Chapter Text
It wasn’t that John Watson was opposed to weddings, per se.
Sure, he might not have been particularly enthusiastic about them, but ultimately if two people were happy together and wanted to sign a contract that declared it, then good for them. He just didn’t understand why he had to be part of it.
He sighed. He was looking critically at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, fixing his tie for about the millionth time in the last five minutes.
He wondered why he was so nervous. It was just a wedding, after all.
No, scratch that.
He knew exactly why he was nervous. He just didn’t want to think about it.
Surely Sherlock would have some irritating, terrifyingly accurate observation to make about that notion; for instance, that the reason he didn’t like weddings was because of all the bitterness he carried from his own failed marriage, which had ended just a few months previously. That it had kind of ruined the idea for him. In fairness, he would probably have been right, as he so often was, but still.
He glanced at him through the reflection. He was sitting on his usual chair, of course, legs crossed, staring intently at the bright screen of his laptop - doing what exactly, well, that was anyone's guess. He didn't look nearly as anxious as John, which was surprising considering that the whole thing hadn't even been his idea, but there was a quiet sort of restlessness to him that betrayed at least some trepidation.
Just as he thought that, Sherlock looked up from the computer, as though he’d felt John's gaze on himself, and their eyes met through the reflection.
John looked away quickly.
He cleared his throat. "Ready to go?” he asked.
“Not really, but I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?” replied the other, slamming his laptop shut as he did so.
“No, you don’t.”
John took a step back to give his reflection one last thorough inspection.
The image the mirror returned him was one he was familiar with, but didn’t truly recognize. The man in front of him was… well, maybe not old, exactly, but older. He didn’t have a moustache anymore - thankfully, he’d been rather passionately talked out of that phase by pretty much anyone who knew him -, but his hair remained as thin and greying as it had ever been, though it was neater than on most days, well-groomed in a way it hadn’t had a reason to be in quite a while.
Overall, he’d say he looked nice - not underdressed, not overly formal - but he didn’t quite look like himself. His clothes felt like a costume, which he supposed was appropriate, given the circumstances.
He inhaled deeply.
He was going to be fine. It really was just a wedding, after all; all he had to do was put on his most believable smile, get in the car, drive to the place, shake some hands and be home in time for tea. He'd faced worse, probably. Besides, he'd always found that people tended to like him upon first meeting, and even though he had no idea what to expect of the sort of crowd that gets invited to the same wedding as Sherlock Holmes, there was no reason to believe that this time would be any different.
He straightened his tie once more for good measure and turned his head towards Sherlock.
”Right. Let’s do this, then.”
***
To properly understand the importance of what was happening and why it felt so significant to our protagonist, one would need to go back. More precisely, six weeks back.
It was on all accounts a perfectly ordinary Monday morning at 221b Baker Street - sun shining, birds tweeting, London buzzing with dozens of unsolved gruesome murders, all the works.
John was
sitting in their living room by the computer, editing his last blog entry, when Sherlock stormed into the room, eyes looking murder, and sank into his chair with a dramatic sigh.
“Rough day at the office?” John asked half-jokingly, without looking up from his laptop.
Sherlock’s only response was a low and annoyed grunt.
John partially turned to face him.
He was sitting sulkily, tapping his foot so quickly and with such intensity that John worried it might fall off - nothing of which was really out of the ordinary, nor worthy of much consideration. Sherlock's moods came and went like the weather and besides, there wasn't much anybody could do on those occasions but wait it out and try to irritate him as little as possible.
What wasn't ordinary, however, was the cream envelope in Sherlock’s hands, half torn at the seal flap.
“What’s that?” he asked, nudging towards it.
“An invitation,” the detective offered unhelpfully.
“An invitation to…?”
“It doesn’t matter, because I’m not going.”
John blinked, this time turning fully towards him. “Right. Care to explain?”
In response Sherlock just chucked the opened envelope at him. John found this rude, of course, but opted to postpone that conversation and take a look at it first, curious to find out whatever monstrous, nightmarish event could be terrible enough to put Sherlock in such a bad mood at the mere mention of it.
On it, drafted in elegant calligraphy, was written:
“Oliver and Demelza Winters
together with
Ted and Lindsay Holmes
request the pleasure of your company to celebrate the wedding between
Henry and Felicity
on Saturday the twentieth and Sunday the twenty-first of May”
John frowned, unable to spot what exactly about this invitation could have upset Sherlock so much.
