Chapter Text
Mr. and Mrs. Elliot Collins
request the honour of your presence
at the marriage of their daughter
Clara Elizabeth Collins
to
Harriet Jean Watson
on Saturday, the twenty-third of May
at three o’clock
St. Peter’s Parish Church
John stares at the invitation like the indicted stares down a noose.
His sister was getting married - in America of all places - and John was in need of a date. Which is why, next to the delicately embossed invite lies a business card printed on only slightly less posh cardstock.
The Science of Deduction
[email protected]
The number on the back is one he dialed seven days ago, only after repeated, merciless hounding from (his supposed friend) Mike. If this goes south, like it inevitably must, Mike is paying his bar tab for a year. And John is only ordering 12-year-old single malt scotch.
Christ.
He rubs his forehead as he stares at the plane ticket resting on the kitchen table: one of a pair of non-refundable, non-stop tickets from Heathrow to Dulles International Airport. Washington DC is the final destination because Clara (though English) was raised in America. Her American father is the ambassador to some such territory that Great Britain probably used to own, but she (and Harry’s undying love for her) is the reason John is getting on a flight at 12:30pm, flying across the second largest ocean in the world, and pretending to be in a perfectly happy, healthy relationship with an undoubtedly perfectly coiffed stranger.
See, Clara is not only half-American (and wealthy to boot), she’s also best friends with John’s ex-fiancee. Whom she’s placed in the wedding party. As Maid of Honor.
And John just happens to be Best Man.
Bloody brilliant.
John has never been to the Chesapeake before in his life, but his parents had passed and Clara had the bigger family. With two brides, it made sense to let them host. Of course, that doesn't mean that the festivities will be lacking in Watsons. He has a particularly nosy great aunt that likes to insinuate herself into everyone's business but her own. She means well, but... she's a handful. And she's been torturing poor Harry in America since Saturday. It is now Wednesday.
He eyes the vodka in his liquor cabinet and wonders if it’s too early for a Bloody Mary.
You can do this, he thinks as he presses speakerphone on his mobile’s inbox for the fourth time in a row, letting that sinful voice fill his less-than-spacious kitchen.
“Hello, John. This is Sherlock Holmes. I got your message. As well as the three missed calls you placed before you actually bucked up the courage to leave a voicemail. I assure you, everything is arranged. Do relax.” A pause. “This is what I get paid for. I’ll meet you directly at Heathrow, Terminal three, Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse. Oh and do try to remember your passport. The Americans are finicky about border control.”
John allows his smile to linger for a moment longer than it probably should before anxiety gets the better of him and he glances at his watch to find that he should have been dressed ten minutes ago. “Bollocks!”
His shower is military quick and his packing is slapdash, yet efficient. Twenty minutes later finds him flying out of his small bedsit and into a cab, hurtling towards Heathrow with an ever-growing knot in the pit of his stomach. His duffle has been dropped on the seat next to him (his morning suit already secure in Maryland under the watchful eye of Aunt Adelaide) and he digs into the outside pocket to ensure (for the fifth time) that his passport is in fact there. He pulls it out and breathes easier, at least until something else caught between the pages drops into his lap.
It's a photo booth strip of him and Mary from last year's county fair and their smiling faces stare up at him, reminding him (rather pointedly) of just how happy he used to be. He stares at the pictures, vividly remembering the smell of popcorn and the roar of the rollercoaster...
"C'mon, John, it'll be fun! Now smile - ah, no!"
He had mocked glared in the first, smiled sarcastically in the second, sneak attacked her with a kiss in the third, and smiled genuinely in the fourth.
He contemplates ripping up the strip and letting the pieces flutter out the window, before swallowing hard and tucking them in between the pages of his passport once more. He can deal with that another time. For now, he'll just focus on making it to the swanky Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse in one piece.
After all, Sherlock made it quite clear he doesn’t fly coach.
xxxxxx
Sherlock offers a tight, practiced smile for the woman behind the counter as he relinquishes his Burberry suitcase and watches with no small amount of trepidation as it disappears down the conveyor belt and into the depths of the airport's underbelly where he hopes it miraculously manages to make its way onto the right plane.
The security line is scant on a Wednesday morning and Sherlock breezes up to the metal detector, eyes narrowing at the wrinkles the less-than-careful agent is inflicting upon his suit jacket. He eventually makes it through the wanding relatively unscathed – his bespoke Alexander McQueen less so, though.
As he strides through the terminal, he goes through John’s file in his mind palace. Thirty-five, once engaged, twin sister (Harriet) betrothed to one Clara Elizabeth Collins. Ex is one Mary Morstan, best friend of the bride and Maid of Honor. She broke it off with no reasonable explanation. John mourned the loss of the relationship for a sufficient amount of time (more so than strictly necessary, Sherlock thinks) yet John’s true feelings on the matter now remain… unclear.
The repeated calls had been annoying but then his voicemail had been oddly endearing. John Watson’s anxiety was palpable, even through the ether, and though Sherlock puts the word “picky” to shame when choosing his clients, John seemed… decent. Desperate, but decent. A far cry from his usual.
His photo didn’t hurt either.
Speaking of – Sherlock scans the Clubhouse, already knowing he’ll likely find his charge by the bar and, sure enough, there John is, nursing a complimentary glass of champagne as he watches some poor sod get trounced in the French Open semis-finals.
