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Sherlock smiled like he was lit up from the inside with a dozen fluorescent light bulbs. His eyes shone with unspilled tears and he hadn’t blinked since the officiant had started the final part of the ceremony.
“Do you, John Hamish Watson, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
John barely paused and didn’t look at the officiant.
“I do.” His eyes were bright, brighter than they had been at his first wedding. Mycroft had seen from his hidden cameras the shrouded regret when he married Mary. But there was none of that now. Just an effervescent glow that made every other married couple there a little insecure.
“Do you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Sherlock squeezed John’s hand almost imperceptibly to anyone other than them and Mycroft. A tear had finally broken loose and was making its way down his cheek.
“I do.”
“Who has the rings?”
Mycroft watched as Gregory stepped forward and held out two ring boxes. One, a sleek black silk, the other a classic navy blue velvet. Sherlock took and flipped open the blue one while John did the same with the black. The officiant muttered a few more traditional but ultimately idiotic words of proceeding and then Sherlock settled a solid silver band onto John’s hand, looking at something other than John’s eyes for once in the ceremony. It wasn’t silver, of course; that was far too prone to scratching during their lives. It wasn’t heavy either, which Sherlock had insisted upon because of something about the size of John’s hands. It was a strong metal alloy with the traditional look- Sherlock had been extremely pleased.
John did the same, with a matching ring. Sherlock finally broke his gaze from some part of John and stared at his own ring, mouth gaping slightly. John took his hands again and Sherlock swallowed.
Gregory collected the ring boxes and stepped back. There was a tense moment, waiting for the officiant to finish talking.
“You may-” the officiant continued, but John and Sherlock had already stepped toward each other with a practiced ease, one of John’s hands twisting around Sherlock’s back while the other cupped his jaw; Sherlock’s hands flat against John’s back, holding the other man to him. Sherlock’s head was bent down and John was tipped up onto the balls of his feet, head tilted up. The kiss was less chaste than was the norm, but no one minded. It was decent still, unlike everyone’s expectation, with an edge of desperation and finally, and the heave of relief in their shoulders. Sherlock’s ring gleamed from the ceiling lights.
“Hey,” Mycroft whispered, sitting back down next to Mycroft. He draped an arm over the back of Mycroft’s chair. He sighed as applause went up through the hall. Sherlock and John separated slowly and dropped one of their hands to walk out of the church side by side. The population of the church rose to follow them, talking and smiling. Mycroft stood, holding his hand out to Gregory, who took it. They walked closely, behind the group following John and Sherlock out.
“I ought to be up with the happy couple,” Gregory said. “I am the best man.”
“I’m the brother,” Mycroft said. “It’s fine. They can wait a few seconds for a photo.”
As they neared the front of the church, Gregory spoke again.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple happier at their own wedding. And hell, I’ve been married.”
“I’ve never been able to deduce so much from a kiss.”
Gregory snorted.
“What?”
“You don’t have to cover everything with science, you know.”
Mycroft shrugged and fixed Gregory’s tie. Sherlock and John were pressed together, conspiring between kisses, waiting in front of the camera without care.
“Fine. Read. See.” He cleared his throat. “Feel.”
Gregory smiled and kissed him. “I’ve got to go. They’re getting impatient.”
(In fact, they weren’t, and hardly moved from the spot after the photos had been taken.)
“Mycroft,” Sherlock called and beckoned him over.
“Yes, brother?”
“Could you refrain from kissing Lestrade on my wedding day?”
“In fact, he can’t,” Gregory said, stepping between them with an affectionate brush over Mycroft’s shoulder. “Now, come on, let’s get the pictures taken care of.”
The photographer snapped several with the best men (John had selected Stanford for his) and then gestured for Mycroft to join.
“Photo with siblings is traditional,” he explained. Mycroft saw Sherlock look at John- making sure he wasn’t hurt that Harry hadn’t come. But John was grinning and happily allowed Mycroft into the frame. Gregory, on the far left next to Sherlock, moved in to make space and rested a hand on Mycroft’s left hip. The photographer’s shutter snapped closed, capturing their smiles forever.
-
Years later, Mycroft sat next to his husband on their couch.
“What are you looking at?”
Gregory had open their photo album- Mycroft had had nothing to do with it; it was Gregory’s idea to make one after being appalled that the last one the Holmeses owned ended when Sherlock was twelve.
“Sherlock and John’s wedding.”
“Not ours?”
Gregory flicked him playfully on the arm. “I’m going through it. That’s two years of photos later.”
“It seems so long-”
“But so short,” Gregory nodded. “Do you remember how I proposed?”
“You?" Mycroft wrinkled his brow in skepticism and humour. "I did it.”
“You beat me to it. I was getting there.”
“You were taking too long. But yes, I do remember.”
“We’d just gotten back to the hotel-”
“You were exhausted and tipsy and groping me all the way up to our room.” Mycroft interjected.
“Was I? Don’t remember that bit.” Gregory smirked. “Here, com’ere, I fancy a cuddle.” He leaned back on the wide couch and opened his arms for Mycroft to settle into. Once they were comfortable, he continued. “Anyway, we’d just gotten back and taken a shower and were about to go to sleep-”
“Lies. Neither of us were. You were thinking too loudly and I can’t sleep when you’re anxious.”
“Which is why I asked you if you regretted never having children.”
“And I told you that your daughter is like my own.”
“Right. After which, I proposed.”
“You did not. You started belaboring the point that John and Sherlock looked extremely happy after being married.”
“I might have mentioned it. But I did not belabor it, thank you.”
“Yes you did. You rambled for four and a half minutes about how Sherlock was the happiest you’d ever seen him, even more so than when he started dating John, and how John looked just the same, and how they hardly stopped staring at each other all day, and how you wished you had been so happy on your wedding day.”
