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He hadn’t expected to be nervous. After all, the usual reasons people in his position got jitters weren’t existent. There were only going to be two other living people witnessing what was going on, so he had no opportunity to do something embarrassing like trip in front of extended family and friends. It wasn’t as if there was something for him to mess up; to his knowledge, most of what they would be doing would be signing a piece of paper in an office. Sherlock had almost convinced John it wasn’t even worth John getting his suit cleaned.
But here he was, John Hamish Watson, faced with what seemed to him the biggest day of his life so far, looking at his own reflection in the mirror and fighting back against the feeling that his tongue was too big for his mouth as his palms sweated.
For the second time in as many minutes, John attacked his hair with his comb, even though he knew that, logically, there were only so many ways he could get his smattering of light locks to fall on top of his head. Even so, there was an obnoxious piece of his hair near the back of his neck, just behind his left ear, that was determined to stick out from the rest of his head.
Giving up, John called out to the flat. “You wouldn’t happen to have some sort of… product or something? For hair?”
The curious face of Gregory Lestrade poked around the doorframe, himself wearing a suit no different from the one he usually wore at work. “Alright, last chance. Did somebody hit you over the head?”
Rolling his eyes, John turned away from the mirror, facing his friend and companion, getting jumpy. “Right here,” he pointed at the lock of hair sticking out. “It’s sticking out. I’ve not gone mad.”
Pulling a face, Greg ducked around John to dig through his bathroom cabinet, chuckling. “John, I’m forty-seven years old, divorced, living alone in a flat in Westminster, and you think I have hair gel.”
“It’s all… wonky and… does it always stick out like that?!” John pursed his lips in frustration at the still smirking detective inspector. “Has that been sticking out the whole bloody time I’ve known you, and you just don’t say anything?”
“It’s hair, John,” Greg assured him, giving up on his search for hair gel he knew he didn’t have and turning back to the now irritated doctor before him. “Look.” He clapped both hands on John’s shoulders, the shorter man sighing and shutting his mouth for a moment. “I don’t think he’s going to notice a piece of hair sticking up wrong. He’s got other things on his mind.”
With a sarcastic smirk, John tallied back, “Like those widows in Lancaster? With the mosquito pens? Ow-!” John ducked away when Greg actually knocked John upside the head.
“Like you, John.” Greg actually looked a bit irritated at John. “This was his idea.”
Rubbing the back of his head where Greg had smacked him, John paused, his gaze off looking at the wall behind Greg. “It was, wasn’t it?” A small smile slowly grew on John’s face, the memory of exactly sixteen days earlier evident on his features.
“It was,” Greg repeated, smiling himself. With another affirmative smack on the shoulder, Greg ducked out of the bathroom. “You’ve got two minutes and then we really do have to go. That’s my job, innit? Get you to the church on time?”
John rolled his eyes, grinning despite himself as he glanced in the mirror to straighten his tie. “Courthouse, Greg.”
“Right, right,” Greg chuckled from the living room.
……
It was a silly tradition that John had insisted they follow. Sometimes it really did baffle him that, for somebody that had a singularly unique mind, his partner had such a devotion to superstitions, traditions, and generally pointless trivialities.
He had almost been successful in convincing John to stay the night before at Baker Street, even going so far as to trap the escaping doctor against the wall and attack at his throat with his teeth and lips, but John had simply swatted him away, albeit flushed, and chuckled. ‘It’ll be fun,’ he had joked, and Sherlock had seen from the glint in his eye he was enjoying Sherlock’s frustration too much.
‘No, it will be irritating and I won’t sleep well.’
‘I’ll see you in the morning. Nine o’clock.’
So, here was Sherlock Holmes, in a just slightly nicer suit that usual, going so far as to toss a silk scarf around his neck instead of constricting himself with a neck tie, sitting with his landlady and part-time caretaker in the lobby of the district register office.
It would be a straight-forward matter, involving the two parties and their witness (in this instance, two witnesses, since neither Lestrade nor Mrs. Hudson had been willing to sacrifice their part) settling down with the Superintendent Register and providing relevant paperwork. Their license was, this morning precisely, officially valid for use after the mandatory (and frustrating) fifteen day waiting period, and once both Sherlock and John had produced birth certificates, they would proceed with the official ceremony of sorts.
There was a bit where the two of them had to say ‘I do’, and then both of them would sign, followed by Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and the Superintendent Register himself. It was here that Sherlock had deduced John would present him with a ring to match the one that had been given to John sixteen days earlier - Sherlock had seen the shape of the box in John’s pocket when he left the night previous.
So, here he was. Signing an official document that would entitle the two of them to various legal benefits regarding taxation, hospital visitation, wills, administration of estate, and life insurance. Changing his surname to reflect a permanent partnership with another person.
Getting married, however the legal terms defined it.