Sherlock smirks, accepts his own glass of champagne from a passing server, and strides over, knowing that an introduction – no matter how fabricated – is paramount to a relationship.
“Hello, darling,” he murmurs and John does nothing to help their cover by jumping so badly, he nearly upends himself from his stool. Sherlock makes up for it by leaning in and brushing his lips across John’s cheek. “Sorry I’m late.” His skin is smooth and his aftershave smells like the calm before a storm.
“It’s fine,” John manages, “love.”
Sherlock smirks and narrows his eyes slightly as John blushes at his rather lame attempt.
"You made it," the man says with a bit more confidence as he wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist and tugs him in close. "That's all that matters."
Touche. Fast learner. Sherlock's mouth quirks as he takes a sip of his champagne and nods at John to do the same. Unlike Sherlock's rather delicate imbibing, John downs half of it in one go.
“Nervous flyer?” he asks, though for a former Army doctor, of course the answer is no.
John chuckles, knowing that Sherlock is not referring to the journey, but rather the destination. “Something like that.” His eyes roam in a quick up and down that is subtle yet not quite subtle enough. Sherlock is secretly pleased.
"Relax," he murmurs as he slides into the seat beside him and places a sturdy hand on John's thigh. It flexes beneath his palm.
John obviously finds him attractive and Sherlock reciprocates (in his own way) which will make this whole endeavor significantly more bearable.
“So…” John trails off and Sherlock lets him squirm for a moment before sighing into his flute with a not-entirely-fabricated smirk.
“We really must practice our small talk,” he murmurs. “Darling,” he adds as an afterthought and John blushes scarlet.
Sherlock pretends it’s not charming.
xxxxxx
John is so bloody fucked.
He knew this was an insane plan and that was before a sodding Adonis dropped onto the seat next to his and kissed him on the cheek.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It’s all well and good, actually, for Mission: Look-Good-In-Front-Of-Mary but fuck.
The Science of Deduction did not have a picture on its site and why the hell not when its admin looks like that? His voice alone was sinful enough, but Sherlock Holmes is six feet of alabaster glory and John is having a lot of trouble maintaining his composure.
He takes another gulp of champagne and briefly watches Andy Murray bollocks up Match Point.
Sherlock clears his throat and scoots his stool a shade closer, close enough that John can smell his cologne. It's delicious.
“Shall we go over rules?” the taller man asks quietly and John turns to him, well aware that his hand is still firm on his thigh.
“Rules?”
"For this," Sherlock clarifies. "Us."
"Ah, right, um, yes. Please." Wonderful, Watson.
Sherlock gives him a knowing look and John wants nothing more than to melt into a puddle beneath the bar.
"We've discussed price – "
"Right," John blurts, reaching into the bag at his feet and pulling out a thick envelope. "I didn't want to check it in my suitcase." He flops it down on the bar and Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard as he quickly pulls it into his lap, John’s surprised he didn’t do himself an injury. "You can count it."
"I trust you," that deep voice rumbles.
What, already? John thinks a little hysterically. That's not... usual. Then again, nothing about this is.
"Everything is fair game," the taller man begins perfunctorily. "Touching, endearments, and the like. But if we are to be intimate, I am to be paid in advance."
“That – that won’t be necessary,” John stammers. “I don’t pay for sex.”
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and slides the envelope of cash into his breast pocket. "Just wedding dates, then."
A wave of mortification crests over John’s face. “I am so sorry.” Idiot, idiot, idiot.
Sherlock flicks his hand as if batting the issue away and now John wants nothing more than to crawl under the bar and die. Could he screw this up any more?
“John, I believe you’ll find I’m not easily offended, which usually bodes well for family gatherings, especially when said extended family includes three homophobes, two racists, and an accountant."
“What? An accountant – ?” John starts to ask, but then Sherlock’s lips are pressed to his, thoroughly and effectively stealing every inane thought he might have had in his head.
His lips are soft and those long fingers come up to slide through John’s hair, carefully cupping his jaw in his large hand. The kiss is relatively chaste; perhaps a bit more lingering than one would engage in in public, but there are no tongues. No gasps. It’s not snogging – just a press and a hold to quiet the world. As if to say, ‘Relax. Breathe. I’m here to help.’
"This a boarding call for Virgin Atlantic Flight 21 en route to Washington Dulles International Airport…"
“I believe that’s our cue,” Sherlock murmurs, pulling away and offering a quick squeeze to his thigh once more.
John blinks and tries to remember how to breathe as the man flashes him an entirely too smug smile, slides off his stool, and holds his hand out.
John takes it numbly, noticing how his fingers automatically slide between Sherlock’s and bends down to grab his small bag and slide it over his shoulder.
“Have a safe flight,” someone in the Clubhouse tells him and he thinks he nods in thanks as he’s led out into the terminal.
He’s still not sure if this is the best or worst idea he’s ever had.
They are seated in the Upper Class suite and Sherlock watches with no shortage of amusement as John tries to keep his jaw from dropping to the floor. Their lounges are across from one another (and they are lounges, not seats, make no mistake) and Sherlock gestures toward the one on the right.
"Window?"
