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Originally posted on The Blanket Fort - Darth Stitch on Tumblr
And Now For The Latest Sherlock Series 3 Trollery Theory #111 (Eleventy One)
#Rat
“You know, our Geek fans would at least understand if I actually went and put this last case of our on the blog.”
“No, John. Absolutely not!”
“Sherlock, even you have to admit it was a delightful adventure. Absurd and straight out of a comic book, yes - but considering that neither of us ended up being covered in semtex and being at the mercy of a madman -“
“And this wouldn’t land us in Bedlam from the minute you actually post this ridiculousness online?”
“Mycroft would believe us.”
They look at each other, both remembering the same exact scene - that of a formerly dignified, upright, minor official of Her Majesty’s Government shrieking like a little girl upon being confronted with the rather singular individuals they encountered on this last case. Well, one in particular anyway.
“Mycroft hates rats,” Sherlock said with a perfectly deadpan expression.
That was it. He and John giggled like a pair of schoolboys.
“Honestly, John, I doubt the world is ready for the tale of us gadding about in London after a secret Japanese clan of assassins…. in the company of four mutant ninja turtles and their giant rat sensei.”
John agreed. The world wasn’t ready for that at all.
#Wedding
Mary looked radiant today.
And honestly, John understood the feeling all too well. Their relationship had not started under the best of circumstances - both of them reeling under the weight of loss and grief. Mary’s husband had gone missing in action while serving in Afghanistan and well, as for John, he was fairly sure that the whole of Britain knew perfectly well what had happened to Sherlock Holmes.
And at first, both of them had to deal with the same misconceptions that everyone had about John’s relationship with Sherlock. They’d both gotten these wise little nods and sympathetic smiles and empty words on how wise it was for both of them to be moving on with their lives, especially since Mary had her little girl, who at four, was only aware enough to understand that Mummy was sad and sometimes cried when she saw Daddy’s picture. Mary’s daughter, affectionately known to one and all as the Duckling, was occasionally John’s patient for the typical childhood ills. She liked “Doctor John” but John would never forget her bewildered look when some well-meaning, but insensitive neighbor had asked if she would like “Doctor John” as her Daddy.
It had taken all of John’s strength not to deck the clod but he had, to his surprise, instead sharply told the idiot to “Stop talking, you’re lowering the IQ of everyone on the street, including this poor child’s. Really, I should have you arrested for child endangerment!”
That he’d somehow managed to say all that in a dead-on imitation of Sherlock Holmes was worth the gobsmacked look on the other person’s face. Easily better than giving him a black eye for his troubles.
He and Mary saw no point in getting into arguments with other people on the actual state of their relationship. Really, it was just easier to seek out each other’s company, knowing that they were both in mourning, knowing that both understood, without having to go through the empty motions of politely expressing sympathy, what the other was going through. They served as each other’s sounding boards and shoulders to cry on. John had his experiences of his time in Afghanistan and respected that Mary would not appreciate having the truth sugarcoated for her. Mary understood that John, most of all, grieved for all the might have been’s with Sherlock and the things that he had left unsaid and undone.
They were friends - good friends - and yes, it was entirely possible for two members of the opposite sex to have a simple, uncomplicated friendship without jumping into bed together. Whatever else the world thought was irrelevant and they both did not care. Mary had been a comfort in those days and John would hope that he had been the same for her, though they were now back to a certain distance, which was not surprising, considering the circumstances.
But John pushed those dark thoughts and memories away now. Today was his wedding and a day meant for celebration and it was a day long, long away from that dark, terrible time when he’d believed that Sherlock was gone.
Mary winked at him even as she leaned over to kiss her husband on the cheek, who cheerfully responded by turning his head and bussing her gently on the lips in turn. Lt. Richard Morstan had, against all odds, had been able to escape his captivity and made it back alive and whole and a war hero to boot. Their little girl looked up at her parents and giggled into her flower basket. The Duckling, in honor of her nickname, was dressed in a sweet light yellow dress and had served well today in her capacity as flower girl.
John knew all too well the joy that came from having a loved one return, against seemingly impossible odds. He reached out at the same time as Sherlock did, their hands entwining as they both exchanged their wedding vows. For the next ten minutes all of John’s universe would consist only of his partner and husband and for the rest of his days, these details would stand out as the clearest memories of their wedding.
How John reached out to take both Sherlock’s hands in his own and keep them from shaking.
How Sherlock looked in that moment when John said his part of the vows.
The softness of Sherlock’s hair as John, as always, found himself threading a hand through those beautiful curls.
The way Sherlock murmured his name against his lips when they took their first kiss as a married couple.
And of course, the minute they heard Mrs. Hudson sob loudly into the kerchief Mycroft lent her, John and Sherlock found themselves giggling all over again. Although, this time, it was perfectly acceptable to laugh at weddings.
#Bow
“And now, I believe it is time for the great Sherlock Holmes to take his last bow,” intoned the man who was apparently determined to plunge Great Britain and perhaps the rest of the world into yet another war. He was rather of a theatrical bent and there was nothing more dangerous than a man with delusions of grandeur and the brainpower to make those delusions come to life.
And then, the man’s face froze in a rather darkly comical expression of utter disbelief as a bullet hole appeared on his forehead. He toppled to the floor quite ungracefully but dead was dead and the small cube that he had been holding with the odd, alien runes rolled from his hand.
Sherlock bent to pick it up and calmly went downstairs to meet his incredibly skilled, crack shot of a husband and soundly kissed him. John’s hair was in a perfect state of disarray and his cheeks were a most attractive shade of pink, prompting Sherlock to repeat the experiment by kissing him breathless a few more times but finally, they had to stop, at least for Mycroft’s sake, if nothing else. His assistant, who was taking on the name Diana for the day, was winning far too many bets against her boss these days.
“My dear John,” Sherlock finally said. “The one fixed point in a changing age.”
John beamed at him. “Even in the midst of a possible alien invasion?”
“I wouldn’t want anyone else with me,” Sherlock kissed him again and pocketed the tiny alien cube in his coat. “Off we go, John - the game is most definitely on!”
***