. See the patches?” He lifted up his arm to show him.

“Okay. Just checking.” 

“For what?”

“What?”

“You keep saying you’re ‘just checking.’ Checking for what?”

“Checking…to make sure you’re not in pain or need to go back to the hospital, or if you need someone to sit with you to keep you clean. I’m ‘just checking’ to make sure you’re fine is all.”

“I am okay.” Sherlock turned his head back towards the ceiling, glancing back over to John for a moment. “Thank you.” 

John nodded with a smile. He actually got a “thank you” out of Sherlock. He was impressed. 

“How are…you feeling?” Sherlock asked. It sounded forced, like he realized he had to be polite. 

“Uh, good,” John replied, “I guess as good as I can be…better, now that I’m getting back to routine.” 

“Routine?”

“Well…you know, going to work at the very least. It’s a bit like how it used to be, before…” Before he got married? Before Sherlock faked his death? “Before we stopped living together.” 

“Mhm.” Sherlock looked at John quizzically. “I suppose.” He wouldn’t admit it, but he was glad that it would be like before. With John around, he wouldn’t be alone in the flat. This way, they would be able to keep tabs on each other. Neither of them would say it, but right now they knew they needed support. After all, what are friends for?

“Dinner?” John asked. 

“Not hungry,” Sherlock replied. 

“Did you eat at all today?”

Sherlock paused briefly. “Does a coffee count?”

“No, it bloody doesn’t.” 

 

~~~

 

“Do you know where Sherlock’s gone to?” Janine asked when she came over to John and Mary’s table, trying to shout over the music. “I haven’t seen him in an hour or so.”

John and Mary exchanged a look of concern. 

“I haven’t seen him either,” said Mary. “You don’t think he left, do you?”

“You can’t be certain with Sherlock,” John replied. “I know he’s not exactly a people person. Being here was probably a bit overwhelming. He’s probably in a corridor somewhere getting away from all the noise.” He stood up from the table, feeling the weight in his legs after all of the dancing. “I’ll go look for him.” He gave Mary and Janine a reassuring grin before heading off. 

John walked out of the ballroom, hearing the music fade out as he searched the empty hallways and stairwells for his friend. He pulled out his phone to try to call Sherlock as he walked up a rather tall flight of stairs. The ringing of his phone echoed from the acoustics of the space. Once he reached the top, he nearly fell back in shock.

Sherlock was lying on the floor, out of his wedding attire and in his normal getup with his long black coat. 

“Sherlock!” John ran to him, falling to his knees to assess what had happened. 

Sherlock’s white shirt was staining red on his chest. His breathing was shallow. He seemed to have blood on his temple as well, possibly from a fall, but falling on the floor wouldn’t cause such a gash. 

John fumbled for his phone, but he had dropped it somehow when running up to Sherlock. He stood up and turned to grab it so he could call the ambulance, but then immediately froze.

Mary, still in her wedding dress, was pointing a gun at him. 

“Mary…what have you done?” 

“I’m so sorry, John,” she said, tears falling down her face. She was smiling. Why was she smiling? “I’m so, so sorry…”

John watched her pull the trigger.  

 

John woke up with a shout, holding onto his chest as he realized he was sitting up in his bed. He was sweating and shaking, looking around his dark bedroom. Reality was setting back in as his breathing slowed. 

He was brought back to his wedding night. Janine did ask about Sherlock. John did go look for him, but…Mary was there. Mary was looking with him. John had tried to call Sherlock a few times, but it kept going to voicemail. He remembered meeting up with Mary, who was also unsuccessful in finding him. 

“I hope he’s okay,” Mary had said. 

“He’s probably fine,” John had replied. “He probably got called about another case or something.” 

“John…he left our wedding.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Sherlock. The fact that he showed up at all was a bloody miracle.”   

“You can be angry at him. It’s alright.”

“I spent two years being angry at him, Mary…” He had looked at her and given her a sad smile. “He’s been a good friend. I don’t think he would leave unless he had a reason.” 

Mary had nodded, holding John’s hand. “I really hope he’s okay…”

“I’m sure he is…”

The two had held hands and walked back to the ballroom, as happy as newlyweds should be…

John remembered focusing on Mary and the honeymoon, thinking about their future baby, preparing for a domestic life, all with no word from Sherlock. Mary had suggested he call, but John had insisted that he’d be fine. He remembered hearing nothing from the detective for a month, then all of a sudden finding him in a drug den. Sherlock had said it was for a case, but…

Had he been getting high since their wedding night?

John slumped a bit at the thought, catching himself before slowly lying back down into his bed. All of this had happened in less than two months. 

He thought about Mary…the liar, the assassin, a complete stranger to him now. How was it possible that she had been the love of his life? How was it possible that they were so happy not even a few weeks ago, and now it was all falling apart? He’d been so certain, so ready to spend the rest of his life with her, and now…now he was confused. What was he going to do now? Where could he turn to? 

He thought of Sherlock…

“Oh God, Sherlock,” he mumbled as he quickly left his bed, heading down the stairs, into 221B, then to Sherlock’s bedroom door. He flicked on the lights. 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock had been curled up in his bed, lying on his side. He jumped at the shout. 

“What?” Sherlock asked groggily. “Is it a bomb? Are you on fire?” He sat up in his bed. 

John sighed, trying to catch his breath. “Remind me that you’re alive,” he said, “and that you’re clean.” 

“John,” Sherlock replied, “what are you doing -” 

“Just please!” John snapped. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Tell me that you’re alive and that you’re clean.”

Sherlock hesitated, looking at John with wide, concerned eyes. Even in the dim light he could see John’s silhouette shaking. A nightmare, no doubt. He swallowed hard, making eye contact. 

“I’m alive,” he said, “and I’m clean.” 

John breathed a long sigh of relief. He took some more deep breaths, leaning on the doorframe, rubbing his eyes. 

“Sorry,” he said softly. “Just checking.”

Notes:

Hi! Just wanted to come here and say thank you for reading this far! I’m glad that people are enjoying it! I’m having a lot of fun writing this and have a lot of plans for where I want the story to go! Also, just as a teaser, the next few chapters are going to focus on the case. The game is on!

Chapter 5

Notes:

Hi! Sorry for not updating for…a month. I was hoping to get this chapter done sooner, but I struggled immensely to get it right. Just picture me at home with the big book of ACD Sherlock Holmes stories like it’s the Bible just reading the original story to figure out how the hell I’m gonna pull this off. It’s a mix of that, Watson’s Sketchbook by Lee Knox Ostertag, Sherlock and Co., and things I remember from 2014. I want to do well; I want to do the casework justice because that’s what Sherlock Holmes is about, but at the same time I also love drama and we know this is about Sherlock and John and Mary.

Anyways, hope you enjoy! Hopefully I can get the next couple of chapters out in a more timely manner. In the meantime, you can follow me on Tumblr @mirlin-period-blue if you want to see more general Holmes stuff and other random little things. Thanks and happy reading!

The pews of the church were adorned in tulle and white roses. The bells rung with inciting joy. Violins sat at the ready, bows waiting patiently for their cue to run across the strings. 

He stood anxiously at the end of the aisle, the end of an era, as he steeled himself for a new life. He could feel his heart beating through his chest. He tried to swallow the anxiety welling up back down his throat, but to no avail. The crowd attending looked around expectantly. He looked down the aisle as the door finally opened. 

The music did not start. The procession didn’t come down in an orderly fashion. Instead, a lone bridesmaid ran nervously down the aisle to him. 

Something was wrong.

The bridesmaid got up to his side and whispered to him in a shaky voice. 

“She’s gone. We can’t find her anywhere…”

 