"You sure?" John asks and Sherlock shrugs indifferently.
"It's a view I've seen before."
“Thanks,” John replies. He’s been to America one other time in his life, but he doesn’t think he’ll get tired of watching one continent disappear as he flies toward another.
The cabin is doused in dark orange light, reminiscent of a sunset, and John drops his bag by his feet as he sits and promptly groans at how comfortable the damn thing is.
“Not bad, hm?” a flight attendant is asking with a warm smile as she hands him another glass of champagne.
“Not bad at all,” he replies as he closes his eyes, but not before catching Sherlock’s almost fond smile.
They are due to land at 3:50pm local time, 20:50 GMT. If he gets a nap in, he might be able to keep his eyes open through Harry and Clara's cocktail party this evening. But knowing that piercing gaze will be on him for the better part of eight hours will make sleep relatively elusive.
John cracks an eye open to watch Sherlock pull out a large tome from his bag and when he catches sight of the cover, he blanches:
The Complete History of Jack the Ripper: New Edition
He swallows hard and closes his eyes once more.
He can worry that his date is a potential serial killer later.
xxxxxx
Sherlock blinks his eyes open with a kind of lackadaisical irritation, surprised that they had closed to begin with. Napping, after all, is for the weak and useless.
His book is still resting on his lap, pages slightly crinkled from where he shifted in his sleep, and the flight attendant is looking at him like he did something potentially 'cute' while unconscious. Tedious.
He glances at his charge across the way and finds himself smiling, all frustration at his transport’s rebellion evaporating. John is curled up in the lounge, blanket tugged up to his chin and brow furrowed in some dream-induced displeasure. He looks younger like this - Unburdened. Not that he looks old, per se, just... weary. Sherlock can feel the plane's slow descent and he'll be damned if he lets a flight attendant wake John when he could have the pleasure.
"John?" he murmurs, mindful (for once) of their fellow passengers. "John, wake up."
"Hm?" The man shifts and pulls the blanket tighter. It is decidedly not adorable.
Sound sleeper, then. Sherlock files that away into his mind palace that is slowly filling with facts and details that make up one John Watson.
“Contact. Wait out,” he says in a clipped, militaristic tone and the army phrase seems to have the desired effect: John’s eyes snap open and he sits straight up, hair sticking every which way and eyes darting around the cabin for any sign of enemy fire.
The tactic was perhaps a bit cruel, but useful all the same.
“Oh,” John murmurs when he realizes he’s still onboard Virgin Atlantic’s finest. “Sorry – thought I heard something.”
Sherlock smiles into his lap and goes about packing his bag once more. “We’re landing in a few minutes.”
“Right,” John replies, scrubbing a hand over his face and surreptitiously checking his breath. He jumps when Sherlock tosses him the kit that comes with every first class seat, complete with socks, toothbrush, toothpaste, tissues, and earplugs.
John mock glares, but his eyes thank him all the same. He peers into the pocket at the side of his lounge and finds his own kit, tossing it to Sherlock in return as he stands and disappears into the loo.
Sherlock watches him go and wonders why flirting with this relatively unassuming man is so much easier than with the rest of his clients.
The landing is smooth and baggage claim less chaotic than most, though the star-spangled paraphernalia is a bit over the top, owing most likely to the upcoming Memorial Day holiday.
They exit into the oppressive Washington DC humidity and thankfully don’t have to walk far to their chauffeured car. The chauffeured car that John didn’t realize came with Upper Class if the look of wonder on his face is anything to go by.
They just manage to beat the city’s rush hour as they escape towards the Bay, but John has not said a word in approximately seventeen minutes and that will not do.
“John, do calm down. Your anxiety levels have risen 37 percent since we landed.”
The man smirks, but continues staring out the window as they cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge – a feat of engineering even Sherlock Holmes can admit is unlike anything he’s ever seen in England. “Easier said than done,” John murmurs before sighing heavily. “I should probably warn you: my family is insane.”
“Most are.”
“Not like this.”
Sherlock tears his gaze away from the blue depths hundreds of meters below their car, gazes straight into John’s eyes, and takes a deep breath:
“Your twin sister, Harriet, is a recovering alcoholic. Born seven minutes before you, she likes to pretend you need protecting when in reality, you’ve pulled her out of more bars than she’ll ever care to admit. She’s been with Clara off and on for the better part of seven years. They met at a bar where your deployment party was being held. You joined the army because they needed doctors and you had just graduated from medical school. Your parents had passed and there was nothing keeping you at home, save your sister. You conducted two tours, fought bravely in either Afghanistan or Iraq, still not sure which one, were invalided home, and decorated. Harry and Clara dated throughout your deployment, and upon your return, they threw you a party in an effort to rouse you from the epic depression you had fallen into. Which brings us to your ex, whom you’re still in love with. Mary Morstan – friends with Clara since university and invited to the party. You hit it off, dated for two years, proposed, and then she broke it off last year without any explanation. You still harbor intense feelings for her and yet you’re a prideful man, which is why you called me to attend this wedding as your date, seeing as you are the Best Man and Mary is the Maid of Honor. Did I miss anything?” he asks, drawing a long breath. “Oh, and you have a great aunt who means well, likes her gin, and knows nothing about anything I just said.”
