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The Orangery, Kew Gardens
Of all the things John Watson could choose to do on a daily basis, giving speeches would not rank in the top one hundred. Possibly not even in the top 1000, all things considered.
He would tell the casual enquirer that speeches don’t paralyze him with fear or leave him gasping with jittery adrenaline. He’d merely prefer not to stand in front of dozens of people with the intent of amusing them with anecdotes and sentimental meanderings. And yes, public speaking has never been a particular skill of his. One-on-one is where he excels at charm and affability. Just ask his wife.
He stands there, eyes moving around to survey the crowd while Mary straightens his bowtie.
“You have your notes?” she asks in a low voice, smiling at him as she moves to his morning jacket’s lapels to smooth them.
He nods. “Yes, of course.”
“And the telegrams?” Her mouth curls with an evil smirk. There’s a reason he loves her.
“Sherlock forbade it,” he reminds her.
“So?”
He rolls his eyes. “So, of course I have them.”
Mary gives him a smacking kiss. “Good man.”
“I really am,” he agrees modestly.
With a snort, she moves back to her seat on the far side of Molly. He sees her lean in to whisper something to the bride, who is busy wiping icing off of her six-year-old daughter’s sticky face.
Molly throws her head back and laughs, and Sherlock turns to see what has his wife—holy hell, Sherlock and wife in the same sentence—giggling so madly. She sobers when she notices his gaze and he shrugs, pulling the little girl into his lap as Molly leans in to kiss his cheek. Still, he does eye his bride with calculation until Imogen reaches up to pat his cheeks to get his attention.
The sight of the family—Sherlock now making his daughter laugh with tickling kisses all over her face, Molly assisting their son, Milo, as he slithers up onto her lap while shooting a mulish glare at the nearly unnoticeable swell of her belly—makes John’s eyes burn a little. He twitches his nose, afraid he might sniffle.
It’s disturbing, to say the least.
To prevent anything so mortifying as real tears, John gives a nod and busies himself with flipping through his notecards while the Master of Ceremonies calls for silence. He glances once more at the newlyweds before clearing his throat and turning to look out over the faces of guests amidst sprays of cheerful, yellow flowers.
All at once and unexpectedly, this whole Best Man business doesn’t feel like such an onerous task. Not when the people who look back at him are all there because they love Sherlock and Molly as much as he does.
“Good afternoon to you all on this happiest of days,” he greets everyone, adjusting the projection of his voice as he goes. He’s a bit rusty. “Before I set to the actual speech, I first must take care of some business. Personally, it seems like an archaic tradition, but the groom begged me to read the telegrams from those who could not be here today.”
With a flourish, he flips to the first card as he turns to beam at Sherlock, whose eyes narrow in return. He experiences only a small niggling of fear for what payback may be in store.
Admittedly, the regrets were few and far between. Those planning the wedding agreed that the explanation for only two of the invitees declining attendance was fairly obvious: the sight of Sherlock Holmes marrying someone was so unbelievable, people would shoehorn room into their schedules to witness it. To compensate, the Best Man and Maid of Honor wrote a few of their own (with permission from the bride, of course), each one more outlandish than the last.
The satisfaction of watching Sherlock cringe more and more with every saccharine word is sweet, to say the least.
“—and may the good fairy of love and fertility visit you always. Not that you need help in the fertility department, eh, you rascals? I shall miss you, my sweet petit fours. With heaps of love and a few cheek pinches to boot, Marisol T. Bunratty,” John finishes the last with a warm smile.
For the most part, the befuddled guests smile politely, but John can hear a few snickers. Most of them issue from the front table and the one occupied by their closest friends and family. When he spots Sherlock’s parents toasting him with mad grins on their faces, he considers his job well done.
Sherlock, meanwhile, shoots him a death glare. John only smiles more broadly before he returns to his notes.
