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Harry retied John’s cravat for the third time.
“Stop fussing.”
“I’ll stop when you stop looking like you’re about to charge a machine-gun nest.” She smoothed his lapels, then crouched to straighten the fall of his kilt. “And quit tugging at this. You’ve got the knees for it.”
John glanced down at the Watson tartan, at polished brogues and cream hose, and tried to breathe. Beyond the door, voices murmured inside the old blacksmith’s workshop. Rain stippled the Gretna Green windows. The famous marriage anvil waited beneath sprays of white heather.
Harry rose and offered her arm. Her teasing softened. “Ready, little brother?”
“No.” John took her arm anyway. “Absolutely.”
She walked him between the benches while the small gathering eagerly turned to watch. Crying and grinning guests watched while a strict-looking man guarded the anvil beside John’s beloved. He kept his gaze lowered as Harry kissed his cheek and placed his hand into another: long fingers, warm palm, a familiar tremor swiftly controlled.
The officiant welcomed them, spoke of the centuries of runaway lovers who had crossed the border, and lifted the ceremonial hammer. Silence gathered before the anvil.
“Do you, John Watson, take Sherlock Holmes…”
John looked up at last. Sherlock’s eyes were bright, terrified and entirely his.
“I do.” John’s voice broke into laughter. “My God, I do.”