He finally glances over to find John staring at him, absolutely slack-jawed. “That was…”
Sherlock holds his breath, bracing for the blow. He usually doesn’t let himself go like that while on a job. Stupid.
“… brilliant.”
His head snaps up and his lips pop open.
“Absolutely brilliant.” John is shaking his head with an unbelieving smile on his face. “How…?”
“I read your dossier,” he lies and John frowns.
“I didn’t give you a dossier.”
“No, you didn’t,” he replies and leaves it at that; just waiting for inevitable berating. He’s learned that people generally don’t like their lives flayed open for the world to see.
John’s eyes narrow knowingly, but he turns and glances out the window once more but, as they leave highways behind for back roads, the tongue-lashing doesn’t come.
Strange.
A long stretch of silence descends until John voice breaks it minutes later.
“You said I’m still in love with her.” It’s not a question and Sherlock is honestly not sure if he’s expected to answer.
“Aren’t you?” It comes out more unsure than he means it to.
But John doesn’t reply and, for the first time on a trip full of not-unpleasant surprises, Sherlock feels a step behind.
xxxxxx
John’s fingers tap out a staccato beat that gets more and more uneven the closer to town they get. They’re passing lush farmlands under a clear blue sky and yet the sound of the bay is just on the other side of the tree line. Best of both worlds, really.
But though the scenery is gorgeous and the air fresh, his stomach churns with every kilometer they pass.
Sherlock has been silent ever since his frankly frightening and entirely accurate assessment and John is adrift, unsure what to do about the complex and conflicting emotions wreaking havoc on his system. The man to his right is an anomaly - as complex and mysterious and alluring as anything John has ever encountered. It's terrifying.
They reach the town proper, a quaint thing full of brick sidewalks, tiny streets, and old (by American standards) architecture, boasting its Revolutionary War history and its seafood in equal measure.
Sherlock scoffs beside him the welcome sign. “The town that fooled the British’? Really?”
John smiles as he reads the slogan. “Let the colonies have their victory.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and John finds himself reaching over and squeezing the fingers resting on the leather seat between them. He doesn’t, however, expect Sherlock to squeeze back.
The hotel (or rather the compound) is on the other side of the village and the speed limit is slow enough for John to clock the stores they pass – an ice cream shop, a crab joint, a pub that’s clearly been here nearly as long as the town itself – and before he knows it, the car is turning into the driveway of a gorgeous white colonial mansion turned inn.
“Christ almighty,” he mutters. He knew Clara’s family were rich, but jesus.
“Tiny gathering, is it?” Sherlock asks and John dissolves into giggles as Sherlock follows shortly after.
“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” he says as the car comes to a stop.
“And you invaded Afghanistan.”
“I thought you didn’t know which it was,” John teases and Sherlock smiles.
“Lucky guess.”
“Liar.”
Sherlock’s smile sobers for a bit as he deliberately takes John’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. John's breath hitches in his chest. Showtime, then.
“Shall we?” he asks, but John can only nod as he opens the door and attempts to find his sea legs. He has a feeling he’ll be needing them this weekend as he listens to the sailboat halyards bang against their masts in the breeze.
Their driver helps them with their bags and they barely make to the front desk before a voice he knows only too well cries out through the lobby.
“John Hamish Watson!”
“Oh Christ, gird your loins,” John mutters with a deep inhale, before plastering a large smile on his face and turning around.
“Aunt Adelaide!” he greets with a kiss to each cheek.
“I can’t believe you made it!” she cries, grabbing his chin and wiggling it back and forth as if he were five.
“So little faith in me?”
“Only in your ability to face your problems.”
“Ta, Aunt Adelaide,” he grimaces, but allows her to tug him down and place another lipsticked kiss to his forehead.
“You’re late – ”
“I’m aware.”
“The party started an hour ago.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to discuss the flight schedule next time Richard Branson and I have tea.”
“You’re teasing,” she glares and he laughs.
“Yes.”
“It’s rude to tease a woman of my age.”
“My apologies,” he replies almost sincerely as he wraps his arms around her in a genuine hug. Adelaide is just on the far side of 80 and is his last remaining relative on his mother’s side. She looked after Harry and him as best she could when their mother died and though she may bear the title of aunt, she’s more grandmother than anything else.
“Oh my dear boy,” she murmurs, pulling away and cupping his cheeks. “And to think Mary is the Maid of Honor...”
He stiffens in her arms and feels Sherlock press ever so slightly closer to his back. “Yes, Aunt Adelaide.”
“This should have been your wedding – ”
“Have you met Sherlock?” he blurts, interrupting her morose and entirely unhelpful what-ifs as he grabs Sherlock’s arm and tugs him forward, slipping an arm around his waist.
Adelaide frowns and glances between them as John holds his breath. This shouldn’t be too much of a shock to her. She’d known about James, despite his attempts to keep it from her and she was fine then. She even still asks about him from time to time, but to see it right in front of her? Well…
“Sherlock?” she asks with a tilt of her head, gaze snapping to the taller man beside him.
“My – ” John flounders. They didn’t discuss this.
“Partner,” Sherlock swoops in with a winning smile and kiss to Aunt Adelaide’s hand, which has her positively swooning. “Pleasure,” he murmurs. “I’ve heard an awful lot about you."
