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Sherlock… was enjoying this. Something that really shocked John, though if he thought closely, he didn’t know why. Sherlock was a vain git, he could spend hours just looking at himself in the mirror, not that John would blame him. John would spend all day looking at that marvelous face too if he could.
John supposed, in the end, it was good that Sherlock enjoyed this so much, because he sure as hell didn’t. When Sherlock (and Mycroft, how predictable) would sit on their couch together pouring over color scheme samples and prattling on about flowers and pocket squares and ties vs bow ties and waistcoats and… God, a million other thing, John would have to pull on every reserve of patience he had. When, god forbid, Sherlock would turn to him holding up two shades of blue (which John could swear were almost the exact same) and ask his opinion, John would mentally scramble for an answer and resist the urge to dash from the flat.
Oh, don’t get him wrong, it’s not at all that he didn’t want to marry Sherlock, or that he didn’t care about their wedding. He did, but everything seemed so big. There where thousands of choices to be made, a million colors to pick, guests to invite, strange wedding traditions he didn’t understand that he was meant to follow. A whole new world of etiquette and expectations. Why, if John had it his way, he and Sherlock would have just put on their best suits and skipped on down to the courthouse, then come straight back to Baker Street for sex so loud it would make Mrs. Turner next door turn scarlet.
This was far more work. And dear God above, they’d barely been at this for four months. In that time Sherlock had finally gotten his casts removed and was still doing physical therapy to regain full mobility. It had turned into a game for them because Sherlock was a stubborn arse who would avoid listening to anyone else at all costs. But with a bit of creativity, John had figured out some interesting ways to ensure Sherlock was begging for physical therapy. John smiled smugly to himself at the memory of Sherlock stretching his foot and doing toe-ups while John greedily suckled at his hard cock. The burn of atrophied muscles had been just enough discomfort to kept Sherlock right on the edge for a glorious hour. It was one of the best hours of Johns life.
They had taken up cases again, but now only John got the end say. He hated having that responsibility. Truthfully, he couldn’t tell which of the safe cases would annoy Sherlock and which were going to engage his attention. Though, to be fair to himself, he felt he was getting better at it. The light cases and wedding planning had been enough to keep Sherlock from being a danger to himself or shooting up the wall, so John counted the whole affair as a win.
But if John was honest, all of that was currently at the back of his mind. As Sherlock sat on the floor in front of their coffee table, carefully watching an instructional video on napkin folding (“Sydney or swan, John?” He’d asked earlier to a baffled ex-army medic) and Mycroft flipped quickly through a color palette book, comparing samples at lightning speed, John just wanted a walk. He wanted a pint, actually, but he’d been trying to cut back. He knew he didn’t drink to excess, just a pint or 3 a week, and he never got drunk, but could anyone blame him for fear of still becoming his father? John bit his lip anxiously and twisted his own engagement ring around and around on his finger. It was a dark gold color and had the chemical formula for love engraved along the inside. Sherlock had it hand made by a man who “owed him a favor” when he was unable to find anything suitable online or in the high street shops.
As if reading his mind both Holmes brothers eyes flashed up to him. He froze for a moment, feeling a bit like a mouse waiting for a cat to pounce. After a long moment of analyzing him head to toe, the brothers moved simultaneously. God, that was creepy, as much as the brothers argued and bickered, they both stayed in perfect sync. They often moved so similarly, so seamlessly, that it gave John the shivers. Mycroft shifted his gaze back to the two swatches in his hand (Gunmetal blue, which John didn’t even know was a color name, and one called Yale blue), at the same time Sherlock shifted so he was facing John more completely, his hands steepled under his chin as he appraised his fiancé.
“You’re restless.” Sherlock finally stated.
“I’m fine,” John replied, far too quickly. Mycroft shot him an exasperated look at the obvious lie and Sherlock lifted one eyebrow as if to say, “why do you even try?”. John shifted a bit.
