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“John!”
The army doctor turned to see his pregnant wife waddling towards him, linking arms and pressing a kiss to his cheek when she caught up. He shot her a glare.
“You’re supposed to be at home,” his sharp tone dropped almost immediately as he turned white, “why? What happened? Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine, you idiot,” she scoffed, swatting at the hand he’d pressed to her middle; the descended the stairs leading to the morgue hand-in hand, her head resting on his shoulder, “I was just bored. I want in on the action.”
“If by ‘action’ you mean sitting on our arses drinking coffee, then you’re in the right place,” he chuckled, steering her down the eerie corridor leading to the cold morgue, “we haven’t seen any proper action in weeks. I don’t even know why he keeps coming here.”
“I can think of a few reasons,” Mary smirked up at her husband.
She knew the reason for Sherlock Holmes’ more than regular trips to the morgue were more to do with the short, brown-haired pathologist in charge than any bodies in her fridges. John shook his head, rolling his eyes at the smirking expression still adorning his wife’s mouth; the woman had her crazy theories, some even rivalled that of Philip Anderson but, as she’d said, she was bored. It wasn’t her fault. They reached the morgue and he gently pushed the door open for her to step through; the two bodies already in the room sprang apart in a flurry of black and white coats as the Watson’s entered, assuming the poses John had left them in: examining a case file.
“…so, the report clearly showed he died from blunt force trauma to the skull,” Sherlock was saying, his voice gravelly. Mary watched as he discreetly tried to re-adjust his scarf to hide his unbuttoned shirt, “thank you, Molly.”
“Um, you’re welcome,” the pathologist squeaked her reply, glowing furiously red. John raised an eyebrow, looking between his ruffled and dishevelled friends, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. At least he had his wife’s kindness to lovingly support him through the revelation.
“I told you,” Mary nudged him, folding her arms as the two lovers before her caught each other’s eye, smiling shyly at each other.
“You promised not to tell that story,” Sherlock complained over the music, unbuttoning his cuffs to roll his sleeves to his elbows. John smiled, sipping at his champagne.
“I think that’s the only time I’ve ever seen you blush.”
“I was not blushing. It was hot,” the detective seized his own champagne glass from a passing waiter, drinking it quickly and moving to stand beside John to better view the hall. Guests had now taken to the dance floor, drunkenly twirling and spinning.
“Of course it was hot, you had your tongue down Molly’s throat.”
“As you well established earlier, in front of Molly’s mother. The look she was giving me…”
The best friends were reduced to childish giggles as they reminisced the best man’s speech John had earlier given, the speech he’d sworn had even made the groom cry.
“Well, it serves you right for keeping it from us so long,” John managed to splutter, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve. Sherlock hummed in agreement, finishing his glass; their giggles had faded as Mary approached, balancing a rather ecstatic baby girl in her arms, the baby girl reaching out for her father.
“I can’t settle her. Good luck,” Mary smiled, handing Elizabeth Sharlotte Watson to her proud father, before hurrying off to the dancefloor. John kissed his daughter’s forehead, watching the dancefloor as the blushing bride danced with her new father-in-law, Scott Holmes.
“I’m just glad you only caught us snogging,” Sherlock stated, not once removing his eyes from his bride; never had he been so conflicted in his life, he was torn between wanting to take his wife on their honeymoon and never return and wanting to spend it in her arms on the dancefloor.
“God, me too,” the army doctor grimaced, swaying on the spot for giggling daughter. He looked up to his friend, pride overcoming him, “congratulations, Sherlock.”
“Mmm,” the detective replied distractedly, deciding it was high time he danced with his new bride – John didn’t fail to notice how the smooth bastard had plucked a rose from a nearby stand as he made his way. He smirked down at his baby.
“What’s your Uncle like, eh?”