“A wedding? That’s it?”
“Not just any wedding, John,” Sherlock replied, his right leg now bouncing up and down with irritation, like one of a child who's had a bit too much sugar. “My whole family will be there.”
“Well, then you should be there too, no?"
Sherlock emitted a noise that resembled no human language, something halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “It’s not that easy.”
John stared at him for a few long seconds, eyes narrowed in concentration. “There’s more, isn’t there?"
Sherlock didn’t answer, giving him immediate confirmation that there was definitely more.
He crossed his arms. "What aren’t you telling me?”
Sherlock moistened his lips, hesitant to answer. “Fine. I have to show up with a… date,” he explained reluctantly. He paused and, if he hadn’t known better, John would have thought to have noticed a hint of shame behind those inscrutable blue eyes. “I might have… well, made up a boyfriend.”
John blinked, startled, the word 'boyfriend' reverberating in his mind, echoing through his skull. “You what?”
“I made up a boyfriend,” Sherlock repeated, a bit more loudly.
John stared at him in unspeaking disbelief for a long time as his brain scrambled around wildly, trying to process the information he had just been given with such nonchalance. What was he even supposed to say to that? Of course he had questions, lots of them (What on earth did he mean by that? Why would he lie to his own family? and Couldn't he just make up an excuse, say that he'd been broken up with suddenly or that his boyfriend was busy that weekend but would have loved to meet them?), but none of them felt appropriate, given the circumstances.
Instead he could only think of one thing to say.
“You…”
”Made up, yes-“ Sherlock interjected, but, surprisingly, that wasn’t John’s biggest concern at the moment.
“You told them you have a boyfriend. Why would you tell them you have a boyfriend?” he asked, putting the emphasis on the last word.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “I’ll leave you to your deductions."
Now, John Watson was far from bigoted. Generally, he didn’t care whether people were into men, women, neither, both, or anything in between. He felt like it wasn’t any of his business. But surely the idea that Sherlock, of all people, could be interested in men - hell, that Sherlock could be interested in anyone - was ridiculous, no? He’d always assumed that he just wasn’t into that kind of stuff. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Human beings more in general. That he was neither gay nor straight, he was just… Sherlock. And to hear him contradict this so casually after years of secrecy felt disorienting, to say the very least.
Still, he had to say something. He'd been quiet for too long, and he was beginning to fear that his failure to think of an adequate response might be interpreted as disappointment, or even disgust, rather than the simple surprise it truly was. He didn’t want Sherlock to feel like the information changed anything between them - which it didn’t.
He smiled humorlessly. “I’m not an idiot, just so you know.”
“That should be your catchphrase,” Sherlock replied.
John seriously considered throwing the nearest object at him for a few seconds - not because it would help the situation, really, but because it might at least erase that hateful smug smile so clearly painted on his face.
“Well, we should go together then,” he said instead, in a desperate attempt at changing the subject.
Sherlock frowned. “Together, as in…?”
“Together,” John repeated, ignoring the part of him (the sanest) who was desperately begging him to reconsider. “Friends can do that, you know. It’s not that uncommon. See me as your… emotional support animal.”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Animal?”
“Human. Whatever. You know what I mean.”
“So… my date?”
John hesitated briefly before answering.
”Yes,” he confirmed with a nod. “Your date.” It sounded strange, hearing it out loud, but he supposed that was the only right word for it. “I mean, it’s not really far from the truth, is it? Half the internet seems to think that we’re a couple already.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, which John wasn’t sure whether to take as a good sign or not. The situation sort of reminded him of the day he’d asked him to be his best man, in some weird, twisted way - though he supposed the circumstances couldn’t have been more different.
He was impossibly still, much like then, though by now John knew him well enough to notice something moving, working behind his eyes, his brain silently analyzing his proposition and all its possible ramifications in every tiny detail.
“So… what do you say?” he tried again, feeling a bit awkward.
He’d half expected him to protest, to tell him that it was a terrible idea - which, in fairness, it was - but Sherlock simply stared at him blankly for a few seconds before saying,
“Okay.”