“It’s not… I’m just… bored is all.” John finished lamely, it was close enough to the truth that Mycroft looked away and back to the swatches at hand, holding them against the already chosen grey shade called “Lava” (why on earth it was called Lava, John could never guess. Why did all these colors have such weird names?) but Sherlock, knowing his lover much more fully, was not fooled.
“Go,” he said finally, his voice gentle, “take a walk. I think Garrett-“
“Greg” both Mycroft and John corrected at once in an automatic manner.
“Greg,” Sherlock conceded begrudgingly, “is on his lunch break. He’ll be at the pub on Shefford, Shefford?” he looked back to his brother for confirmation. Mycroft hummed in agreement. “Go eat with him. I’ll find a case when you get back.”
God bless Sherlock Holmes, John thought as he rose from his seat. He always knew exactly what John needed, usually before John even knew he needed it, but then again, wasn’t he the same way with Sherlock? He knew how to make the man stay functional on a case, he knew how to keep the good days good and most importantly he knew how to care for Sherlock on the bad ones. This, John supposed as he slipped into his coat, is just how two people perfectly suited for each other worked. They knew each other inside and out; they knew what the other person was thinking or wanting or needing before the other person even had to voice such desires.
As John readied to leave and meet his future brother-in-law at the pub near NSY, he paused to lay a kiss upon Sherlock's brow. “Thank you, love,” he murmured against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock lifted his head, leaning into the soldier like a cat. As John pulled away, he couldn’t help reminding his lover, “no leg work cases,” in a rather stern voice. Sherlock just smiled mischievously and brushed him off.
The pub wasn’t too crowded, what with it being the middle of a weekday. Still, John had to look around for a moment before he saw Lestrade. He was sitting at a two top, absently watching the footie replay on the telly as he sipped at his pint and picked at his fish and chips. John smiled as he approached the table and Lestrade turned his gaze to him. The elder man’s face lit up as he smiled. It was easy to see what drew Mycroft in during these softer moments, John thought as he approached his friend.
“Hey, mate, how you been?” Greg asked, wiping his hands on a napkin before offering it to John. John shook his hand, clapping him warmly on the back and smiling.
“Good, good. Mycroft’s over at the flat. They’re looking at swatches. It’s been nothing but wedding planning for weeks.” John groaned as he sat at the second chair, waving over a waitress and ordering the same meal as Greg. Greg gave him a sympathetic look as the waitress swiftly retreated behind the counter.
“I feel ya, mate.” Greg sighed and shook his head, “the wedding planning is a right horror show, it is. I swear those Holmes boys…” he trailed off and meaningfully rolled his eyes, John grinned in understanding.
“Dear god, you’re telling me. I didn’t know there where so many shades of blue, and good god like I care what the napkins look like?”
“Yea well, they’re vain gits, aren’t they? All that time spent on their clothes and hair, it’s no wonder they spend so much time on the big day.” Greg shrugged.
John picked at his chips after the waitress swiftly set them down. He thought for a moment before chewing on one thoughtfully, “Did you hate it?” he finally asked. Greg cocked his head in confusion, silently asking John to expand. John took a swig of his drink and sighed. “The wedding? I mean, I guess not the day of, and not the actually getting married, being with them forever bit, but the planning? The way they get so consumed in it, all the millions of tiny choices? How big it all gets for no reason?” John asked.
“Oh, god yea.” Greg laughed, nodding with a smile. “I hated every damned second of it. Honestly, the first time around, ok, whatever. I had a wife, she cared about the dresses and the flowers and all that other shite. I dunno why I thought it’d be different with a bloke. Honestly, Myc is so reserved I think a part of me thought we’d just quietly do the whole civil partnership thing, you know? Just, go on down to the courthouse and have it be done, exchange the rings, run off for a week to somewhere secluded and go at it like rabbits, change our names, call it good.”