“Don’t you dare believe a word he tells you,” she giggles, completely smitten.
“Only good things, I assure you,” Sherlock smoothly replies and it’s all John can do not to roll his eyes.
“Okay, we’re just going to get changed – ”
“Nonsense! Your gentleman looks great!” Adelaide says, swatting John gently on the arm as Sherlock’s cheeks go a bit pink.
“Aunt Adelaide, we just got off a very long flight. Give us ten minutes.”
She side-eyes him. “Fine, but if Harry finds out that you got here and didn’t immediately run to her side – ”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be drawn and quartered.”
“As long as you know,” she relents as she pinches his cheek one last time and disappears around the corner.
“Sorry,” John begins, relinquishing his hold on Sherlock’s waist, “she’s a bit…”
“Fascinating,” Sherlock finishes. “Did you know she volunteered in a WWII hospital as a child? No wonder you became a doctor, what with her influence.”
John stares at him. “How do you do that?”
But Sherlock merely shrugs, picks up their bags and heads down the hall, leaving John to get their keys from a highly amused concierge.
“Speaking of… we should go over our story," Sherlock is saying by the time John catches up to him.
“Speaking of what?” he asks. “What story?”
“Our history, have you not been listening?”
“You left me to get the bloody key!”
“Oh.” Sherlock shrugs and stops at a door. “I believe this is us.”
“I – ” John pauses and looks down at the card the concierge handed him. “How could you possibly know that? Did you mindmeld her?”
Sherlock’s eyes widen innocently. “Merely read the computer screen while you were having an existential crisis about your aunt possibly developing late-in-life homophobic tendencies.”
“Oh my God," John blurts in irritated wonder as Sherlock groans.
“Just open the door. Your bag is heavy.”
“No one said you had to carry it.”
“It’s what partners do, isn’t it?”
“Just get in,” John huffs as he shoves the key in the slot and pushes the door open to reveal a beautiful room outfitted in creams and navys and tasteful nautical décor.
“As I was saying,” Sherlock grunts as he drops the bags on the floor at the foot of the bed. “We need a story. How we met, how long we’ve been together, etc.”
“Right,” John nods, rubbing his suddenly clammy palms against his trousers and wondering how many of these fabrications Sherlock has concocted with others. “We met – ”
“At your hospital. I had injured myself and you treated me. People love that sort of thing.”
John reins in his bitter scoff. Of course they do. “How did you injure yourself?”
“Slice to my bicep from a potential mugger.”
“That’s… dramatic,” John replies, frowning.
“Even have the scar to prove it,” Sherlock replies as he unbuttons his shirt and air raid sirens go off in John’s head.
“What – what are you doing?”
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow as he slips it off and puts it in the handy dry cleaning bag hanging on the closet doorknob. “Changing. Freshening up. That is what you told your aunt we’d be doing, isn’t it?”
Watson, you idiot. “Right, yes. ‘Course.” He gets to work on his own buttons and curses his shaking fingers. Sure enough, there's a scar on Sherlock's (incredibly toned) bicep. The man is fit. Very, very fit and John can’t help but be self-conscious of the exit wound on his back as he strips off his own shirt, followed by his vest.
“I figured it was the left,” the soft murmur comes a moment later and John laughs, but a sudden wave of emotion steals the humor from his voice.
Jesus, he really needs to get himself together.
“May I?” Sherlock asks, so cautiously, and John nods, biting his lip. Thank God they aren’t facing each other.
The pad of the man’s long finger traces the edge of the scar oh so gently and he feels pressure, but no feeling as he grazes the epicenter of John’s damaged nerves.
“How close did you come?”
“To dying?” It’s not the question he had been expecting. Then again, John isn’t sure what was.
“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.
“Very.”
Abruptly, Sherlock’s hand drops, breaking the spell, and John keeps trying to find it again as he reapplies deodorant, washes his face, combs his hair, and pulls on a fresh suit.
“Ready?” he asks and Sherlock levels a knowing glance at him in turn as he smoothes down the front of his aubergine (damn the man) shirt.
“I should be asking you that.”
“I’m fine,” John replies even as his stomach lurches.
Come on, man, you invaded Afghanistan, he thinks as he kicks his shoulders back and reaches for the door handle, thoroughly ignoring the inviting king sized bed in the middle of the room. He can have that particular panic attack later.
“You can do this,” Sherlock murmurs with a hand on his shoulder and it shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.
But he can. He can do this.
He opens the door just in time for a blur of man-shaped pastel to go flying past, shouting, “Come back here, you asshole!”
The men stand in the door for a moment and wait for anyone else to join the chase.
“I thought the American elite were supposed to be more cultured than that,” Sherlock mutters and John snorts at the thought of Clara’s family being classified as ‘elite’ anything. Drinkers? Maybe. Sailors? Definitely. Their manners may be refined, but their grasp of the English language is decidedly colloquial.
“Half are American. Half are English. And each likes to blame the other for the fall of the British Empire.”
“Ah,” Sherlock replies as if that makes total sense and perhaps it does. Clara’s family are just as crazy as what’s left of John’s, but he adores them all the same.
They follow the sounds of a cocktail party in full swing and barely make it around the corner before thin arms are wrapping around his neck and the scent of familiar perfume engulfs him.