~~~

 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade found himself soaking wet that afternoon. 

When he’d initially gotten the call about a missing person, it was business as usual. He went to the venue to interview the attendees as decorations got dismantled and taken away. Perhaps it was just cold feet, perhaps it was more than that. Either way, it was nothing he and Scotland Yard couldn’t handle. 

Then they found a wedding dress floating in a fountain in a nearby park.

That’s when Greg decided to make the call. 

Well, that’s when he called Sherlock back after receiving phone calls from the detective every day for nearly two weeks. John had warned him once Sherlock was discharged from the hospital to give him some time to recover. Greg knew fully well that it was more what John wanted; if it were up to Sherlock, he’d have a case in his hands while in his hospital bed. John told him not to give in, even if the detective begged. Thankfully, things had been “dull” up until now, so he could keep Sherlock away for a bit. 

There was no way he was going to keep him away from this one. 

John had to admit that he was sick of it, too. He was reminded why he hated when Sherlock wasn’t on a case. At first, it was refreshing, like old times - a few instances of banter, playing violin at odd hours, the usual. It got old pretty quickly. It wasn’t too dissimilar from Mary’s strange meal requests due to her pregnancy cravings. He’d replaced one craving person with another. The only difference was that pregnancy cravings were normal and expected; Sherlock was craving a case, and if he couldn’t have that, he’d settle - no, he’d beg - for a case of cigarettes. John had to deny him both of these things. Then Sherlock would sulk. John had to remind himself to be patient, to be careful. After all, he didn’t want his friend to injure himself further. He didn’t want Sherlock to relapse, either. He hated that there was more of a possibility for that outcome.

 

One month. That’s all it took. One!

 

Needless to say, the call was a relief for everyone involved. 

Sherlock and John walked up to the inspector, trying to be as serious as they possibly could in the presence of a soaking man with an equally drenched wedding dress in tow. Neither of them could hold back a smile. 