John sighed in relief, “Honestly, I’d be just as happy doing that, and I think Sherlock would too. I can’t tell if he’s doing all this because he wants to, like, he actually wants us to go through all this fuss or because that’s what he expects he’s supposed to want, you know? I kind of worry he’s doing this for me, trying to make all of it as normal as possible.”
“Well, hell mate,” Greg shrugged, “just ask him? It’s not like any of us will ever know what in the seven hells goes on in a Holmes' brain,” Greg scoffed.
John nodded thoughtfully as they continued on chatting over their lunch as he debated how to broach the topic now, four months into planning.
When he returned home, feeling much more relaxed and at ease, Mycroft was gone. Sherlock had cleared away all the swatches and everything else, he was now on Johns’ laptop (the new one Sherlock had gotten him for his birthday because apparently, his old one wasn’t good enough anymore), sifting through cases on their website.
“Cheating lover, missing cat, stolen jewelry, lover, lover, dead friend, lover, lover. Dear god John,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes, “why are so many people clueless about their lovers’ misgivings?”
John shrugged as he hung up his coat, “Most people don’t want to admit that the people they love are betraying them. It’s a hard thing to deal with.” Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance and muttered about the frailty of the general population.
John left his fiancé to it as he puttered about the kitchen making a pot of tea. It was so bizarre to no longer have to dance around Sherlock's chemistry sets. No strange body parts in the fridge, no dangerous chemicals left to be mixed into edible foods, no eyeballs in the mugs, just a neat, tidy kitchen. Sherlock had taken a shine to the idea of having a privet room for all his experiments, though there was a small armchair in the corner reserved for John. Sometimes the soldier would drift up with him and they would chat comfortably while Sherlock worked on some mindless experiment which only required half his attention and John edited their blog, reading out cases for his fiancé to choose from.
John smiled to himself as he took the two mugs into the living room, setting one at Sherlock's side table and curling himself around the other in his own armchair. After another moment Sherlock snapped the laptop closed and looked at him, assessing.
“Ok,” he finally said, “what’s going on?”
John instantly looked away and shrugged guiltily. Sherlock's mouth turned down in displeasure and he huffed in annoyance. “Fine,” he sighed in a long-suffering voice, “shall I just deduce it?” he lifted an eyebrow, challenging the doctor, and John cringed, god help him, no.
“It’s nothing,” John started. Sherlock raised one eyebrow again, highly unimpressed, “look I just… Don’t take this the wrong way but… I don’t care.” John finally huffed out.
“About…?” Sherlock prodded.
“The… the wedding. I mean, no not-“ John groaned, as Sherlock's face began to go blank in the way that meant he was hurt and hiding it, “not like, the wedding wedding, just… the- I dunno, everything else.”
“I don’t follow,” Sherlock asked blankly. John scrubbed his face.
“I dunno, just… the colors and the flowers and everything else. Do we need it all? I mean Jesus Sherlock, we’re both so introverted. I don’t see why we can’t do something smaller, much smaller. Just… suits and our closest friends and the officiant, you know? I mean, I don’t give a rats arse if my great Aunt Janine is there. All I care about is if you’re there, and the people that matter, yea?” John finished shyly, toying with his mug.
“Oh,” Sherlock said simply, after a moment he let out a large sigh of revelation, like pieces were falling into place, “but… why didn’t you say anything sooner?” John shrugged weakly.
“Dunno, you and Mycroft just seemed so excited I thought… I dunno.” John ran his hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t want to show you off, cause I do, but…”
“Mycroft is excited, I thought I was giving you what you wanted.” Sherlock corrected matter of factly.
“Me?” John asked, bewildered.
“Isn’t all this what normal people do? Big weddings with lots of people you never see coming into town? The… the planning and the party and rings and colors and bridal parties, and too many flowers?”
“Christ, Sherl,” John chuckled smiling at his lost and confused looking lover, “since when have we ever been normal?”