“Okay?” John asked incredulously. He hadn’t anticipated the possibility that he might say yes. He frowned. Perhaps he hadn’t thought this through.
”Okay.” Sherlock jumped to his feet and held out a hand. “John Watson. Be my boyfriend for the weekend.”
John shook it, feeling much like one who’s just struck a deal with the devil.
"Okay," he repeated once more, the word having lost all its meaning by now. "I mean, what could go wrong, right?"
***
"John?" Sherlock called.
They were sitting in the car they’d rented to drive up to the wedding, a tiny old thing provided from a friend of Harry's for about a third of the most generous price on the market for the very good reason that it looked older than the Queen, had more control lights on than a Christmas tree and overall really had no business being permitted on the street.
John, of course, was the one in the driver’s seat, eyes fixed on the road.
"Mh?"
“Remind me why we’re doing this again?”
The question didn’t surprise him. Over the past few weeks the closer the infamous weekend of the wedding, circled in red on their kitchen calendar, got, the more Sherlock seemed to be having second thoughts. Still, it was too late to turn back now; they were already halfway there.
”Because they’re your family and you love them?” he suggested tentatively.
Sherlock made a face, nose scrunched and eyebrows shooting up in skepticism. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
John decided to ignore the comment. “Cheer up! This is going to be fun,” he replied instead, glancing at Sherlock through the rearview mirror.
The look on Sherlock’s face clearly showed his disagreement. It said ‘please, end my suffering’.
“Fun? I don’t know what your idea of fun is, but exchanging pleasantries with my family, most of whom hates me, is the opposite of mine.”
“Come on, they can’t be that bad.”
Sherlock scoffed. “That’s because you haven’t met them. Trust me, they’re extremely unpleasant at best.”
Instead of answering, John begun fumbling with the radio until he found a song he liked. It was a good day, he reminded himself. They were going to a wedding, for God’s sake, and for once he wasn’t going to let Sherlock’s bad mood ruin his good spirits.
For a while silence fell in the car, interrupted only by the slightly nasal voice of a radio host announcing in an enthusiastic tone that the next song would be by a random popstar John had never heard of, but assumed must be very popular. Eventually, it was Sherlock who broke it again.
”We should practice,” he said. It sounded more like an order than a suggestion.
“Practice…?” John asked distractedly, bobbing his head to the admittedly generic music coming from the radio.
”Decide what we’re going to say to them in case they ask questions. Which they will,” he added in a definitive tone.
“Questions like what?”
“Like… how we met, for example.”
John considered his answer for a moment. “I think we can keep the real story. Minus the morgue part.”
”So we were roommates and then we fell in love, is that it?”
He wasn’t sure why, but that idea made the warm blood rush to his cheeks. He was glad that Sherlock, sitting in the backseat, couldn’t see it.
“Something like that.”
Sherlock didn’t sound nearly as bothered. “Good thinking,” he said. “A lie is always more effective when it’s closer to the truth.”
John was unsure whether he agreed, but he kept quiet, his attention now returned to the music. They were playing something that could have very well been a love song, or perhaps a break up song. It wasn’t too clear, given that the lyrics mainly consisted of random love-related buzzwords being thrown in a somewhat randomic order, but at least he enjoyed the instrumental, somewhat.
Which sparked an idea;
”What about pet names?”
“What about them?” Sherlock asked, not following the nexus between the two concepts.
”Do we use them? Or, not we, but… you know. Our… characters?”
Sherlock was kind enough to ignore his incoherent bumbling.
“Yes, but nothing excessively cheesy,” he replied without hesitation, which made John think that he must have thought about this beforehand.
“Er, okay,” he said, slightly puzzled. “Which ones?”
“Which ones do you usually use with your girlfriends?”
John frowned, unsure of what to answer. He wasn’t really a fan of pet names, although he had obliged in the past when it had been clear it was expected of him.
"Uh, anything’s good, I guess,” he replied. “Honey, sweetheart, darling…”
“Darling?” Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with ‘darling’?”
”Oh, nothing,” he muttered. “If you’re eighty.”
John decided not to dignify that with a response. He glanced outside the window. It was a perfectly lovely day; the sun shone brightly above them and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. It was almost enough to distract him from the absurdity of the situation. Almost.
He inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to turn back the car, head home and pretend that nothing had happened. If he did so now, he thought, he could be back at Baker Street in time for dinner. But despite fantasizing about it, he knew concretely that it wasn’t an option. He’d been the one who had insisted that Sherlock attended the wedding after all, so he couldn’t back out at the last moment, not unless he wanted to put up with Sherlock’s arrogant triumph for the next two-to-five weeks.
Besides, who was to say that they couldn’t have fun, despite the surreality of their arrangement?
Two days of relax - no cases, no hurry, no shooting at the wall - in which Sherlock was going to be forced to be civil to him. He felt fairly optimistic and he had every intention to enjoy himself.
He stopped the car. “We’re here,” he announced.
On their left, behind a golden arched gate, stood a group of small, quaint yellow and white buildings, preceded by a well-kept english lawn full of what John had originally thought to be lavender bushes, but had revealed upon a closer inspection to actually be russian sage. Next to it, just before the entrance, was an elegant sign in cursive handwriting which read “Welcome to Vertex resort and spa. Enjoy your stay.”
“Oh, they have a spa,” John commented. “That’s nice.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, but didn’t bother to reply.
John inhaled deeply. This was it, then. He was going to date Sherlock Holmes for the weekend. He straightened his tie once more, wondering whether he’d chosen the right outfit. Was it too formal? Too casual?
“You look fine,” Sherlock said, as if he’d read his mind. “I don’t understand why you’re acting so nervous anyways. It was your idea.”
“Hey, I’ve got to look the part!” he protested. “I don’t know about you, but I intend to impress your family. I’ll be the best boyfriend you’ve ever brought home.”
There was a flash of something unreadable in Sherlock’s eyes but it only lasted a moment and then it was gone, leaving John to question whether he’d imagined it.
“I don’t think that’s going to be half as hard as you think it is,” he muttered, and before John could ask what he meant by that he got out of the car and begun striding towards the building. John couldn’t do anything but stalk after him, his short legs struggling to keep up with Sherlock’s large and impatient steps.
As soon as they entered the lobby, John was immediately swept away by its beauty. It was small but welcoming all the same, clean and filled with a soft buttery light. The walls were painted light yellow to match the exterior and occasionally interrupted by two or three floor-to-ceiling windows. On the left side the room stretched into another, smaller space filled with a number of round wooden tables and stools, along with a larger horizontal table - probably for breakfast and suchlike, John reckoned - while on the right stood a wooden counter. Behind the counter stood a young man - he must have been in his early twenties -, talking to a beautiful woman in a white blouse about something-or-other concerning the wedding.
When they entered the room, they both turned around.
“Sherlock!” she exclaimed as soon as she saw him. She walked up to him and kissed him on both cheeks. “I’m so happy you’re here, it’s been too long! Pity you couldn’t attend Edward’s wedding last year.”
“Yes, I was… ill, unfortunately,” Sherlock said, in a tone that made John think he definitely hadn’t been ill.
“Too bad, too bad,” she said, a fake smile plastered on her face.
“I mean, they did split up after five months, so it’s not like I missed anything important.”
The woman blinked, her smile shrinking ever so slightly. John elbowed Sherlock as discreetly as he could.
“He’s joking. Quite the comedian, he is,” he attempted to remedy.
The woman ignored the comment - probably for the best. “Oh, and you must be doctor Watson!” she gushed, looking at him like she was only just noticing he was also there. She offered him a perfectly manicured hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
John very much doubted it.
“In the flesh,” he replied, shaking it. And then, “I’m sorry, who are you?”
“Felicity Holmes,” she said. And then, when John didn’t react, she added, tentatively: “The bride?”
“My cousin.” Sherlock explained.
“Oh, right!” he exclaimed, kicking himself for not having done his research properly. “Wow, congratulations,” he said. “This must all be terribly exciting for you.”
She smiled. ”Yes, rather.”
There was something in her voice John couldn’t quite put a finger on. It felt... practiced, insincere. Like she was putting on a show for them.
He studied her for a few moments. His first impression of her hadn’t been entirely accurate. She was still beautiful upon a closer look, but in a slightly off-putting way. Every one of her features was, if taken by itself, very attractive, and yet it looked like someone had put them all together in a hurry. The eyes were a bit too close, the nose a bit too off-centered. And then there was her smile, which was, yes, welcoming, but looked more like it belonged to someone working in retail rather than a blushing bride. John couldn’t shake the sensation that she was trying to sell him something, and the fact that he didn't knew what that something was bothered him.