Pulled out of his thoughts abruptly by a gentle hand on his knee, Sherlock’s head darted up to connect eyes with the wizened woman sitting beside him. “Nervous, dearie?”
The composed and elegant arch of his eyebrow at that question could have been painted by one of the Renaissance Masters. “Why would I be nervous?”
Mrs. Hudson simply smiled, patting Sherlock’s knee and turning her gaze to the door of the office. Sherlock followed her gaze with his own, and a medley of unexpected sensations assaulted him.
There, in the doorway, with one Gregory Lestrade just behind him, was a rather smartly dressed gentleman entering the lobby of the building. Except he didn’t really see the suit and tie, or the polished shoes, or the lock of hair sticking up on the back of his neck. No, Sherlock saw his heart.
John was beaming immediately upon seeing Sherlock, and the detective was helpless to resist the grin that burst forth in answer on his own features, standing up to meet John. They stopped just in front of each other - likely John attempting to add another layer of tradition to their union, not to kiss until the union was made official.
“Ready?” It was an odd question for Sherlock to ask, but he asked it anyway, reaching out to take John’s hand in his own.
John simply smiled, nodding, following Sherlock up to the desk.
“We’ll be seeing the Register, now, if you please.”
……
It was a rather boring office, to be sure. John was seated beside Sherlock in front of the desk, with Greg and Mrs. Hudson seated in chairs position up against the wall near the door. The Superintendent Register had reviewed their birth certificates and the license and had moved on to the ‘official’ bit, and any semblance of nerves was gone as Sherlock silently reached over and took his hand.
He wasn’t an exactly fascinating fellow, the Superintendent Register, but he did seem pleasant enough as he read from the official document, making small initials here and there as he read. “John Hamish Watson, do you assert to be of sound mind, acting of your own consent, and free of any other marriage or union?”
“I do,” came the steady response.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do you assert to-“
“Of course I do.” Sherlock snapped in impatiently before the register had the opportunity to finish the statement.
The legal official’s eyes drifted up from the document in front of him to Sherlock, arching an eyebrow.
“Sherlock,” John muttered warningly, squeezing his partner’s hand.
With a resigned roll of the eyes, John saw Sherlock sink a little father into his chair. “Continue.”
The words came out a little bit slower this time, and Sherlock was bubbling with impatience. “…Do you assert to be of sound mind, acting of your own consent, and free of any other marriage or union?”
As soon as the last word was out of the impossibly slow-speaking man’s mouth, Sherlock asserted, “I do.”
With a smile and a nod, the register moved on to the next page of the document. “Do those gathered offer themselves as witness to this union?”
Mrs. Hudson spoke up with a collected, calm, “I do,” while Greg mumbled a snarky, “‘Course,” smirking softly.
Sighing softly, the official marked another set of initials before turning the page once more. “Very well, let’s get on with it, then.”
“Let’s,” Sherlock agreed with tight-lipped annoyance.
John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s impatience, but he kept his mouth shut, simply nodding to the official to go on.
“Do you, John Hamish, take William Sherlock Scott, to be your partner?”
With a swell of warmth in his chest, John forgot for a moment he was supposed to respond, brought back to reality by a small squeeze of his hand. His gaze lifted up to connect with the stormy-colored eyes of his beloved, heart fluttering to see that the annoyed expression had been replaced with a fond, soft smile. “…I do.”
“And do you, William Sherlock Scott -” (“I love you,” John whispered softly, heard only barely by the intended party,) “- take John Hamish to be your partner?”
Without a moment of hesitation or a falter of his smile, Sherlock’s voice uttering two small words seemed to wrap around John like a protecting wave. “I do.”
There was only the briefest of pauses as the official register initialed where necessary before there was a rustling of papers. The document was turned across the desk to face John and Sherlock, and John was pulled out of his moment with Sherlock by the register clearing his throat.
First was John, signing his full name on the first line provided, followed by Sherlock. John watched Sherlock’s messy scrawl work through the long name, smiling in amusement. Once Sherlock had settled back in his chair and turned his gaze back to John, the two were held in a moment of serene peace while Mrs. Hudson and Greg, hardly noticed by the two men, got up to sign as well after the register had signed his own name.
John gave up on waiting for the register to say something about the power vested in him, leaning over the armrest of his chair towards Sherlock. The other’s lips met his own in the middle, and they shared a tender, unhurried kiss. Sherlock’s hand rose to cradle just under John’s jaw to hold them there a moment longer before they broke, left gazing into each other’s eyes.
“No turning back now,” John muttered teasingly, convinced by this point that if anybody else had been in the room, they must have disappeared by now.
He was answered with a clear, crystalline gaze that saw right to his very core without hesitation. “I am yours, John Hamish Watson-Holmes.”
“And I yours… William…” He laughed bashfully, stumbling on the long name already, “Sherlock… Scott Watson-Holmes.”
“Good.”