“My dear, dear John,” Olivia Collins trills as she squeezes him. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Another shout filters in from the lawn through the open window followed by another expletive.
“Sounds like you’re pretty far into it to me,” he laughs as he pulls away and places a kiss on Clara’s mother’s cheek.
“Let me get a good look at you.” She steps back and holds his arms out, inspecting him up and down as any good mother would. “Could do with some more meat on your bones, but you look well enough,” she replies with a wink. “Your aunt said you were here with a strapping young man and I see, for once, Adelaide did not exaggerate. Hello, I’m Olivia Collins, mother of the bride. Well, one of them.”
John steps aside as Sherlock takes his place with a warm smile (more sincere than when he’d kissed Aunt Adelaide) and shakes her hand. “Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” she repeats. “What a wonderfully fabulous name.”
Indeed, John can’t help but think.
“Well, welcome,” she says as she continues holding Sherlock’s hand and grabs John’s in her other. “Now, this is a marathon, not a sprint. We have cocktails today and tomorrow is young people on the Bay – ”
Sherlock makes a noise and John glances at him over Olivia’s head. “Young people on the Bay?” he mouths and John shrugs as they’re yanked into an adjacent room by a still chattering Olivia.
“You missed stags and hens – well, hens and hens, I suppose, and hopefully after tonight, the jetlag will have worn off.” She giggles before waving her hand at the controlled chaos around them. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
In fact, it rather is. It looks like Dionysus is hosting a party catered by Fortnum & Mason and outfitted by Brooks Brothers. People are milling about in their finery as a particularly enthusiastic game of croquet is being played on the lawn. The bar is well-stocked and the boats gently rock in their slips with the waves. The banquet hall's French doors open onto the patio where a tent has been erected on the grass, outfitted in hundreds and hundreds of fairy lights.
It’s rather… wonderful, actually.
“We’ve taken over the hotel,” Olivia murmurs, as if sharing some big secret. “We figured we couldn’t subject civilians to this lot.”
But before he can reply, a familiar voice is yelling, “You jackass,” and John spins just in time to catch his sister as she hurls herself at him. “Aunt Adelaide said you were here!” She squeezes him tight and he squeezes back, finding a shocking amount of comfort in the embrace.
“Hi,” he grins as he pulls away and places her on the ground once more.
“Hi,” she replies, cheeky smile firmly in place.
“You look beautiful.”
Her smile widens and she spins in her pale blue dress, before tugging him closer. “Don’t tell Clara. I put up enough of a stink about having to wear this frilly thing, I don’t want her to know I actually enjoy it.”
“Our secret,” he replies, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear as her ever-knowing eyes dart over his shoulder.
“And who might this be?” she asks saucily and he glances heavenward. This is the Harry he knows: about as far from tactful and demure as you can get.
“Sherlock Holmes,” the man says, offering Harry one hand while settling the other on John’s lower back.
“Charmed,” she replies with a wink and Sherlock chuckles.
“Down, girl,” John drawls and Sherlock presses a kiss to his temple, causing his breath to hitch.
Harry’s gaze darts between the two of them, and John knows that this is the test. If they can fool his twin, they’re in the clear.
“You never told me about him,” she mock complains, but there’s an undercurrent of a challenge there.
“Didn’t want to distract you from the big day,” John replies. Sherlock’s arm tightens around his waist and he subtly leans into the other man's chest. Please, Harry. Just leave it be. She opens her mouth to no doubt ask a slew of questions, but before the first one is even past her lips, someone is calling for her.
Harry groans and shouts “In a minute!” over her shoulder. “Well, Sherlock, welcome to the family. We’re all nutters. Apologies in advance.” She steps forward and kisses him on the cheek. “And you,” she says, poking John in the chest. “We’re going to chat about this,” she waves her finger in a loop between the two of them, “later.”
“I’ll pencil it in.”
She glares at him before stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug once more. “Oh I have missed you.”
“Missed you too, kiddo.”
“I’m older.”
“By seven minutes.”
She swats the back of his head, presses another kiss to his cheek and one on Sherlock’s for good measure before dashing off to do her bridely duties.
“That was Harry,” Sherlock murmurs.
“That was Harry,” John confirms with a fond smile before more arms wrap around him from behind. He cranes his neck, but hears Clara’s giggle before he sees her.
“Brother,” she greets with a squeeze and he places his hand over hers on his chest.
“Sister. Get around here and give me a proper hug.”
Clara slides under his arm and wraps her arms around his neck.
John swallows hard once more because for as much as he claims not to have much in the way of family, he thinks he’s gotten more hugs in the last five minutes than he has in the last five years.
“Congratulations," he murmurs with a low chuckle. "You sure you know what you’re doing?”
Clara turns and watches Harry talk animatedly to an uncle of some sort. “Yep. I do,” she grins before her gaze too finds Sherlock.
“Sorry, Clara, this is Sherlock. My partner.” He congratulates himself on not faltering on the title.
“Hi,” Clara smiles, taking his hand enthusiastically before shaking her head and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Anyone good enough for Johnny here is good enough for me.”
Sherlock grins as John groans. “Christ, she’s got you calling me that, too? I’ll kill her.”
“Not before Saturday, please,” Clara instructs as she grabs their arms and leads them over to the bar. “Now what’ll it be?”