“Well, I should get back to work. Lots of things to prepare for tomorrow - God, I knew we should have hired a wedding planner! Do enjoy your stay.”
She flashed them one more toothy smile and left the room.
Sherlock headed for the counter.
“Name, sir?” the receptionist asked, without looking up from the computer.
"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, to which the young man perked up, suddenly.
“You mean the Sherlock Holmes, sir?” he asked, looking excited enough to faint on the spot.
Sherlock shot him a glare. “Yes.”
The poor boy blushed violently. "So sorry, sir. I’m sure you must get this all the time. It’s just that I’m such a huge fan.” He turned towards John. “And of your blog too, doctor Watson. It’s truly remarkable.”
“Why, thank you,” replied John, trying not to look too pleased about it. He would never get tired of hearing people compliment his writing - the mere notion that people actually read his blog was beyond him. “Which case did you like the best?”
“Oh, undoubtedly A Study in Pink, sir,” he spouted, eyes twinkling with excitement. “I loved the final cliffhanger on the identity of the shooter. I thought it was really rather thrilling.”
“Ah, yes, that was a good one,” John commented, smiling fondly at the memory. "You know, I--"
“John?” Sherlock interrupted him, beckoning towards the lift. “I do think we have a timetable.”
“Right.” He turned to the receptionist. “I'm sorry, would you mind telling us what room we’re in? We’re quite tired from the journey,” he said in the kindest voice possible, trying his best to make up for his companion's rudeness.
The receptionist, on his part, didn't look too offended. He was glancing back and forth between the two of them, clearly still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he'd met the Sherlock Homes and the John Watson in the same day. John could almost hear the frantic phone call he was going to make to one of his mates as soon as they left the room. Swear to God, Daniel, he was right there! I could've touched him, he was so close. He was wearing the coat and ev'rything... and, after a pause, No, no hat, unfortunately. Maybe he only wears it when he's at work. A'ight, talk to you later, I gotta finish my shift.
“Yes, sir. Right away,” He checked the computer. “Holmes, Holmes, let’s see… Ah, here you go, sir. Room thirteen.”
He handed him a keycard. John went to take it, but before he could Sherlock grabbed it and immediately begun walking away.
“Enjoy your stay!” the boy shouted at him from a distance.
Sherlock didn’t spare him a glance. "John!” he called. "Room's waiting."
John smiled apologetically at the receptionist before following the detective out of the room. “He means well.”
He walked up to Sherlock. He was standing in front of the lift, pushing impatiently one of its buttons as if doing it repeatedly was somehow going to make the elevator arrive any faster.
“It seems you have a fanboy,” John observed, without bothering to hide the sly smile painted on his lips.
Sherlock groaned. “You see, this is exactly why you should stop writing that ridiculous blog.”
“Why? People like you.”
“No they don’t! What people?”
John chuckled. “You should thank me, really. You wouldn’t have half the reputation you have weren’t it for my ‘ridiculous blog’.”
Sherlock scoffed. “I’m a detective. The last thing I need is a reputation.”
“You should write him an autograph. Make his day.”
Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to raise an objection, but before he could say anything the elevator doors opened with a light ‘ding’.
Inside, stood a man. He was maybe in his thirties, short with thinning dark hair and a receding hairline that had already made its way to the middle of his cranium and now threatened to move even further back. There was something slightly icky about him, though John couldn't quite put his finger on it. Maybe it had to do with the thin layer of sweat on his hands and forehead, or maybe it was because of the condescending look he was aiming at Sherlock, that not-quite-friendly smile John had seen being directed at the detective countless times from the likes of Anderson or Donovan. Whatever it was, he decided he didn't like him.
“Bugger me!” the man exclaimed. “Is that Sherlock Holmes?”
John frowned. Was he another fan? What were the odds?
“What do you want, Edward?” Sherlock replied through his teeth. Alright, not a fan then.
”Is that how you say hello to your cousin after you haven’t seen him in years?” the man - Edward, apparently - asked, seemingly oblivious to the annoyed look on Sherlock’s face. “C’mere!”