“I appreciate your dedication to the job, Inspector,” said Sherlock. John shot a look to Greg. That might’ve been the nicest thing Sherlock had said to him…ever.

“Yeah, well,” Greg replied, “somebody’s got to do it.” After handing the dress over to Sherlock, he took off his coat, feeling the weight literally lift off of him, and set it on the bench nearby. 

“Do you think it’s Harriet Doran’s dress?” John asked. 

“According to the pictures we got from the photographer, it’s definitely the dress.”

“Anything on the contrary would be unlikely,” Sherlock added as he looked it over. 

John shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

Sherlock kept himself from rolling his eyes at the notion of a coincidence. It seemed like John’s mind had been muddled from being without detective work for a couple years. Sherlock wouldn’t forgive himself for that. 

He handed the dress back to Greg, who handed it to another officer standing by. 

Greg motioned with his head, and the three of them started walking. 

“Did you talk to the groom yet?” he asked. 

“Robert St. Simon,” Sherlock said, “yes. Spoke to him this morning.”

“Did you get anything?”

John and Sherlock looked at each other before answering…

 

Earlier that day…

 

Robert St. Simon was a man in his early to mid thirties with light blond hair and a nervous tick of tapping his fingers. There was an air of impatience or apprehension, perhaps a mix of the two. His family was well-off, given that his father was working for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.  

The men were sitting in their respective chairs. John had a notepad and pen with him, writing notes on paper rather than on his laptop. 

“Where’s your laptop?” Sherlock asked. 

“It’s…at the other flat,” John muttered. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Sherlock gave him a nod, moving on. 

“Thank you for taking the time to see me,” St. Simon said. “I wasn’t sure if you would, if you’ve had more well-to-do clientele.” 

John looked up at him, confused. Who says that? 

“Not the first time the British government has consulted me,” Sherlock replied. “Comparably, you’re a bit of a downgrade.”

“Sherlock,” John said in an attempt to keep things civil, “please.”  

“Oh,” St. Simon said. “So, you know about my father -”

“Status doesn’t matter to me,” Sherlock said. “What matters is the issue at hand. Your bride to be has gone missing.”

“Yeah. We were supposed to be married yesterday morning. We initially wanted something small and intimate, but our families had other ideas…” He pulled out his phone, finding a picture and handing it to John. Harriet Doran was young with a sweet smile, most likely younger than St. Simon, her dirty blonde hair sitting just above her shoulders, bangs covering her eyebrows. John gave the phone to Sherlock to take a look. Sherlock took the phone, proceeding to look through it. 

“Do you know why she left?” Sherlock asked, wasting no time finding more photos on social media. 

“No. I wish I did. People keep saying it’s cold feet, but…she turned her location off.” 

“Her location?” John asked. 

“She and I share our location with each other on our phones. She turned her location services off. She wasn’t answering anyone’s phone calls. She wasn’t in the hotel room. No one could find her.” 

“So you called the police,” John said. 

“When was the last time you saw her?” Sherlock asked. 

“At the rehearsal dinner,” replied St. Simon, huffing in frustration. “What a disaster.”

“What happened at the rehearsal dinner?” John asked. 

“Flora happened…Flora Millar. She’s an ex of mine. Well, I say ‘ex.’ We weren’t together very long, but she was technically my last relationship before this one. She found out where we were having the rehearsal dinner and completely went off on Harriet. I didn’t even get there until security was dragging her out, but Hatty was really shaken after that…well, she was already a bit shaken anyway. She fainted during the rehearsal, dropped her bouquet. Some guy picked them up for her, and suddenly she was passed out right by the altar.” 

“Some guy?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yeah, some guy on her side. I think he’s a family friend. That’d be my guess. I wasn’t too involved with the guest list.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that comment. 

“I didn’t see her after that,” St. Simon continued. “Once the rehearsal dinner was over, we went to separate hotel rooms. Tradition and all that, you know.” 

John nodded with a slight grin. “I know fully well.”

“Oh, you’re married, Doctor Watson?” 

John immediately regretted opening up that can of worms. Talking to people about the wedding and being married had become habit. He cleared his throat.

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, “fairly recently actually.”

“Is this your first marriage?”

“Y…yeah, of course it is.”

“Huh. Sorry, I’m just surprised, you’re a bit of an older guy. I thought maybe…” 

Before John could respond, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Suddenly he became too aware of the tension in his shoulders. 

“John was in the army for a long time,” Sherlock interrupted, handing St. Simon his phone back. “It took him a while to adjust to civilian life, dedicated to his work, unlucky in love until recent.” 

John had to restrain himself from saying anything else. He just nodded, giving an awkward thin-lipped smile. Dammit. He unclenched his jaw. 

“Seems that Harriet was stressed,” Sherlock continued, “which is expected given her circumstances.”