“G&T,” John says wearily as Sherlock murmurs, “Two please.”
John takes a moment with Sherlock at his back and Clara complaining about bouquets to observe the brides. They make quite a pair, he notes, with Harry’s dirty blonde coloring contrasting nicely with Clara’s dark brunette. Harry has round features and soft curls, while Clara is a bit more pointed beneath the blunt line of her fringe. They complement each other perfectly.
Clara turns to give her order to the bartender and John leans back into Sherlock’s chest once more.
“You all right?” he asks lowly.
“Fine, why?”
“You’ve been quiet.”
“Just observing,” he whispers, pressing another kiss into John’s hair. It’s rapidly (and worryingly) becoming his favorite thing.
“Isn’t he handsome?” Harry giggles as she appears out of nowhere and throws an arm around Clara.
“Yes, quite,” Clara replies, brown eyes twinkling as she gazes at the pair of them. “How did you meet?”
“At John’s hospital,” Sherlock replies, pressing close to John’s back and letting his thumb brush his nape. John takes a gulp of his drink just to calm his beating heart.
“Oh, are you a doctor?”
“No, consulting detective,” Sherlock replies without missing a beat and John works as hard as he ever has to school his face into some sort of expression that shows this isn’t news to him.
What the hell is a consulting detective?
“What the hell is a consulting detective?” Harry asks and John snorts his gin. God bless his sister.
Sherlock glares at him, but John smiles innocently.
“I help the police when they’re out of their depth, which is always.”
“Fascinating,” Clara responds, but Harry frowns.
“But how’d you get in hospital then?”
“Failed mugging. John here patched me up.”
He knows they have a winning story when both of the girls’ hands come up to cover their mouths and they make a noise that sounds remarkably like ‘aw.’
“Told you,” Sherlock murmurs into his ear and John shivers, but attempts to glare anyway.
“Is that John Watson I see?” a deep voice calls and John turns, smiling widely.
“Elliot.”
“The good doctor,” Clara’s father greets warmly, pulling John into a hug.
“Daddy, John brought a boy home,” Clara singsongs and John glares in her direction.
“Very adult of you.”
“I know,” she grins.
Elliot Collins turns an imperious eye on the pair of them and he’s an imposing man to begin with. There’s a reason he has a direct line to the Oval Office and John swallows, taking no comfort in the fact that Sherlock has gone stock still beside him.
“I hear this is Sherlock Holmes,” Elliot replies with an over-serious eyebrow arch as he reaches out and firmly shakes Sherlock’s hand. The charade is short-lived though as he lets out a booming laugh and claps Sherlock heartily on the shoulder, all smiles. “Welcome, truly. Though I fear I should offer a warning for what you’re about to witness this weekend.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad,” Harry drawls as Elliot’s eyes twinkle just like his daughter’s.
“If you need anything at all, you just let me know.”
“We will,” both he and Sherlock answer at once causing a giggle from the girls and a knowing glance from the man in front of them.
“Testing one, two. Is this thing on?” Olivia’s voice echoes through the doors from the lawn and Clara groans.
“Oh sweet Jesus. Who gave that woman a mic?” Clara grabs her father and stalks off to save the guests from her mother’s ramblings.
“Be right back,” Sherlock murmurs, drifting away towards the open door to the veranda and the lawn beyond, giving John and Harry their much-needed moment alone.
“So,” Harry begins, sidling up to John and crossing her arms over her chest.
“Lay it on me,” he sighs.
“Where did you find him?”
“Classifieds,” he replies, congratulating himself on a joke that’s not really a lie.
Harry laughs and nudges him in the side before turning uncharacteristically serious. “He makes you happy?”
John swallows and watches as Sherlock studies whatever game the croquet has turned into. It seems to be some combination of cricket, baseball, and snooker.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Mary didn’t bring anyone,” Harry quietly informs him and John starts as something sharp pangs deep within him.
Mary. One reunion that has yet to happen.
And only then does John realize that he hasn’t even been looking for her.
xxxxxx
The ball goes flying into the water and Sherlock watches with no shortage of amusement as the younger generation on the lawn all rain verbal beatings down on the man that hit it into the bay.
“It wasn’t my fault!” the man, who bears a shocking resemblance to Elliot, cries. Clara’s brother, he deduces.
“Mr. Holmes,” Adelaide begins as she joins Sherlock on the patio, glass of champagne in hand.
Sherlock opens his mouth to reply before realizing that she was never introduced to him as anything other than ‘Aunt Adelaide.’ And he certainly can’t call her that.
“Call me ‘Adelaide,’ dear,” she says with a chuckle. “It’s really not that hard.”
He nods in her direction and clinks his G&T against her flute.
“So you’re the boy who’s captured my John’s heart,” she continues and Sherlock stiffens.
“Luckily for me, yes,” he replies, feeling an inordinate amount of guilt, lying to this old woman. But why should he? Sherlock has lied to countless people in his life, including people he’s claimed to love. Why is this any different?
Because it is.
And the reason why comes strolling over a moment later.
“All right?” John asks, sliding a hand across Sherlock’s shoulder blades.
“Quite,” he replies, managing a smile.