He hugged him. John did not envy Sherlock at all. Edward looked… slimy. The detective immediately tensed up, but didn’t protest - which was odd, considered how much he usually hated to be touched.
“And who’s this one?” he asked, gesturing to John.
“John Watson. John, Edward, my cousin,” Sherlock explained.
John offered a hand politely. Edward didn’t take it. He chuckled, a terribly unpleasant, wet sound.
“Huh, I like him. So formal. C’mere, you too. You’re dating Sherly, so you’re basically family.”
There was another hug, during which John could only think two things: one, ‘Sherly?!’ and two, ‘Ah. He is slimy.’ Thankfully, they broke apart after not very long.
“You know, when Sherly told us he was bringing a date to the wedding we all thought he was joking. But hey, here you are! Guess miracles really do happen, huh?”
”Here I am,” John repeated coldly.
“Well,” Edward said, unobservant or uncaring to the palpable uneasiness radiating from both John and Sherlock. “I’d love to stay and get to know you better, but sadly I have matters that need my attention. Izzy said the open bar wouldn't open until tomorrow, but come on. It's a wedding, you know what I'm saying? People wanna party," It was amazing, John thought, how long he could carry on talking without any sign of interest from his interlocutors. "Anyways, I gotta go. You guys go be gay without me, a'ight? Take care. I'll see you around."
And with that he winked, patted Sherlock on his shoulder and disappeared through the door.
They got into the lift.
“What a—“ John begun as soon as Edward was out of earshot.
“Git? Wanker? Utter waste of space?” Sherlock suggested eagerly.
“I was going to go with dickhead, but yeah.”
They looked at each other for a few seconds before beginning to chuckle madly, faces contorted in large grins, both unable to contain their laughter. There was another ‘ding’, and they got out.
“She didn’t seem so bad, though,” John commented once they managed to recompose themselves. “Felicity, I mean. She seemed nice.”
They were walking through the seemingly endless hallways of the hotel in search of their room - so far, they’d had no luck.
“I suppose she is. All things considered.”
“So you were being a little dramatic. You know, with the all ‘they’re extremely unpleasant at best’.”
“Oh, not at all.” John aimed him a quizzical look, prompting him to elaborate. “You’ve met Edward. And there’s a whole lot more where that’s coming from. What’s that saying, the one with the apple and the tree?”
Before John could begin to ask what exactly he meant by that, Sherlock’s voice interrupted him.
“Ah, room thirteen. Here it is,” he said cheerfully.
They got inside. The room, much like the rest of the resort, was small but cozy, with mint green walls and light wooden furniture. On the left, stood a small fireplace, its mantelpiece filled with trinkets and brochures about the apparently healing properties of the resort’s sauna - God, John thought briefly, this place must have costed Felicity and her husband a fortune to rent - and on its right a window through which the late afternoon light filtered lazily.
All very nice indeed. Except for one detail. In the centre of it sat a singular, king-sized bed.
“Sherlock?” he called, alarmed.
“Mh?” the detective answered, head peeking through the bathroom door. He had a toothbrush in his hand.
“There’s only one bed here,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Surprisingly accurate deduction,” Sherlock commented sarcastically. “And you say you’re not a good detective.”
John, however, wasn’t in the mood to joke. “So what, we’re supposed to just share it?”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?” he asked, impassive, as if daring him to raise an objection.
“Yes… No… It’s just…” john stammered, fumbling for words.
He didn’t want Sherlock to think that it was because of his sexuality, because it wasn’t. Not at all. It was just that the thought of being so close to Sherlock, even if it was just to sleep, was enough to send a whole lot of different sensations through his body, sensations he neither had time nor wanted to explore. Panic, mostly.
“Very well articulated.”
”You mean to tell me it really doesn’t bother you?” he asked, genuinely.
Although he would never have admitted it, Sherlock was a creature of habit. When he did sleep, no matter how late he's gone to bed, he always woke up at the same hour, had the same, warm morning tea drowned in a frankly appalling amount of milk and sugar - the mere thought made John, who took everything he drank black and bitter, wince with disgust - and dressed himself in the same, uselessly fashionable clothes. Whenever he didn’t stay up all night working, he went to sleep more or less at the same hour - still far too late, in John’s opinion - sometimes in his bed, more often on the couch, and he had never, never shown any interest in this routine changing.
