Fic: Match Made in Parliament (Sherlock/John) PG
"I could give a thousand reasons for why this practice tops the list of archaic, pointless rituals that the aristocracy clings to in an ill-fated attempt to recapture its former glory," Sherlock snapped. His thin hand pulled his scarf tighter around his neck as he glared at his brother.
"You can give me all the reasons you want, but I've yet to hear you utter a single one in the presence of Mummy," Mycroft pointed out, smirking.
Sherlock turned to stare out of the window. As much as he loved London, and never tired of watching the way city melted into country-side as they made their way to the estate their blood called home, his body tightened as the car drove onwards. He would much rather have been in bed.
Mycroft allowed the silence to continue for some time, before he brought up the one topic that Sherlock had studiously avoided since the brothers had met that morning. "I am surprised that you did not bring John with you. Does this mean that I am your best man?"
"Oh shut up!" Then, in a quieter tone, Sherlock admitted that "John doesn’t know. I haven’t told him."
"Sherlock, you have known this was your fate since before you met him. Are you telling me that there was no appropriate time during the past year to tell him that you were engaged?" Mycroft's voice and smile made it clear that the older Holmes already knew the answer to his question.
Still, Sherlock explained. "It was... the best year of my life. It seemed counter-productive to spoil that with concerns about the future." He stopped there. It was impossible to explain to his proper, pompous older brother who had followed the rules and obediently married an equally proper and pompous woman, that he had spent the past year running from the arrangement that had already been cemented before he came to London.
And that a greying, lined army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and scarred shoulder had let him believe that he could have tea, ridiculously inconsistent and outlandish films, and running around crime scenes at all times of the night, for the rest of his life, without the loneliness that had been his constant companion until John. And worst of all sins, John had made him believe that it was possible for even Sherlock Holmes, who had never kept a friendship alive for more than a month, to be loved and admired for who he was and in spite of the errant body parts, ASBOs and constant insults.
No, impossible to explain why he had not told John. Why he had not thought of the promise that had been made in his name over a year ago, until the moment John had come home white-faced, a week before, and told Sherlock his own sister, who had had the authority to do so since John went to war, had promised his hand in marriage to a stranger without asking him for his permission or approval. John had stammered his shock that Harriet would use that right, a mere formality for people of their class, and had not noticed Sherlock’s world crumbling around him. Instead of explaining any of this, Sherlock gazed unseeingly out of the car window, feeling much as he imagined Mrs. Hudson's late husband had while he had been escorted to the execution chamber.
All too quickly, they arrived. For once, Sherlock waited for the butler to open the car door but then he squared his shoulders in a manner that he had unconsciously learned from John and strode into his childhood home. Only to stop at the threshold, the breath leaving his body as if shock had dealt him a powerful blow. "John?"
"Sherlock?" John was equally surprised. Until he had seen Sherlock, his stiff frame had worn his dress uniform well. Now it clashed with his open mouth and wide eyes. "What are you doing here?"
"This is my home, and I'm here to be married."
John's eyes widened even more. "I'm here to be married too. Does this mean-"
Sherlock's brain whirled with a thousand realizations before he knew what he had to do. He walked quickly over to the other man and leaned over him, pulse fluttering madly in his pale neck. "John," his voice made it clear this was the most important question he had ever asked his long-suffering roommate, "do you want this? And take your time to answer, because this is the last time I will ever ask you that question, and I will hold you to your answer for the rest of your life."
John laughed breathlessly, years falling off his face in that moment. "You idiot, as if I could want anyone else. You have to have known, Sherlock, that you've been the only person in every room since the day I met you. Want this? A life of chasing criminals through London, random drug busts and probable death by carnival trick- how could I not want this?" Then John reached up and tugged Sherlock's head down by his carefully arranged scarf so that he could reach his mouth and snog him senseless.
Mummy Holmes smiled at her son and prospective son-in-law with the satisfaction of a mother who has done her job well. Then, turning to her older son, she asked, "Will you ever tell him what you did?"
Mycroft shook his head. "He has already figured it out."
"He will never thank you," his mother said with disappointment evident in her voice. "He will never express his gratitude for the three million pounds you paid to make the man I originally chose go away, or for how you promised Ms. Watson that the accident investigation would disappear in exchange for her brother's hand in marriage."
"Oh well," Mycroft dismissed Sherlock's imagined gratitude, "it is not as if the accident actually occurred. It will do Harry good to think she killed someone while driving under the influence; she has already entered a rehabilitation centre of her own volition. And as for the young man you had chosen for Sherlock; well, I have my own concerns about Mr. Moriarty.”
THE END.