“She’s a more independent girl,” St. Simon said, “tomboyish, expressive. She’s a firecracker. She seemed fine for the most part, ecstatic even. I’m afraid she’s hiding something from me, because one minute we’re happier than ever, and the next she’s suddenly distant and cold.” 

“How long had you been together before the wedding?” John asked. It was a good question, although Sherlock had already gathered the answer through St. Simon’s phone.

“Uh, a little over a year,” St. Simon replied. “We met through our parents. Her father has a position in the Committee of Foreign Relations in America.”

“Florida,” said Sherlock.

“Yes, Florida.”

“It’s a bit fast,” John commented. 

“Well, we fell in love pretty quickly. I mean, I certainly did. I didn’t want to waste any time, and neither did she…or so I thought. I don’t know what changed with her.”

“And you don’t think it might have anything to do with you?” Sherlock asked. 

“I’ve wracked my brain for hours. I sincerely don’t know what I could’ve done wrong…” 

John could come up with maybe one or two things just from their conversation alone. Sherlock had already come up with several.  

 

Present  

 

“He’s a bit of a prick,” John answered.

Greg nodded. “The only thing we found with or near the dress was this.” He handed Sherlock a plastic cardholder that had a printed design of birds and flowers. “Only thing in it was a receipt, but we don’t know where from.”

Sherlock popped the case open and pulled out the receipt.  

“Did any other testimonies come up?” Sherlock asked without even looking up. 

“A few,” Greg replied. “A lot of people think Robert St. Simon is hiding something, knows where she is. Some people think it’s something to do with an ex-girlfriend.”

“Flora Millar. She’s got nothing to do with it.” 

“You don’t think?” John mused. “Jealous ex-girlfriend isn’t too out of pocket.”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing.”

John rolled his eyes. “Do you care to enlighten me?”

Sherlock looked at the other two and grinned They all stopped walking. “You think it’s murder or a kidnapping. It isn’t.”

“And how can you be so sure?” Greg asked, already knowing how the detective could be so sure. 

“Because of the dress. What did you notice about it?” Sherlock looked at John expectantly. 

John looked confused. “You’re asking me?” 

“Of course. Aren’t you paying attention?”

“Yeah, I am, I just didn’t think you’d put me on the spot like this. Usually you sort of just go over every detail and not let anyone else get a word in.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What did you notice about the dress?”

“I mean, I didn’t really get a good look at it. Greg literally went in to grab it, so maybe he -”

“I’m not asking him, I’m asking you.” Sherlock looked at Greg. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn, but I think you’ll both come the same conclusion.”

“The only thing I noticed,” said John, “is that it was in the fountain. It’s wet now. That’s it.” He looked at Sherlock and shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Sherlock turned to the inspector. 

“I mean,” Greg said, “it looked like it was in good condition. We’ll take it to the lab to see if we can find anything more, but there’s not much to go on other than that it is her dress.”

“Would you argue,” said Sherlock, folding his hands together, “that aside from being wet, the dress is in near perfect condition? No blood, no rips, no dirt? Surely if she had been murdered or kidnapped, there would be some signs of a struggle, and it would be clearly seen on a pure white dress. So of course the only thing you notice is that it’s wet, because that’s all there is to notice. It may seem like nothing, but in this instance, it is everything.” He looked at John. “It throws your ex-girlfriend theory out the window.”

“How so?” John asked. 

“If St. Simon’s account of the events is correct, and Ms. Millar did accost Ms. Doran during the rehearsal dinner, I surmise she would do more to the dress if she had access to it.”

John could see it: a jealous and vindictive girl hacking the dress with scissors ripping it apart with her bare hands. He could also see a scenario where Flora took the dress for herself. 

“What about the groom?” Greg asked. “Do you suspect him of foul play?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “but he failed to mention something. He didn’t give us the full story, I can say that much. Perhaps when we find Harriet we’ll have more answers.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket. 

“We better work quickly, then,” said Greg. “Their families are trying to keep the situation out of the public eye for now.”

“Yes, you should get your coat.”

Greg looked behind him, then nodded. He gave Sherlock and John a smile. “Good to be back, yeah?” 

John smiled back at that. Good to be back indeed. A missing woman who could be anywhere, her lone wedding dress, and already a few suspects? He could feel the anticipation building. This was going to be - 

“Trivial,” Sherlock said, not even looking up from his phone. 

“Seriously?” John said. “Seriously? You have been griping and whinging about not being able to have a case and now that you have one - a good one, mind you - you find it trivial? Tell me, Sherlock, why are you never satisfied with what you got? Why do you always - who are you texting right now?”

Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket before John could see. 

“Hm? Oh, unrelated. However, I’ve figured it out, I just needed to confirm something.”

“Confirm what?”

“A surname.”