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It was a nice ceremony, he supposed, at least for any ordinary person.
Red and white roses decorating every corner of the hall, tables covered with elegant lace cloths, countless sets of delicious pastries and flutes filled with fine wine, a dance floor packed with people who looked like they were having the time of their lives.
And, of course, the bride and groom were absolutely bursting with happiness, all laughter and kisses and googly eyes.
How delightful.
He wondered how long it would take for the initial excitement to be replaced by frustrating monotony and tedious arguments about whose turn it was to do the laundry.
The guests stopped dancing when the best man, already more than a little tipsy, stood on a chair. "To the best couple of the year!" he yelled; the groom took the bride in his arms and kissed her enthusiastically and the crowd cheered, fetching their glasses and clinking them together.
He knew deep down he actually wished the best for the couple. They were his friends after all, they both went through their fair share of unhealthy relationships before finally finding someone who truly appreciated and valued them, and as annoyingly sentimental as it sounded, Molly and Lestrade really did seem perfect for each other.
But he wouldn't admit that out loud. He had an international reputation to uphold.
He also knew perfectly well that his congenital wariness of marriage had been further aggravated by one wedding in particular.
The photographer (not a murderer, unfortunately, just a pathological liar sharing a flat with his unemployed sister) knelt in front of Molly to take a picture of her getting ready for the bouquet toss, and as the flash went off, time slowed down and memories made their sudden appearance before Sherlock's eyes just like photographs, in quick succession.
Vows of eternal and unconditional love.
Loud and cheerful music, people he barely knew dancing happily along with colorful lights.
The newlyweds smiling brightly at the thought of welcoming a new member into their family (a family he could no longer be a part of).
Him watching them as they swayed in each other's arms, cheek to cheek.
Having no one to dance with, leaving too early.
He squeezed his eyes tightly and shook his head to scroll those images away.
That was in the past.
The woman they knew as Mary Morstan was out of their lives permanently, thousands of miles away from London (though still under close surveillance), and the stillborn child a painful but distant memory.
And yet he couldn't make the tightness in his throat and chest go away.
"Sherlock?"
John's gentle voice, saving him once again from the dizzying spiral of his ruthless thoughts.
He looked up and met those kind, expressive blue eyes that were both an anchor and a terrifying ocean.
"You ok?" John asked with a smile, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
That was something they did more often now. Touching. Giving physical demonstrations of affection without a particular reason or under no particular circumstance.
And it was driving Sherlock insane.
"Of course I'm okay"
"I guess weddings can get a little boring without... well, something highly illegal going on"
Sherlock smirked playfully. "Oh, I'm sure we could do something about that."
A new song started playing, the rhythm much slower and the melody sweeter, and all the couples (because that kind of song was clearly meant for a romantic slow dance) began to gently sway.
It must've been a very popular piece, as it sounded familiar even to him.
There's a calm surrender
To the rush of day
When the heat of a rolling wave
Can be turned away.
John's lips curved in a lopsided and amused smile. "You know, someone once told me you love dancing," he said teasingly, keeping his eyes on the dance floor.
Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.
When had Janine found the time to talk to John alone after that day at Baker Street?
"I suppose I don't dislike it," he said, trying not to give his tone any particular inflexion.
John shifted his gaze to him and stared for a few seconds, then he inhaled deeply and nodded as though he'd just made an important decision to himself.
He walked in front of Sherlock and offered his hand, raising his eyebrows.
"Joining me?"
It took Sherlock's brain a few seconds to process the meaning of those two little and simple words.
He blinked and blinked and opened his mouth to formulate a reply, but since his left frontal lobe was apparently failing to respond to any kind of electrical impulse, no sound came out of it.
Certainly John wasn't asking... wasn't inviting him...
"Come on. You can't stay here all night, lurking in the dark. It's a bit creepy."
Oh.
Oh god.
He was actually being offered the chance he'd missed and prayed for so many times in the past. The chance that had seemed to vanish the moment he'd seen the small velvet box in John's hands at The Landmark.
John. His John, standing in front of him, looking at nothing else but him.
"Yes. Yes, please", his heart was screaming.
"People might talk," he said instead.
John laughed, shaking his head. "People do little else."
They stared at each other for a few more seconds, until Sherlock, still not completely certain he wasn't dreaming, hesitantly took John's hand, a shiver running down his spine as soon as their fingers touched.