“Okay, one, that was going to segue into the proposal before you so rudely interrupted.”
“Of course it would have.”
“And second, you remember all that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I remember everything you say, and it made an impression on me too. Now, because of my rude interruption that cut off your supposed segue, I asked you if you would want to try again. To which you gaped at me like you couldn’t believe your ears.”
“I couldn’t. I thought for a second you meant with my wife-”
Mycroft scoffed. “I’ve overestimated you, apparently.”
Gregory flicked him gently. “I said just a second. And then I realized you did mean with you, and then I was even more surprised.”
“Why?”
A shrug jostled Mycroft. “I don’t know. You’d always hated sentiment and I never thought you were one to get married, because I thought you believed it was just symbolic and therefore useless.”
Mycroft sighed and nuzzled closer to Gregory’s chest. “I did. I do still, a bit. But it was unexpectedly nice. A wedding is something I never thought I’d want or ever even have the opportunity to have. But then Sherlock found John and you found me.”
“I remember it differently. I believe you found me.”
“Maybe in the beginning of the end. But at the very start, it was you who called me.”
“You were the only contact other than ‘dealer’ in Sherlock’s phone.”
“Yes, well.” He sighed and doodled a few patterns on Gregory’s chest. “You were always so good to Sherlock. Even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when you had to be tough. How was I supposed to just let you stay in that bedsit?”
“I don’t know why I ever agreed to stay in your flat. I’d never really talked to you before.”
“Turned out well, I think.”
“Yes, I think so. How did we end up together?” He propped himself up and looked at Gregory’s face, as if searching for answers there.
“I don’t think I know. It just sort of happened. No- no, I’ve got it. I kissed you.”
“Yes- no, I kissed you.”
“Are you certain? I think I kissed you.”
“You may have. But I kissed you first.”
“No. I’d come home from a business trip and you made a stink about sleeping arrangements, saying I couldn’t sleep on the sofa in my own flat because I kept insisting you take the bed, so I said we could share.”
“I remember that. That was after the calls had been going on for quite a while, right?”
“A few months, yeah.” He had started calling Gregory daily for updates on Sherlock a few weeks after Gregory had taken to living in his flat. The calls were compromised from the start, because although information on Sherlock was helpful, even if he didn’t admit it to himself at the time, he had just wanted to get to know Gregory better. He had: after a week or so, their conversations started straying from Sherlock more and more. In the beginning, they would talk about work, about dinner plans. As the weeks progressed, they talked about their childhoods, Gregory’s previous marriage, and on a few occasions small starts of conversations about Mycroft’s love life that Mycroft had quickly shut down. Then Gregory was hit with a complicated, difficult case. He was working long hours and hardly eating. Mycroft starting ending phone calls by telling him to get some sleep, make sure to eat, or reassure him that he had worked enough and deserved to go home. The first time he heard Gregory call his flat home instead of “your flat,” his heart had stuttered a bit, which he had always thought was a ridiculous expression. Hearts couldn’t stutter. But his did, because Gregory thought of his flat as home. He had never, to Mycroft’s knowledge, referred to his old flat as home.
And then, one of the last days of the case, Mycroft returned home early from his business trip. He had visited Gregory at the office with two bags of takeaway. Gregory had been surprised, awkward, gracious, and perfect. Mycroft had never thought another person could be perfect before. The calls had told him that Gregory was far from it, but he couldn’t be convinced. Despite his past, he was one of the strongest- mentally, morally, ethically- men Mycroft had ever met. The mans was greater than the sum of his parts, somehow. Gregory had tried to tell him he didn’t have to, but Mycroft pressed it and they ended up with a quiet evening chatting and eating takeaway, which led to them returning to Mycroft’s flat and having the dull argument about sleeping arrangements.
“So we had that first weird night, and a week of weird nights, and then-”
“Then you got a call in the middle of the night about a murder and woke me when you were getting out of bed and told me why.”
“And you looked like I’d punched a puppy that I was going out because of it.”
“I did not.”
“You did too. And you insisted on getting up and made me tea and made me eat a piece of toast even though it wasn’t near breakfast time.”
“I stand by my decision. You didn’t eat enough back then.”
Gregory shrugged. “I suppose. But it was so boyfriend-y.”
“You know what else is boyfriend-y? Physically taking me back to bed and kissing me goodnight.”
“I thought you were asleep!"
"Because that makes it better."
"To be fair, I was still half asleep."
“You know, I didn’t go back to sleep. I couldn't sleep without you. And I couldn't stop thinking."
"That's a real surprise."
"Oh, shush. It was confusing. You hadn't shown any prior sign of romantic interest and then you make sure I get back to bed, finish getting ready to go, and then kissed my forehead."
"Yeah, okay, moving on. I will concede it's your fault we got together, though."
"You know I couldn't just leave it. It was driving me insane without any data."
"I know, love."
"I suppose I could have handled it better. Sort of put you on the spot asking you why you kissed me."
"Turned out fine. I got over it quickly."
"You tried to blame it on physical proximity and human emotionality and habit. You sounded like me."
Gregory twisted to kiss Mycroft's forehead. "Yeah, but then you kissed me and we wound up drunk in a hotel and got married and now we're here. And I'm happier than I ever thought I would be."
Mycroft grinned. "Me too."
"Now," Gregory said, shifting slightly. "Do you want to watch telly until supper or do something else?"
Mycroft smirked. "I might be persuaded to do something else."
Gregory slipped out from under Mycroft and threw a leg over his pelvis, grinning on hands and knees above Mycroft.
"God, I love you," Mycroft said, and enjoyed the "something else."