Chapter Text
Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes stood, side by side, at the front of the small and drafty village church. The group gathered was very small, but smartly dressed. None more so than the two Holmes brothers, who were in morning suits, slicked up and shiny, and looking very handsome indeed!
Oddly enough, it was the stoic Mr. Holmes-the-elder who was the much more nervous of the two. As he prided himself on his sang-froid, this was a bit embarrassing. Was he…sweating? Oh Lord! He looked down at himself. Not a wrinkle or crease. Good. He abhorred wrinkles of any kind. He only hoped he wasn’t displaying any unsightly perspiration!
Mycroft felt a slight nudge from beside him. Sherlock. “Calm. Down.”
“I'm perfectly calm!” Mycroft snapped.
“No you’re not,” Sherlock replied, in an amused voice. The tosser! “You look like a maiden in one of those old films you favor, one who’s about to be tied to the railroad tracks by the mustache-twirling villain. I think you might swoon.”
Mycroft gritted his teeth. How his brother could remain so oblivious to the serious nature of the morning’s proceedings was a wonder! When had Sherlock become the grown-up in this relationship? It was not to be borne! Mycroft took a steadying breath, which admittedly sounded a bit ragged, even to his own ears. It was as hot as blazes in here! His cravat was choking the life out of him.
“Well, if you do, don’t expect me to catch you,” Sherlock added. “The vicar will have to come to your rescue. I’m very busy at the moment.”
“Busy being an arsehole,” replied Mycroft, then looked to the vicar apologetically. That gentleman, of advanced years, and very slight stature, simply raised his eyebrows, his message clear. If you go down, my dear boy, you’re on your own.
Suddenly the church organ started up.
“Finally!” exclaimed Sherlock. “Here we go.”
The brothers turned toward the back of the church. The small crowd that was gathered were on their feet.
And then…suddenly….there she was. An absolute angel in a smart cream-colored suit and fetching little hat with a bit of a veil, holding a bouquet of blush colored roses, and making her way down the aisle toward them.
“Ah,” Mycroft said. “So she did show up after-all.”
Sherlock chuckled at this. “Did you doubt it? Was that the reason you were so over-wrought?”
“Don't be ridiculous" scoffed Mycroft, "I’ve never felt better in my life, brother-mine." He stepped forward to receive the hand of his bride, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. Soon to be Lady Elizabeth Holmes.
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The happy group gathered at the home of the groom’s parents for a brief celebration, before the newly married couple were off on their honeymoon, destination unknown. Mycroft had been supremely secretive, even for him, and Sherlock suspected that the only people who knew the couple’s true plans were Mycroft’s assistant, the incomparable Anthea, and Mrs. Hudson, who you couldn’t keep a secret from to save your life. No one was talking, however, and Sherlock wasn’t interested enough to put the effort in to coerce either of them. His brother’s sex holiday was his own business. The words Mycroft and sex in the same sentence wasn’t something he wanted bandying about in his brain, nor did he want any images popping up at odd, inconvenient moments. There wasn’t enough alcohol in all of London.
Mycroft had insisted on a tiny gathering for his wedding day, and had agreed only to champagne and cake, no formal wedding breakfast. “I want to be married, and alone with my bride, not gadding about with you lot!” This was heartily agreed to by Sherlock and Mycroft’s parents. The senior Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were still getting over the shock that their eldest son was actually getting married. To a woman. They were so overjoyed at the prospect, that they would have happily agreed to cheese-on-toast and pints at the Bowl-A-Rama (Greg’s suggestion) if that was what Mycroft had deemed his “dream” reception.
Lady Elizabeth had no living relations, nor had she and Lord Smallwood had children. She declared herself “quite alone in the world, until Mike came along.” So, it was Mycroft’s friends and family that were seeing them off on their first journey as a married couple. Attending were the Holmes family (minus Eurus for obvious reasons), John Watson and Rosie (in an adorable frilly pink dress and tights that had taken them almost an hour to stuff her into, until Molly had thrown them out of the room and taken over), Molly Hooper (in a cheerful tangerine dress - she called it apricot, but really! with a few frills and a matching bow for her hair), Greg Lestrade (very smart in a dark suit with only a few creases), Anthea Jones (in a racy black cocktail number that had Greg’s tongue hanging to the floor when he’d first spotted her), and Mrs. Hudson (in a shimmery gold dress and a ridiculously huge hat).
Mrs. Hudson considered Lady Elizabeth her "dear, dear friend," and had exclaimed and sobbed loudly into her handkerchief throughout the entire ceremony, garnering dark looks from the groom.
However, the fact that Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Hudson had become as thick-as-thieves over the past few months seemed to bother Mycroft not a jot. A dangerous miscalculation to Sherlock’s mind, but, then again, it would probably prove to be high on the entertainment scale, so he kept his gob shut and his advice to himself.
Sherlock was feeling rather odd to tell the truth. He was quite happy for his brother, of course, though his choice of wife was a bit dubious. However, it could not be denied that Mycroft and Lady Elizabeth were supremely happy together, and despite a bit of a rocky start to the courtship, which had involved Mrs. Hudson’s usual shenanigans and Mycroft being forced to wear a "bad-boy" outfit straight out of a 1990’s teen rom-com, they had managed to court, engage themselves, and marry in a particularly efficient manner.
Sherlock WAS happy for him, so what was this sharp pinching feeling in his chest? Why did his stomach feel so leaden? Perhaps the cake was off?
He looked across the room and spotted his brother and his new wife, standing very close together, the lady’s arm comfortably crossed with Mycroft’s while they chatted happily with his parents.
He saw John, tossing little Rosie in the air, making her pink dress flutter around her, then catching her and kissing her cheek, causing both the child, and Mrs. Hudson, who stood close by watching, to erupt in merry laughter.
He saw Molly. His beautiful Molly. Glowing in her orange (apricot!) dress, cheeks flushed, standing with Greg and Anthea, happily chatting and, from Sherlock’s point of view, shamelessly encouraging a flirtation between the two. Greg said something (inane to be sure) that caused Anthea to throw her head back and laugh uproariously. Molly caught Sherlock’s eye and winked, giving him a huge grin and a surreptitious thumbs up.
Sherlock returned the gesture (though honestly he thought Anthea would probably eat Greg for lunch), then turned his gaze back toward his brother and his new wife. He caught the flash of the new Lady Holmes’ wedding ring gleaming in the bright morning light.
He felt that sharp pinch again. His stomach lurched. And all of a sudden he knew what he was feeling.
Envy.