So it's understandable that John thought it bizarre that he suddenly appeared so flexible and willing to bend his habits and share a bed with his flatmate.
Sherlock sighed. “Fine. If sleeping next to another man is such an insult to your heterosexuality, you can go ask Felicity for another room. I’m sure she’d be able to arrange that.”
”I can’t though, can I? Because then I’d have to explain why and it would give away the entire thing.”
“Sleep on the floor, then. Anyways, not my problem,” he replied coldly, and went back to brushing his teeth.
John huffed. Fine. He would go ask Felicity for another bloody room, their cover be damned. After all, it had been Sherlock’s idea, and John couldn’t be blamed when everything inevitably blew up in their faces. Stiffly, he made his way back to the lobby.
The receptionist was still sitting there. When he saw John, his eyes lit up like a puppy dog seeing its owner.
“Hello, sir! Can I help you with anything?” he asked eagerly.
“Um, actually yes. I’m looking for Felicity Holmes. Do you happen to know where she is?”
”No, sir, I’m sorry,” the boy answered, sounding disappointed.
“Oh well, it was worth a try.”
He had almost reached the door that led to the elevators when the receptionist spoke again.
“What do you need her for? If you don’t mind me asking,” he added, hurriedly. “I could take a message and report it to her when I see her.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you… what’s your name?”
“Caleb, sir.”
“Right. Thank you, Caleb. I think I’ll just wait for her somewhere.”
“There’s a sitting area just beyond that door, sir.” Caleb gestured to one of the wooden doors on his right.
“Very well. Thank you.” He smiled briefly at him once more before leaving the room.
The ‘sitting area’, as Caleb had called it, looked more like a nineteenth century nobleman's living room than anything else, and was by far the most beautiful room John had seen so far. Like every other part of the resort, it was small and homey, with dark red wallpaper on every wall and a matching thick, burgundy carpet on the floor. Scattered against the walls were a number of brown leather chairs, along with a thin wooden bookshelf bending under the weight of a number of uninteresting books that didn’t seem to have been touched in several decades - the collection mainly included Dan Brown novels and tourist guides.
It was also not empty, though Felicity was nowhere to be seen. Across the room, next to the bookshelf, sat two men engaged in a very lively, though not particularly amicable discussion, who didn’t seem to take notice of John’s arrival.
”I don’t care! Why can’t you just hear me out for five goddamn minutes?” the first, a tall and gangly bloke with dirty blond hair and a freckled face, was saying. He was clearly upset, although he was being careful not to raise his voice. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “There isn’t another way. You really think she doesn’t know by now?”
“Absolutely not!” the other, a handsome man in an expensive-looking suit with dark brown skin and a buzz cut, replied, looking horrified by the suggestion. “It’s way too dangerous. I’m sorry, but it’s not up for debate."
The first man exhaled a bitter scoff. “Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “You know what, if you won’t do it, then maybe I will.” And with that he stood up and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
The other man sighed deeply, his head in his hands.
John cleared his throat. “Um, excuse me?”
The man jumped, startled. “Yes?”
“Do you happen to know where I could find Felicity Holmes?”
The man’s head perked up. “Why, what business do you have with her?” he asked, suspicious.
John blinked. “You know her?”
He scoffed. “Know her? I’m marrying her tomorrow.”
“Oh… right. You see, I—“
“If that isn’t doctor Watson.” a third, nasal voice interrupted him.
John turned around, having recognised it instantly. Standing directly behind him and leaning against the doorframe as expected was none other than Mycroft Holmes, complete with his three-piece-suit and his umbrella.
“Mycroft!” he exclaimed, his voice in equal parts relieved and surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I could say the same thing about you,” Mycroft replied rather pointedly. “Come. I’ll walk you to your room. There are matters I wish to discuss with you.”
“But—“
“Privately,” he added, in a tone that allowed no space for objections.
John couldn’t help but obey.
For a while they walked in silence, measuring the rooms with large and slow steps. John was staring at the tip of his shoes the whole time, feeling very much like a child who’d just been summoned to the headmaster’s study. Then, once they reached the elevator room, Mycroft closed the door behind him and turned towards John.
”Why are you here?” he asked.
He didn’t sound… mad, exactly. Just curious. His face was even more unreadable than Sherlock’s was.
“I’m Sherlock’s… date,” he replied, doing his best to sound convincing, even though they both knew it was a lie.
“Yes, I can see that,” Mycroft smiled mellifluously. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
John frowned. “Doesn’t it?”
“Afraid not.”
“He asked me to come,” he said. Which wasn’t a lie, technically.
“I see.”
“Why are you here?” John asked before he could stop himself.
Mycroft tilted his head slightly. "I was invited.”
”Yes, but… You don’t talk to people if you can avoid it. Why would you want to go to a wedding?”
Mycroft looked him up and down for a few seconds, scanning him, and then smiled, a smile that looked more like a grimace than anything else.
“I see you’ve been picking up skills from Sherlock. You two are more similar than you appear.”
John didn’t know whether to feel flattered or insulted. ”You’re avoiding the question.”
”Yes, I suppose I am," he stated tonelessly. “All in due time, doctor Watson. And who knows? Maybe I just want to see how things will play out.”
“That’s… vague,” John tried to protest.
Mycroft chuckled. “Enjoy the wedding, doctor Watson,” he said, cryptically. ”I’m sure it will be quite… memorable. For all of us.”
And with that he turned around and left the room, leaving behind a very confused John.
As he made his way back to room thirteen, John thought about Mycroft’s enigmatic non-answer. Sometimes he felt like the man did most of the things he did just for dramatic effect. Bloody power complex. He opened the door absent-mindedly. Sherlock was standing in front of the mirror, tying his tie. He was wearing a black two-piece suit John had never seen him wear before - he had no idea when or why he’d bought it -, and his hair was, for once, properly combed, instead of sticking up in at least a thousand different directions as usual.
“How did it go?” he asked without turning around.
It took John a moment to realize what he was referring to. In all the commotion, he’d completely forgotten about the whole one-bed situation.
“I didn’t ask for another room,” he simply stated. He hoped that Sherlock wasn’t going to ask for an explanation, because he didn’t have one.
But Sherlock simply said: “Oh.”
For a moment John thought that maybe he was going to add something, but he didn’t. So, to fill the silence, he said, “I ran into Mycroft.”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Mycroft? What’s he doing here?”
“That’s what I asked!”
“And?”
”He didn’t answer. Or rather, he gave me an extremely cryptical answer.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Typical. He’s always had a taste for theatricality.” John couldn’t help but agree. “You should get dressed. Rehearsal dinner starts in fifteen minutes.”
”Right,” he said. And then, “What?”
“The rehearsal dinner, John,” he repeated, like he was the idiot for not knowing the schedule by heart. “It starts in fifteen minutes.” He checked his watch, “Actually, thirteen now. Hurry up.”
”And you couldn’t tell me - oh, I don’t know - an hour ago?”
Sherlock smiled angelically at him.
John sighed and disappeared into the bathroom. ”I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” Sherlock replied as he flopped down onto the bed, testing its softness.
No, he didn’t.
Despite the last-minute notice, ten minutes later John re-emerged from the bathroom looking sharp enough to cut himself. He was wearing a suit that was a bit too tight for him, but it was the only one he owned - the same he’d worn to his own wedding. He shook his head, as if to drive that thought away. Mary was the last person he wanted to think about right now.
He looked quite dashing - if he did say so himself -, he thought admiring his figure in the mirror set above the fireplace. Not that he’d ever considered himself a particularly attractive man - his charm consisted more or less of a combination of charisma and the handy asset of always looking slightly more achievable than his competitors. Still, it could have been worse. Running through London after this or that murderer had contributed to keeping him in decent shape, at the very least.
It was a shame that he had to pretend to be Sherlock’s boyfriend. If he didn’t, he could have met someone new. Not that he was necessarily looking for a relationship, but he wouldn’t have minded a bit of fun.
“Okay, I’m good to go.”
When Sherlock didn’t answer, he turned towards him. He was standing by the window, staring at him, seemingly lost in thought.
“Er, Sherlock, mate? You there?”
”Oh- yes. Yep,” he replied, sounding caught off-guard. “You’re ready to go, then?”
John nodded and offered him an arm. Sherlock looped his through John’s.
“Showtime,” he said.
And together, they walked out of the room.