Sherlock gave a half shrug, biting his lip and fiddling with his mug, “you’re better at it than I am.” He said shyly. Johns' face softened at the vulnerable admission.
“I’m not with you because I want normality, darling. I’m with you because you’re the most fantastic person on earth.” Sherlock flushed, a small pleased smile on his face at this admission.
“Ok,” the detective finally said, “ok. So… let's compromise? That, I know, is what couples do, yes?” John sat back in his chair with a smile.
“Yea,” he said, “yea, it is.”
So, they kept the parts Sherlock liked, the bespoke suits and exchanging of rings, (and the napkins, for some reason?) but decided that the wedding would be small, minuscule in comparison to Greg and Mycroft’s. They rescinded the save the dates and invitations, something John felt a little bad about. Their guest list shrank and shrank until it was only the people that really mattered. John and Sherlock, naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft and Greg, Harvey, Greg’s son, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford (if only to say thank you for introducing them), and, to Johns surprise, Mr. and Mrs. Trevor. In the end, they chose to marry under a tree in the park John had met Mike on that day so many years ago.
Instead of a wedding date set more than six months ahead of time, they resent invitations with a date set for less than a month away. They spoke to Angelo, and he was more than ecstatic to close down his restaurant for a small reception after the actual ceremony. There would be no best men, no speeches, just friends enjoying a lovely meal. Angelo had, naturally, refused to allow John and Sherlock to pay him for closing down the restaurant for an entire night. In fact, Angelo had gone so far as to gather a few members of his wait staff to play a little music.
The day of, John found himself standing in front of their bedroom mirror admiring himself in the Oxford Blue suit Sherlock had selected and commissioned. He looked… good. Really good, actually. His eyes seemed a little brighter, his skin a little tanner, he stood a touch taller as he tugged on his matching tie. He liked himself like this, if he was honest. He smiled at himself a little in the mirror, running a hand through his carefully combed hair one more time. Sherlock liked it longer like this, John knew. Some days he couldn’t get Sherlock's hands out his hair for anything less than threatening to botch an experiment. And Sherlock had taken to holding John in place by the greying strands in their bedroom. Something John was in no way inclined to argue.
“Stunning.” He heard an all too familiar voice call from their doorway. With a grin, John spun to look at his fiancé but stuttered to halt when he actually caught sight of Sherlock.
The taller man had combed back his hair, taming the mess of curls and was wearing a suit of dark purple, with black lapels, (matching John’s in style though not color) a fitted waistcoat just a shade darker than the actual suit, and a white shirt, customarily undone. There was a small sprig of bluebells and a few individual light blue Hydrangeas wrapped together and pinned into the lapel. The whole ensemble was so tightly fitted that John could see the fabric strain as Sherlock took a deep breath. He found himself unable to speak, only gaping at the man he was meant to marry.
Sherlock smirked at him knowingly and stepped forward, presenting John with a small handful of flowers. A small bundle of pure white flowers with what looked to be a sprig of lavender in the center. Sherlock stepped forward and pinned it onto his lapel with gentle hands.
“Lavender,” he murmured, to Johns unspoken question, running a feather-light finger over the sprig, “meaning ‘devotion’ and…” he trailed a finger over the white flowers, giving John a small smirk, “Rhododendron meaning ‘danger’” John, who had been trying to remember how to close his mouth while gaping at his fiancé, let out a surprised bark of laughter.
“And yours?” John asked, nodding to the flowers pinned into Sherlock's lapel. Sherlock took John’s own far rougher hand in his own, bringing it up until John gently began to trace his fingers over the flowers. So light, so soft, like whispering his hands over a baby’s eyelids, precious and fragile.
