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“And you’re sure,” Sherlock leans towards William to ask, “that this was a good idea?”
William’s only response is a patient smile. Sherlock leans back with a huff. William gives him a look that tells him he thinks Sherlock’s acting overdramatic, but Sherlock doesn’t necessarily think that wishing for the best day of his life to remain unblemished is a matter of being overdramatic.
Because the odd thing is, so far, the day has gone unblemished. With an event as extravagant as a wedding, Sherlock thought it was only natural to assume that something or the order would go awry—a delay in arrangements, a missed name on the guest list, or, given their line of work, a surprise ambush out of nowhere. But nothing of the sort had occurred, and the proceedings had all gone exactly as planned. Sherlock dons not one, but two rings now, and he wouldn’t have it any other way—
—but did William really have to make Louis his best man?
The actual wedding part of the wedding was over—Sherlock thinks he actually wouldn’t quite mind grabbing William’s hand and pulling the two of them out of the venue, if not for the chiding he’d inevitably get from William’s own hand. It isn’t a matter of not trusting William’s choice, and it isn’t really even a matter of not trusting Louis, but Sherlock simply thinks he really would rather not be horribly berated on his own wedding day. Louis and Sherlock are on civil terms now, but he very well remembers the hostility Louis used to hold for him.
But Louis has already taken to the podium, William’s hand is already on Sherlock’s, and so Sherlock settles in for a speech riddled with backhanded compliments.
“When I first met Sherlock Holmes,” Louis starts, his voice sounding clear across the venue, “I thought he was an aggravating, irritating pillock.” He pauses. “I still do, actually.”
Well. Not so backhanded after all.
“I saw him first as my brother was departing the Noahtic,” Louis continues breezily, as if he hadn’t insulted Sherlock to his face mere moments before, “and watched the two converse, though about what, I could not say.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t think much about the encounter, but that my brother would stop for such a conversation at all was a curious thing to me. When William told us about the detective he met on the ship, I thought I understood his interest. Here was someone fit for the missing role of the play we intended to orchestrate, here was the missing piece. I thought Sherlock Holmes to be a third-party actor, and nothing more.” Louis tilts his head to the side. “For better or worse, I was wrong.”
Sherlock straightens a bit in his seat. There—that had to be the turning point of the speech. Would he really get to hear Louis express some sort of gratitude, this time outside of closed doors?
“When I personally met Sherlock on the train to London, though,” Louis continues with a relaxed shrug, “I must admit I entertained the idea of murdering him.”
Sherlock spins to William with his mouth dropped in an appalled gape. William only smiles in response, patting Sherlock’s hand calmly.
The audience around—it’s only a few, trusted friends, hence Louis’s easy honesty—seem as amused as William at Louis’s words, evident by the smiles they try to hide behind their hands. Sherlock groans and slumps in his seat.
“Actually, it wasn’t even a matter of thwarting him,” Louis admits. “I simply found him to be incredibly rude, terribly brash, and overall, much too big-headed for his own good—you ought to have seen the overly familiar way he acted around William.” Sherlock overhears a few titters of laughter across the crowd and slumps a little lower.
“Liam,” Sherlock hisses to his now husband, “do I really have to stick around for all of this?”
“Patience, Sherly,” is William’s quiet response. Sherlock frowns.
“So you can imagine my dismay,” Louis’s eyes find Sherlock’s across the room, “when my brother began coming home more frequently with Sherlock’s name on the tip of his tongue.” Louis is the first to break his gaze away. “I operated under the assumption that it was because of the detective’s involvement with our plan, but even someone as reluctant as I was able to see an interest more than one of mystery in my brother’s words.” Now, it is William’s eyes Louis meets, this time with a smile. “Love is a good look on you, brother.”
William returns the smile with one of his own, squeezing Sherlock’s hand as he does beneath the table. Sherlock shifts in his seat, deigning to straighten at least a little.
Louis’s smile quickly drops back to a frown. “My brother’s feelings were clear to me, but the detective’s, I could not understand. He met all of William’s moves with his own, but nothing more. Was William but a puzzle to him to solve? A criminal to put behind bars? That was his assigned role, after all, and it didn’t seem like Sherlock longed to break out of it much at all.” Louis’s brows furrow. “I worried, not only for my brother’s plan, but for his heart, too.”
Louis pauses, and for a moment, Sherlock wonders if that’s the entire speech. It doesn’t seem like Sherlock’s going to be portrayed very well in this speech at all, and once again, he feels a slight pang of regret that he hadn’t fled the room with William in tow before Louis could begin—although that, he thinks, might just incense Louis more.
“I worried,” Louis repeats after his slight pause, “but I loved my brother more than I held reservations about Sherlock. When I realized the…” He trails off, something flickering in his eyes. “When I realized the true end of my brother’s plan,” Louis says, “I took what I thought was a gamble. A last-ditch attempt.”
Ah. This, Sherlock remembers.
“I barely got a word in edgewise before Sherlock interrupted me.” Louis goes quiet. “‘I’m going to save Liam,’ were his exact words.” He takes a breath. “That was when I realized I had misconstrued the detective’s nature. This misconstruction of mine ultimately saved my brother’s life, and for that…” Louis exhales. “Though I’ve prior conveyed my gratitude,” he directs to Sherlock, “the thanks I owe you far extend what my mere words can express.”
Sherlock grins awkwardly at the resulting round of applause, leaning into William next to him as he raises his glass in acknowledgment.
“And since then, you have…” Louis makes a sort of face, almost like it pains him to get his words out, “continued being an invaluable support to William,” he finishes somewhat begrudgingly. “I cannot say I fully endorse my brother’s choice of partner—because truly, his table manners are horrendous—” Sherlock rolls his eyes. Just because he used the wrong fork one time… “—but Sherlock makes my brother happy, without dispute. And that, more than anything, means he is enough to be by his side.” Louis lifts the glass in his hand. “So, a toast, to William and Sherlock. I trust their marriage will be fulfilling and long-lasting…” He narrows his eyes at Sherlock. “Or else.”
Amidst the cheers and clapping as Louis dips his head in a slight bow and leaves the podium, Sherlock leans towards William. “Err, Liam, was that last bit a threat?”
“Whatever do you mean, Sherly?” William says with a beatific smile. Sherlock squints at him for one moment, then another, then breaks out into a laugh.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Sherlock admits. “You two really are alike, you know?”
William hums. “I’m simply pleased the two of you are getting along now.”
Sherlock remembers Louis’s narrowed gaze and coughs. He’s pretty sure Louis’s approval is contingent on William’s happiness, but as he glances at William’s fond smile, he thinks that might not be such an arduous endeavor at all.
“Yeah,” Sherlock says with a soft kiss to William’s forehead. “I think we’ll get along famously.”