The shorter man smiled reassuringly and led him to the dance floor, walking backwards so that their gazes never had to unlock.
As it often occurred, Sherlock couldn't read his face, couldn't figure out what thoughts were filling the head of the beautiful and frustrating enigma that was John Hamish Watson.
Or maybe he could, but he was too scared to let himself believe he was not misinterpreting or even imagining the flame burning in those eyes.
John lifted their intertwined hands, then proceeded to take Sherlock's left hand and gently place it on his own hip.
Sherlock felt utterly ridiculous.
He knew exactly how to hold a slow dance partner, yet his body was being completely uncooperative, thrilled by the thought of being allowed to touch his friend so intimately and at the same time paralyzed by the fear that John might suddenly come to his senses and flinch away in disgust.
Because this wasn't like one of those afternoons at Baker Street before John's wedding, the two of them practicing the steps to the waltz Sherlock himself composed, behind closed curtains.
John actually asked him to dance with him in front of everyone.
What if he realised all those eyes on them made him uncomfortable, reminded him of all the assumptions that had always been made about them?
But Sherlock had warned him, and John hadn't seemed to care.
Ah, emotions. A puzzle that would always be beyond his intellect.
As they slowly started to move, he saw Molly on the other side of the hall, grinning almost maniacally and giving him a thumbs up.
He rolled his eyes, but was secretly amused.
"Alright?" John asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Sherlock could only swallow and nod, praying that his heartbeat couldn't be felt through his chest, which was almost pressed against John's.
There's a rhyme and reason
To the wild outdoors
When the heart of this star-crossed voyager
Beats in time with yours.
He couldn't bear to look at John's face or into his deep blue eyes for longer than five seconds, so he focused on the couples around them instead, observing and deducing so he could find a reason to break the overwhelming silence between them.
"The man behind you has always wanted to be an actor. He can't afford to pay for drama school though, so he's been stealing from his own mother for months."
John smiled faintly. "Mh. Nice"
"His wife thinks the money comes from his part-time job as a waiter. She still doesn't know he lost it"
"Sherlock."
"He's been thinking of leaving her. It actually seems quite unlikely that his family-"
"Sherlock."
He froze when John's fingertips laid gently on his lips to shush him, looking at him almost pleadingly and with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show.
"Can we just... not talk for a couple of minutes? Please."
Sherlock hesitated, then nodded almost imperceptibly.
There was no chance he would be able to keep talking now anyway.
And can you feel the love tonight?
It is where we are
It's enough for this wide-eyed wanderer
That we've got this far.
He didn't know what suddenly made him decide to dare.
Perhaps the alcohol, though he'd only drank a couple of glasses during the banquet, or maybe the stereotypically romantic atmosphere.
He just knew that a second later he was setting all his fears aside, breaking free from the invisible chains holding him back and holding John even closer, resting his cheek on the top of his head.
He only started to realise what he'd just done when he felt John's body stiffen in response; he was about to step back, absolutely mortified, but John hastened to put both his arms around his shoulders, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck.
Oh. He was just surprised, then. Not disgusted.
John was reciprocating his embrace.
He could feel John's breath on his skin.
Oh, god.
He really hoped his knees wouldn't give out in the middle of the dance floor. That would've been quite embarrassing.
He thought that was exactly what was happening when, as the song approached its final notes, he felt himself slowly bending backwards.
But he didn't hit the ground: John's arms were supporting him, and not because he'd caught him mid-fall, but because he was very deliberately dipping him.
The guests and the newlyweds were all gathered around them, clapping and cheering, some even whistling loudly in approval.
Sherlock was breathing heavily and his head was spinning. "We didn't practice this, did we?" he said, trying to make it sound like a joke, but his voice was trembling.
John grinned. "There's actually something else we didn't practice."
And with that, he closed the distance between their faces and gently pressed their mouths together.
The crowd went absolutely wild, but their voices sounded distant and muffled to Sherlock, who felt as though he was enclosed in a bubble, floating in a dimension where the only thing he could feel was the heat and softness of John's lips.
After the initial shock, he kissed back with an ardour he didn't even think he was capable of, running his fingers through John's hair and trying to remember to breathe through his nose.
He briefly distinguished Molly and Lestrade's amused voices:
"Look at them, stealing the limelight at our wedding!"
"What, you didn't expect that?"