“Hydrangea, meaning ‘Gratefulness for being understood’ or, reversely, ‘frigidity’. With you, I am heard. I am a man who is loved and much more than tolerated. Without you, I am cold, cut off from the world.” John swallowed thickly, blinking quickly. Sherlock smiled at him with unyielding affection and dragged John's fingers over the sprig of bluebells. “Bluebells, ‘Everlasting love and consistency’ but also ‘humility and gratitude’, I am not a humble man, but I am humbled by your love, and filled with gratitude in the face of it, my John…” Sherlock paused, his breath catching in his throat.
“Sentimental sap.” John choked out around a weepy chuckle. Sherlock's face smoothed out and he smiled in tandem.
“Perhaps, but the fault lies solely with you.” Before John could lean in and steal a kiss, Mrs. Hudson knocked on their open front door with her customary “yoo-hoo”.
“Cars here.” John breathed out against his lovers’ lips. Sherlock just nodded distractedly.
“Marry me?” Sherlock asked so quietly that John felt the rumble of his deep voice more than heard the words.
“Why not?” John asked with fake nonchalance. They kissed chastely, then separated and grinned at each other.
The wedding ceremony was short and sweet, they removed their engagement rings, then replaced them back on their respective fingers. Their vows were simple, softly spoken so that they barely carried over the wind. For these words of promise and adoration and loyalty existed for none but them.
John promised to try, to always protect, to be faithful and patient.
Sherlock promised to stay, to make things work, to love and never forget that John must always come first.
The kiss was chaste, a sweet, slow, peck. Sherlock's hand cupping John’s face, John’s hand holding tightly to Sherlock's shoulder, then the excited exclamations from their friends and a thunderous round of applause. They separated and grinned at each other, the light in their eyes was the same light they held after an exciting chase through London. It was exhilarating, exhilarating and terrifying, they had the rest of their lives looming over them, a commitment that was not easily or cleanly broken. And so, they stood, eyes gleeful and bright in the face of danger, as they always had been, for there was nothing more dangerous than love.
They felt alive. They felt supernovas and suns exploding in their chest as they looked at each other, as they looked at their friends, as they looked at the rings on their fingers, now infinitely heavier for the significance they carried. Everything in the world felt right, perfect.
When they got to the restaurant the middle section had been cleared off into a makeshift dancefloor. There were three young men and one young lady tuning their instruments as the small party sat. Each of the tables had a bouquet of flowers, Sherlock murmured the meanings to him as they sat. Symbols of love, devotion, forgiveness, strength, knowledge, and rebirth surrounded them in a rainbow array of colors. John wondered vaguely how Sherlock had managed to get a hold of so many out of season and exotic flowers but decided not to push the issue, it seemed insignificant in the wake of their union.
As the food concluded Sherlock stood, to John’s confusion. He gave John a crooked smile, nervous but joyful, before turning to address their small crowd.
“Friends, family,” he said, nodding to each section in turn. Some nodded back or raised their glasses in acknowledgment. “I know I speak for both John and myself when I say we want to thank each of you for coming today. As many of you know, the original plan was to have a large wedding full of distant relations and friends of friends of friends in attendance. But eventually, John and I decided we’d rather only have those that matter present. So, a few words for the few of you who were chosen.”
Many of you may remember me before John, brash, cold, a man with a knack for keeping everyone at arm’s length. Since John was introduced into my life, however, things have changed significantly. I’ve now come to call you friends, rather than a group who may simply tolerate me.”
So, for that, I must thank John. I did not see myself as a man with friends, with companionship or human connections. I thought myself above all that, but like many things in my life, Johns' mere presence has proven me wrong. It’s something he has a knack for, taking my expectations and turning them on their head,” the crowd chuckled, and Sherlock gave John a bright smile. John flushed and grinned back at his husband.
“So,” Sherlock finally said, turning back to the crowd, “to honor this, we’ve decided to have our wedding at the places he first defied them. Many years ago, John Watson, a man just returned from military service after being invalidated home, took a stroll through Reagents Park. Unbeknownst to him, a man with a far-reaching gaze felt it prudent to set him on my path without my knowledge and set the wheels in motion for John to bump into an old friend during a stroll through Reagents Park all those years ago.”
Now truthfully, that’s not the reason I insisted on Reagents park for our union. I’m not sure if he remembers or realized, and to be fair, it was rather dark at the time, but the first time he surprised me was in a cab, passing by that very park. On the way to our first crime scene.”
I had deduced his military service, his familial bonds, his injuries, and many other rather personal matters. Instead of disdain or anger, as I expected, John showed genuine awe. In all the years I had been working with the Yard, in all the years I’d worked as a private investigator, not once had anyone showed such wonder at what I did.”
That was the first time John Watson took me by surprise. The second was later that day, I led him on a wild chase through London, departing from this restaurant. It was, admittedly, just for fun. Partially to see if I was right about the cause of his leg pain, partially to see how he would react to the Work. To my surprise, John took to my lifestyle like a fish in water. We worked perfectly as a team, keeping up with the other with ease. There was no awkwardness, no question, then, that John Watson would be moving into 221B, for I decided he would be a wonderful asset to my work and my life.”
Five years later I must say my initial analysis was more than correct. John Watson isn’t just an asset to the Work; he doesn’t just keep me from losing myself in it, as I do when I'm alone, or patch me up after a rough case. He’s also vital in keeping me as close to normal as I can sustain.”
John,” Sherlock looked to him with warmth in his eyes, “you keep me right. You keep me human and sane. Without you the world falls away, and not in a pleasant way, I can speak from experience. And so, I must thank you, in front all our friends and for whatever God exists to see. I must thank you for finding something worth salvaging in the mechanical wreckage I was before you walked into my life. And I can only promise to spend our days attempting to repay you.” Sherlock cleared his throat, suddenly seeming to remember the room full of guests who were all looking on with fondness, each clearly just holding back an “aww” of delight. Save for Mycroft, who looked just as uncomfortable as his little brother with the display.
“Ah yes, right well. I know you didn’t, ah, really want to do any of the traditional wedding things, but would you perhaps, rather…” Sherlock motioned helplessly to one of the young men, a thin brown-skinned boy with a violin in hand. He nodded meaningfully to Sherlock and lifted the violin.
“Dance with me?” Sherlock asked with a crooked smile, offering a hand to John. John hesitated.
“I- ah… I don’t know how?”
“You do,” Sherlock answered confidently. He was right, of course, but it only made John flush in discomfort.
“Sherlock… I don’t want to be-“ the girl, he couldn’t say. For that was the last time he had danced, it had been something his father had taught them as children. But at the time he had been “Emma”, and so he only learned to follow. While the memories of learning to dance on his fathers’ feet were good ones, for they were the scant few times John remembered a sober happy man in place of the abusive drunkard he suffered, he couldn’t bear to hold Sherlock about the shoulders like some wilting maiden. Sherlock took his hand and tugged him up gently.
“Trust me.” He murmured lowly. John took a deep breath and nodded sheepishly, following his husband onto the makeshift dancefloor. He laid a hand on Johns' shoulder, tugging John until the doctor was pulling him in close by the waist, effectively giving John the “male” position as the music started.
John led
Sherlock followed
Sherlock led
John followed
It was… fitting, in a way. They each had a role, a give and take, neither had power over the other, where one found himself lacking, the other found himself in abundance. It was just a dance, it was just dancing positions, it didn’t really mean anything, not to anyone else. But to John it did. To John it felt meaningful, the way they swayed together, the way they danced in close comfort.
And the music.
The music was something beautiful, something soulful. Halfway through, when the tune began to lift from its somber tune into something brighter but still melancholy, John tilted his head. For, while he had never heard the song, it felt oddly familiar.
“Is this…” he started, listening for another moment. “Did you compose this for us?” he finally finished. Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised for a moment before a slow pleased grin grew on his face.
“I did.” John blinked quickly, smiling fondly before abruptly spinning Sherlock about the room quickly as the tempo picked up. Sherlock let out a quiet, gleeful, giggle. Like a schoolboy with his first crush.
“Thank you.” John murmured as they came to a halt at Sherlock's direction. They held each other tightly as the tune drifted away, clearly unfinished, and all the more beautiful for it.
“No. Thank you, John Watson.” Sherlock said somberly. John leaned into his husband, forehead to forehead as the guests began to clap before couples drifted onto the floor as the waitstaff started up a happy tune.
“I was thinking more along the lines of Watson-Holmes, actually?” John asked timidly. Sherlock pulled back; a bit surprised.
“You’d do that?” he asked in a hushed voice as their friends and family drifted around them. John gave a half shrug.
“I’m not… particularly attached to the Watson name. Watson's tend to die drunk, and young, and alone. I don’t plan on doing that.” John confessed, leaning into Sherlock. Sherlock searched his face for a moment before breaking into a wide grin.
“I like it,” the detective decided, “it’s fitting. For, you’ll always come first for me, you know that, right?” he suddenly seemed timid, as though his admission would be unwelcome. John felt his breath taken away and he smiled shakily.
“Even above the Work?” he joked, but Sherlock's face turned down seriously, his face was open and earnest in a way that made John wish they were alone just so he could keep this version of Sherlock to himself.
“Yes John, even above the Work. If there are times it doesn’t seem like it, remember that. You will always come first for me.” Sherlock vowed; his voice so low there was no chance for any of the guests around them to hear. John pulled Sherlock in tight at the admission, a lump having formed in his throat. They swayed out of time with the music as a gentle patter of rain began to fall outside.
Hours later, yet before any of the guests had begun to filter out, John and Sherlock took their leave as graciously as they could amidst sly winks and Greg’s wolf whistle which turned both grooms’ scarlet. When they got home, John collapsed on the couch, not even bothering with his suit and tie, nor his shoes or trousers. He had drunk a bit (read, a lot) too much, too caught up in the overwhelming joy and flowing conversation. (He had decided somewhere around the fourth drink to say "fuck you" to his fathers memory for the night and allow himself to enjoy in the festivities guiltlessly.) The wedding had been perfect, beyond perfect, really. John hummed to himself with a happy smile as he snuggled down into the couch. Sherlock chuckled quietly and began to putter around the kitchen.
John drifted in and out of sleep for a few moments before he felt Sherlock prodding at him. Shoes and trousers were removed, his tie and suit jacket folded over John’s armchair, and his grandfathers’ cufflinks removed with reverence. Finally, John was left in his pants, unbuttoned white dress shirt, and vest. After a moment Sherlock carefully lifted John’s upper body and sat, lowering John’s head and torso back into his lap.
John felt a pleasant shiver run down his spine as Sherlock began to sip his tea with one hand, and gently tug at Johns' hair with the other. It wasn’t but another few minutes before John had drifted once more, this time his mouth opened, breathing softly. A look of utter bliss upon his face.
“John?” Sherlock rumbled after a long moment, John felt himself gently coming back down from the haze he had drifted into and humming in acknowledgment. “I know you said you didn’t care for a honeymoon but… I’ve a surprise for you.” John fought to be alert again, finally managing to open his eyes and look up at his husband. (his husband!)
“What kind of surprise?” he asked in curiosity. Sherlock relaxed, perhaps relieved that John seemed so susceptible to the idea.
“I’ve… found a case in Paris. It’s only a six but,” Sherlock shrugged. “it… it sounded like a good idea? The city of love, built on catacombs full of the dead. It seemed like a fitting place for our honeymoon.” He looked down at John with fondness and John felt his heart swell with emotion. John reached up and yanked Sherlock down by his collar, kissing him speechless.
“You’re perfect” he breathed against his husbands’ lips.
“Only for you, my love,” Sherlock replied with a blissful smile.