“Those of you who were not in attendance at my wedding to my beautiful wife, Mary”—he gestures to her and she waves gaily—“did not have the fortune of witnessing the tough act I have to follow, in terms of reciprocal Best Man speeches.” He shrugs. “Try as I might, I just couldn’t convince anyone to attempt a murder here today. But the night is young, so perhaps my luck will change and I can meet Sherlock’s unspoken challenge of crime solving even as I give my address.”
Sherlock’s chuckle is reward enough, but the whole crowd titters at the joke; however, John can’t help but notice that a few of the distant relations look more frightened than anything. He chalks it up as another triumph.
“Today is one I did not see coming from three feet away, let alone a mile,” he begins in earnest. The room ripples with nods of agreement. “But that is what happens when your best friend is Sherlock Holmes. To say ‘I’m never bored’ when working with him would be an understatement, since he avoids boredom the way other people avoid deadly toxins. As a result, nearly everything he does is a surprise. Sometimes, the surprises are mild ones, like the time I found out that Sherlock was, in fact, alive two years after I served as a pallbearer at his funeral.”
In response to the genuine laughter at John’s joke, Sherlock coughs awkwardly and waves. John hears him mutter, “I’ll explain later,” when Imogen audibly gasps at her father’s prowess.
John’s smile gentles. “And sometimes, the surprises are stunning ones, like the time he told me that he’d fallen in love with the brilliant specialist registrar at St. Bart’s Hospital. Somehow, the PowerPoint presentation he prepared to break the news to me did little to lessen the shock. When he told me later that year that he was going to be a father, he thought he might have to defibrillate me.
“A year-and-a-half later, when he and Molly told us that Milo was coming, the news that Sherlock Holmes was settling into something so commonplace and amazing as family life was no less of a bombshell. As for the time he asked for my help in rehearsing his proposal to Molly… well, I don’t know when I’ve ever been so proud to call him my friend.”
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, his ears pink. When Molly reaches over to him, though, he smiles at her and lifts their joined hands to kiss the back of her fingers.
“The people to my left are so dear to me,” John says, his voice wobbling ever so slightly until he clears it sternly. “That they’ve found the happiness some people never experience is something I know they will never take for granted. Perhaps, in realizing that a shared life is work and has its ups and downs, they’ve already fought half the battle. Sherlock Holmes is a great man, but his brilliance and fortitude in the face of danger and death are not what make him so.”
Though the honesty of what he is about is say feels like sharing a secret, John gives a jerky nod and turns to face his best friend. “What makes him great is the love he has for his Molly, his Imogen, his Milo, and everyone else he calls ‘his’.”
Sherlock sucks in a breath, but he refuses to take his eyes off of his daughter’s dark curls even as he nods in thanks at John’s words.
Looking past him, John meets the damp eyes of Sherlock’s wife. “And Molly is a great woman for the exact same reason. The things she’s accomplished as a doctor and an academic are a testament to her brilliance, but the steadfast love she’s always given Sherlock, their children, and the rest of us lucky enough to stand up here with her is a testament to the beauty of her soul. And because of this, I can’t think of two people better suited for each other.”
The sounds of a tearful hiccup and a nose blowing in a handkerchief have heat climbing up the back of his neck. Awkward in the vulnerability of his words, John gives the guests a sheepish smile.
“Besides, it’d take someone with Molly’s patience to handle the late night explosions from the kitchen and the body parts in the fridge. Sherlock has met his match.”
This works to dispel a bit of the soppy sentiment that hangs over the reception, and John takes the chuckles as his cue.
“And so, pray charge your glasses and be upstanding.”
Chairs scrape on the floor as the wedding party and guests take to their feet. Sherlock holds Imogen, hugging her close, still uncharacteristically bashful. Because of this, that damned pressure burns once more in John’s sinuses and behind his eyes. He makes a decision not to look at his best friend again.
Lifting his champagne glass, he calls, “To Molly and Sherlock.”
“And Milo,” suggests the belligerent voice of a three-year-old boy to John’s left before the toast can be answered, and everyone laughs.
“And Milo and Imogen,” John amends with a grin. “To the Holmes family.”