“Aunt Adelaide,” John chides, “you haven’t been telling him childhood stories, have you?”
“Oh, dearie, have I got a few for you!” Adelaide claps her hands together and John groans to the sky.
“You brought that on yourself, you know,” Sherlock chuckles and John presses his face into the taller man’s shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah,” he huffs, breath hot even through Sherlock’s suit as he presses a quick kiss to his jaw. “Loo break.”
Sherlock hums a response and watches him go, wondering why the breeze seems just a bit cooler the further away he walks.
Adelaide doesn’t seem to notice.
“So, when John was five…”
xxxxxx
The hallway is blessedly quiet and John places his empty gin glass on an abandoned tray, sympathizing with the poor sods who have to clean up after this rambunctious lot.
And it’s that thought that has him distracted enough that when he turns the corner to go into the men’s room, he, of course, runs smack into his ex-fiancée.
“Mary,” he blurts, steadying himself on her shoulders as she grips his arms.
“John,” she breathes, blonde hair falling into her eyes. “Um…” she steps forward and they awkwardly fumble through a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, sorry!”
“Good to see you,” he says and he means it. It has been a while and she does look… good.
“You too,” she replies warmly. “How’ve you been?”
“Good, good,” he nods. “Hope I didn’t bang you up too badly there.”
“No, no,” she smiles, brushing her hair out of her face once more. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Right.”
“When did you get in?” she asks, but before he can answer, the doors at the end of the hall blow open in an entrance only Clara’s ridiculous brother Alec could make.
“John! You are needed urgently!” he calls. “Someone is bleeding! Stitches are required!”
“What the hell?” he manages as Alec grabs hold of his elbow and steers him in the opposite direction. “I do actually have to pee, you know.”
“Tough. Lives are at stake.” He has Elliot’s looks, but Olivia’s mischievousness, which is probably why he and John immediately got on like a house on fire.
They make it back to the lounge area where the front desk is, but John hears no wailing and sees no trail of blood.
“Alec, who’s dying?”
“What?” Alec turns, already picking a champagne glass off a passing tray. “Oh, no one. Just wanted to get you away from her.”
“I don’t need you to save me from Mary, you git,” John grounds out, punching the man none-too-gently in the shoulder.
“I’m saving you from yourself, you wanker,” Alex replies, punching back just as hard. “Especially when you came here with the likes of him,” he says, nodding towards Sherlock standing on the patio where John left him. “I don’t play for your team, but goddammit, if I did?” He shakes his head and looks at John’s date like a medium rare filet mignon.
“You sure you don’t play for my team?” John teases and Alec elbows him in the ribs.
“Well, you play for both teams, which is really just downright greedy.”
“That’s what Harry says.”
“And she’s usually right,” Alec replies, before looking stricken. “Don’t tell her I said that.”
“Trust me. Harry does not need a bigger ego than the one she already has.”
“True enough.” Alec raises his glass and downs it in one. “But you’re good?”
“You ask me that now, you tosser? After you manhandle me – ”
“Save you,” Alec clarifies and John laughs, clapping him on the back.
“Yeah, I’m good. I think I’m good.” He glances over at Sherlock again, and attempts to ignore the fluttering in his chest. It goes away like a flame doused in water though when Mary appears at his side.
“Oh fuck,” he murmurs, an epithet that Alec repeats when he follow’s John’s gaze.
“Nothing about that can end well.”
They’re through the hall and onto the patio faster than John thought possible. He vaguely notices Alec hanging back and waiting to see how he handles this (not well at all, obviously) as he steps in between Sherlock and Mary and pulls Sherlock’s lips down onto his own.
It’s petty and juvenile and necessary.
The man makes a noise of surprise before sinking into the embrace. John traces his thumb across that ridiculous cheekbone and feels the curve of Sherlock’s smile against his lips.
“All right?”
“Yes.” Sherlock frowns. “You?”
“You’re here with him?” comes Mary’s high, reedy voice and only then does Sherlock stiffen and pull away, an indiscernible expression on his face.
Fuck.
Sherlock’s cerulean gaze is clocking John and Mary and Mary’s reaction to John with a rapidity that makes it quite clear that no detail is going unnoticed. Clearly photographs weren’t a part of the so-called dossier that he’d gone over.
“Sherlock, this is Mary,” John begins rather shakily. “Mary, Sherlock. My – ” but the word deserts him again.
“Partner,” Sherlock supplies and John wonders if he imagined the melancholy in Sherlock’s tone. Judging by the lines around Sherlock’s eyes, he did not.
“Right,” Mary replies, gaze darting between them as she takes Sherlock’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” she murmurs, clearly hurt, and John feels like the biggest heel in the world.
Because he’s not sure which hurt he’s most sorry for: Mary’s or Sherlock’s.
xxxxxx
Sherlock is sluggish as he gets ready for bed that evening. Part of it is the jetlag, part the alcohol, and part something he has no desire to investigate. It’s a longing he doesn’t want and a desire he doesn’t need.
He pulls the covers back and slips into bed, listening to John hum a sad Beatles tune in the shower.
This day was revealing on multiple levels, but two conclusions stick out above all others:
- John may or may not be over Mary.
- Mary is definitely not over John.
Which of course brings him to an errant third:
Why does it make him ache like it does?
The Inn:
