Fill: Bound in Gold 1-5
Story Type: Prompt FillFandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: I'm told it's NC-17, but I actually consider it more a hard R.
Spoilers: All of ASiP
Warnings: If you object to arranged marriage, you probably won't like this
WTF is This?: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme. Condensed summary: Arranged marriage AU. The first time John and Sherlock meet is on their wedding day.
The response to this fic has been...overwhelming. I honestly cannot believe how incredible it feels to read so many encouraging and uplifting comments. It's so surreal to me that something from my head, a silly little story written for a fun little prompt, could actually connect with people, complete strangers. There are times when I forget why I write, when the whole process is just too daunting and time-consuming and exhausting, when the ideas won't come or else they come to fast and I can't make sense of them.
Then something like this happens, and I remember why I couldn't do anything else. I know, and it astonishes the hell out of me, that I've made an impact on my readers. But it could never, ever hope to compare to the effect they've had on me.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for giving me a chance to show you what I can do.
PI.
1.
“White.” Mycroft smirked, and Sherlock could see the amused shake of his brother’s head in the mirror. He rolled his eyes.
“It seems a boorish joke, doesn’t it Lock?” Mycroft prompted.
“That’s not my name.” Sherlock drawled, the words were heavy and worn from overuse, they slid off his tongue and fell heavily to the floor, exhausted.
“Really, as though anything about you were even the slightest bit innocent.” Mycroft went on, as though Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “I do recall an incident with that porter fellow...what was his name? Victor?”
Sherlock seethed. “I was sixteen. And drunk. Your fault, by the way.”
Mycroft tutted and shook his head, all the while flitting around Sherlock’s dais, fussing over each stitch and pleat in the snow-coloured fabric but never actually touching it. Sherlock could see the tailor’s obvious annoyance at this, but the old man kept silent. It wouldn’t do to irritate Master Holmes when he was enthusiastic about something. In this case, horrifically, that something was Sherlock’s upcoming wedding.
“Really, little brother, you should have realized the instant I switched the cups. Unforgivable lapse on your part.”
“I was a bit busy fending off that mad Frenchman who kept trying to stick his tongue down my throat!” Sherlock protested. It was a familiar argument, old and faded, but it did wonders to distract Sherlock from the churning in his belly and the chill in his veins.
Mycroft chuckled. “A distraction, nothing more. I’m gratified to see you’ve learned to look past them. You didn’t fall for it a year later, anyway.”
Sherlock shrugged, and instantly regretted it as the tailor furiously jabbed him with a pin. He hissed and forced back a cry. It wasn’t a terribly painful jab, but combined with the two dozen others he’d received, his skin was starting to get very tender.
“Do not move!” The man snarled, his tone void of all patience.
“Sorry.” Sherlock lied, and willed himself not to rub at the offended shoulder.
Mycroft smirked. “Oh, Sherlock. I don’t envy the man, I really don’t.”
Sherlock sneered and struggled a little as the tailor began none-too-gently tugging at the fabric of his collar, interfering occasionally with Sherlock’s windpipe.
“Have you--unh!--Have you met him?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound indifferent, though it was difficult when trying to wrest oxygen from an elderly yet spry Lithuanian.
“John Watson? No, I haven’t. Though I do have a complete dossier on him, if you’re interested. No photographs, though. You know mummy’s proclivities.”
Sherlock sighed and hung his head. The mad stitcher relinquished his claim on Sherlock’s neck, and the young man heaved a sigh of both relief and resignation. “Yes. I do.”
Mycroft raised a hand and patted Sherlock awkwardly on the arm. “I am sorry, Lock. If I could change things--”
“You wouldn’t do a damn thing, and you know it. Curtailing tradition? Overwriting the past? Your constituency wouldn’t hear of it.” He watched to see that the tailor was, indeed, scuttling off with his pad of measurements before sitting down heavily on the dais. The lights framing the three-way-mirror were far too bright, and they made his head hurt. He cradled it in his hands and tried to breathe past the lump in his throat. Honestly. It wasn’t like it was a surprise! He’d known all his life what was coming, been groomed for it. So why did it hurt so much now that it was a reality?
Mycroft gave a theatrically put-upon sigh. “You’re right, naturally. But you must understand how important this tradition is to the people of this country. By maintaining this ‘sacred’ link to our heritage, we can ease the way for so many vital changes. I’m fairly sure your marriage will give me the leverage I need to advance that education reform we’ve been pushing. I do know how much you value education.”
“I value intelligence, Mycroft. Hardly the same thing.”
Mycroft shrugged, an elegant and dismissive gesture. “Be that as it may, mummy is set on tradition and I can’t be made a hypocrite by sheltering my own brother from a practice I’ve publicly lauded. You will marry Dr Watson next month, you will follow every ceremony, every ritual and you will maintain at least a facade of enthusiasm while the cameras are present. Do you understand?”
Sherlock clutched at his upper arms, feeling suddenly cold and unaccountably alone. “I understand.” He said softly. And it killed him. If it were only Mycroft, he’d fight back. He’d defy orders and run away the first chance he got. But this whole wedding had been mummy’s idea. She’d chosen Sherlock’s betrothed, she’d set the date, she’d selected the music, the decorations, the lot. Sherlock could defy his brother with hardly a second thought. But it just wasn’t in him to deny his mother, to break her heart.
There was a high, insistent jingling in his ear and he looked up in horror. Mycroft was holding the thin golden band with its numerous delicate golden rings in his hand. He tilted his head and gave Sherlock a stern, warning look. Numbly, Sherlock held out his left arm, baring his wrist. On his wedding day, his new husband would remove the band and replace it with a ring, but until then...
Mycroft wordlessly wrapped the band around Sherlock’s wrist and fastened it securely. The countless rings jangled and jingled against each other when Sherlock moved his arm. It was humiliating and endlessly annoying. Sherlock had seen the bracelet numerous times on the wrists of betrothed men and women visiting the estate, or whenever he’d been dragged off to one function or another. The endless jingling was impossible to miss, and proclaimed “off-limits” as loudly as a bull horn and a neon sign. It was archaic, demeaning and pointless to Sherlock’s mind, but it was also tradition. And mummy was addicted to tradition.
Marrying off your second born to a complete stranger from outside the aristocracy was a tradition. “To bind and unite the peoples of the land” his arse. It was nothing more than an appeasing gesture to keep the lower classes mollified and distracted from any fancy ideas about revolution. For some bizarre reason, though, the hoi polloi seemed to take an absurd sense of pride in the manoeuvre, as though elevating one of them to the level of nobility somehow made them less anonymous and forgettable. And it was for this delusion that Sherlock was to sacrifice his freedom, his dignity and his sanity. There was no way “Dr John H Watson” would be anything but stifling, ignorant and boring. Sherlock could feel his brain atrophying just thinking about it.
“Come back, Sherlock. You’ve gotten lost in your brain again.” Mycroft chided. Sherlock dragged his attention back to his brother and the fitting room.
Mycroft smiled, much the way a fox does when greeting a house full of hens. “I’ll expect you at dinner in one hour, Sherlock. Mummy will be so pleased to see you wearing that.”
Sherlock’s protests of lost appetite died on his lips. The warning was soft, but genuine. It was clear he would not get away with slinking off to avoid dinner and tearing the bracelet from his wrist at the first opportunity. First rule of being a Holmes son: Thou shalt not break mummy’s heart. It was as close to gospel as Sherlock would ever acknowledge. With one last, bone-weary sigh, he let his whole body sag and nodded his head. He’d be there. Jingles and all.
Mycroft’s voice was a predatory grin. “Good. So glad we understand each other. Now get changed. We wouldn’t want you ruining that lovely suit, would we? Not when mummy put so much effort into picking it out.”
Another nod, and Sherlock refused to look up. Hate and anger and the faintest tingles of fear all frothed and boiled in his stomach until he thought he’d be sick. He’d been a fool to think he could escape this. That his abrasive personality and complete lack of social graces could possibly dissuade his mother from pursuing England’s oldest and most revered tradition. He’d enjoyed a longer period of freedom than most men and women of his stature, and he’d foolishly allowed himself to get comfortable in the lifestyle. But all of that was over now. Now he would be putting his life into the hands of a complete stranger, all for the sake of a romanticised past and a shamelessly manipulative government.
If Sherlock were the sort to believe in fairness, he would curse his situation’s lack of it. But he knew better. Nothing was fair. Everything was cause and effect, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to change that.
2.
Dr John H Watson was not a poor man. He wasn’t a wealthy man, but his family had been comfortable throughout his childhood, and he had never wanted for much beyond a flashier car or trendier clothes than were necessary for an adolescent boy. As a man, John had wanted for even less. And as a soldier, he had wanted for nothing.
He’d been content, between the bouts of terror and agony, to simply be Captain Watson of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. He’d been proud. He’d been happy. He’d been useful.
And then he’d been shot. And just like that, John Watson wanted for everything. He wanted two good legs, instead of an excruciating limp from a wound he’d never received. He wanted a healthy shoulder, instead of ravaged muscle and torn sinew that ached and seized in damp and cold weather. He wanted a good night’s sleep, instead of nightmares that left him gasping and crying into his cold and empty bed.
But right now? In this moment? More than anything, John Watson craved sanity.
“This is just too much, Johnny!” Harriet cried for the eighty-sixth time. “Of all people! Of all people! You!” She waved her arms demonstrably, and the charcoal suit jacket in her right hand waved like a somber banner at the world’s most depressing football match.
“Harry, please stop that. If you wreck the suit, we’ll have to buy it.”
“Spare no expense, bro!” She trilled. “You’ll have more money than you’ll know what to do with after next month!”
John snatched the jacket from her and gently replaced it on its hangar. “Yes, well that doesn’t help me now, does it? And, anyway, I’m still not convinced--”
“Oh, John!” She groaned. “Don’t start again. You’re going through with it, and that’s final.” She started pawing through the displays, comparing shades of grey and black with a clinical and (thankfully) clear eye. “At least, you will if you want me to keep going to AA.”
John let his head droop to his chest. Oh, God. Oh buggering God. How could he do this? How could he marry a complete stranger? How could he go from simple, matter-of-fact Dr Watson to Lord Watson or whatever the Holmeses were? Would he still be Watson then? Would he have to take his husband’s name? Oh God.
“Breathe, John. You’re having a panic attack again.” Harry said boredly, eyeing a selection of ties.
“Right. Right. Sorry. Er...”
Harry rolled her eyes. “You know, you should see your therapist again. If you freak out during the ceremony, I’ll never live it down. Probably drink myself into the A&E.”
John scowled. It was getting old, this threat of Harry’s. But it still worked. As long as John went through with every bit of wedding preparation Harry dreamed up, his sister stayed sober. He’d gotten into the habit, when her withdrawal symptoms were severe enough that she was on the verge of robbing a wine bar, of reciting his wedding vows and listing off all of the tasks still un-checked on Harry’s wedding planner list. It wasn’t terribly long, since the Holmes estate was tending to the bulk of the ceremony, but there was enough to keep Harry occupied and distracted through the nausea and the shaking. The symptoms were largely faded by now, but Harry kept John in line with the very real threat of relapse.
“Fine. I’ll go to my therapist. And you’ll call Clara. You’ve been on the apology step for almost a week, stop putting it off.”
She rolled her eyes, but her voice was soft and a little broken. “How is she?”
John licked his lips. “She’s...fine. Lonely. Worried. She looks beautiful. Sad, but beautiful.”
Harry smiled, a small, wistful thing. “I’ll bet. I’ll bet she’s radiant.” Her eyes shone with tears and memories of love, but she rounded on him in the next instant, her face composed. “And I’m sure he’ll be radiant, too.”
John didn’t meet her eyes. It was frustrating, he thought. He’d seen photographs of Mycroft Holmes and Lady Holmes in virtually every publication, but there was no sign of Sherlock in even the trashiest of tabloids. Harry had once managed to find a picture of the Holmes estate during a charity gala where Sherlock’s elbow and a bit of his hair were in frame, so John knew he was slim and had dark, curly hair. That was about it. And, of course, they weren’t allowed any contact until the ceremony, so in all likelihood John wouldn’t know what his fiancee looked like until it was time to kiss him in front of God and the viewing public. Hell, last he’d heard BBC Worldwide had signed to cover the blasted thing. It would be the smooch seen round the world. Fan. Tastic.
It wouldn’t be such a big deal, John thought, if Lady Holmes weren’t the queen’s childhood friend. Sherlock was infamous as the black sheep of the line, but his mother’s involvement ensured that her son’s wedding would be the social event of the year. Mycroft’s wedding, should he ever marry, would probably outshine the coronation.
“Here!” Harry whirled round with a dark, pinstripe suit in her hands, pressing it against her chest as though checking its fit against her breasts. “Perfect! What do you think, John?”
John bit his lower lip. “Will I be able to dance in it?” Would he be able to dance full stop? His lessons weren’t going terribly well.
“Oh, yeah. Just a few alterations and it’ll fit like a glove! You’ll look smashing at the reception!”
“Smashing?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Oi!” She swatted his arm and he giggled. “I’m trying for a bit of class! You know I’ll be the sister of a lord in a month.”
“Really? I hadn’t a clue.” He deadpanned. “Are you sure it’s worth it? A second suit? Maybe I could just wear my wedding tux to the reception and spare the expense.”
“No way! It’s bad enough Mummy Holmes is springing for the tux, I’m not giving up my rights to the reception! This is your wedding too, John. Not just his.”
John sighed. “All right. All right. But speaking of, I’ve got a fitting in about two hours so we should probably wrap this up.”
Harry rolled her eyes but lead John to the attendant, pinstripes in hand, to give his measurements and do a preliminary fitting for his second overpriced suit. His inner soldier rebelled at the waste of time and money, but at this point he’d pretty much accepted that he’d do anything to keep Harry out of the bottle. Hell, he was getting married for it. An additional unnecessary bespoke suit was significantly less of a sacrifice. And, hey, at least this one he could possibly wear again, unlike that black silk and brocade monstrosity they were swaddling him in at the estate.
A short time later, he and Harry said their good-byes and he was climbing into a gleaming black sedan. It pulled away from the kerb and he was once more headed for the sprawling mansion that housed his future in-laws and the fiancee he had yet to meet.
3.
Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He craned his neck and peered through the window, desperate for a glimpse. Just a glimpse. Some clue he could work from to create a mental image of the man who had been contracted to ruin his life.
“Come away from there!” A chiding, giddy voice called from behind. Resentfully, Sherlock clambered down from the chair on which he’d been standing. The damn car had tinted windows anyway. He couldn’t see a thing.
He turned to face Molly, keeping his wince internal. She was green today. Green skirt, green pumps, green blouse and green shrug. It suited her, naturally, but Sherlock couldn’t help comparing her to a potted plant.
“You look nice.” He said, dutifully. Molly had been his ‘friend’ for years, and she’d been simply impossible to shake off. The only thing keeping him from eviscerating her with his words was the fact that Baroness Hooper was in his mother’s bridge club, and mummy was unaccountably smitten with the giggly creature.
Molly blushed. “Oh...you. Excited are we?”
Sherlock put his hands in his jacket pockets and tried to look nonchalant. Inside, he was a maelstrom. “Oh, thrilled.” He deadpanned.
“I’m surprised you’re not climbing the walls. Mycroft told me Lady Holmes has kept you under lock and key since the announcement.”
“Oh, don’t remind me.” He’d snuck out the night Mycroft broke the news, desperate for even a temporary escape. He’d made his way to Scotland Yard and DI Lestrade, prepared to prostrate himself before the assembled idiocracy if they’d just give him something to take his mind off of his fate. He’d barely cleared two cold cases before Mycroft’s puppets had burst through the doors and dragged him back to the estate. He’d been on strict orders from mummy to keep out of the public eye until the ceremony.
“Well, it’s not much longer. Soon you’ll be a married man and all this will be over.”
Sherlock flopped bonelessly onto the settee, bracelet tinkling irritatingly, and glowered at her. “It’ll never be over, Molly.” He sneered. “Everything will have to go through him. It’ll be worse.”
Molly tutted and shook her head. She knocked his feet off the cushions and sat down beside him. “He’s your husband, Sherlock, not you jailer. Marriage is a partnership.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He’s a stranger. And a soldier. And a doctor. He’s probably a complete megalomaniac.” He sat up and rested his head in his hands, elbows on knees. The bracelet jingled at each movement, making him wince. “He’s got me over a barrel, Molly. Divorce isn’t an option, not here.”
Molly shook her head sadly and patted his shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry so much. Your mother hand-picked him, remember? She wouldn’t choose a control-freak for her baby boy. Give her some credit.”
Sherlock sighed and dropped his hands. (Jingle, jingle. Ugh.) “Right. You’re right.”
“So what do you know about him so far?” She asked. Sherlock waved with his right hand (blessed silence) to the dossier from Mycroft, sitting on an end table. Molly got up and snatched it eagerly.
“Hm...” She hummed as she perused the pages. “Army medic...served in Afghanistan. Wounded in action. Oh! Says here he had a member of the royal family on the table, managed to bring them out of a crash. No wonder he was chosen.”
Sherlock waved dismissively, forgetting to use his right hand, and the bracelet gave several more merry little clinks in response. Damn thing.
“He sounds impressive. He’s got a sister, no living parents, no extended family. He’s been living in London since being invalided from the war--”
“I know!” Sherlock snapped. “I’ve read the damn file! I know all of this, so please stop parroting!”
Molly looked startled, then wounded. Sherlock sighed. Time for damage control. “Sorry. I’m just...” he paused for effect and made a show of biting his lower lip. Molly smiled.
“It’s okay, Sherlock. I understand.” She gently placed the file in his lap and made her way quietly from the sitting room. Sherlock waited for her clicking footsteps to fade away before opening the folder again, and pouring over the scant bullet-points that made up his future husband. He ached for a photograph. A line drawing. A police sketch. Anything!
He glowered at the computer sitting on the coffee table nearby. Mycroft had curtailed his internet access, blocking any pages containing information on John Watson with the sort of encryption used by fascist dictators to conceal nuclear arms. Sherlock could probably crack it, but it was too much bother for the trouble it would cause. His one and only attempt to get around the blocks had resulted in an instantaneous red flag on Mycroft’s servers and a week without access to so much as a digital wrist watch. He shuddered. He wasn’t about to go through that again.
It was cruel, really. At this very moment, John was in the same building as Sherlock. In the same room he’d been in just a few hours ago. They even had the same tailor! And that was something else Sherlock knew about his betrothed. John was apparently the perfect customer. Sherlock’s fittings had often been peppered with phrases like, “Hold still! Your husband can hold still, why can’t you?” and “Your husband follows instructions. You should follow my instructions like your husband!”
He’d given up trying to correct the term after the fifth denouncement. Instead he kept silent or grumbled about military training and the propensity for following orders. He hated the idea of constantly being compared to his spouse and found wanting, and here it was happening already!
Well, this was ridiculous. He was going to marry this man, wasn’t he? And right now, at this very moment, John H Watson was standing on that damnable dais, peering into those too-bright track lights framing his reflection and patiently allowing that mad tailor to position him like a shop-window dummy. Fine, then. Sherlock knew an opportunity when he saw one. John Watson was within reach, and it was only some misplaced sense of filial duty that kept Sherlock from barging in on his future husband and getting a damn good look at the man.
Well, what mummy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Sherlock sprang from the settee, failing spectacularly to ignore the aggravating jingle at his wrist, and strode out of the sitting room in the direction of his fiancee.
4.
John didn’t jerk at the sudden cacophony outside, but it was a near thing. He did, however, turn his head very slightly toward the door and ask, “What was that?”
Antanas only shrugged and pulled a pin out of his mouth, fixing it securely at John’s ankle. The man’s hands were deft and sure, and John hadn’t received so much as a pinprick in any of his fittings. “That is only Mr Sherlock I think.” The man’s voice was heavily accented, but precise. John had no trouble understanding Antanas’ English, and the accent was soothing somehow. “He is trying to sneak a peek at you probably.”
“Really?” It was an awful lot of noise coming from the hall. John had to fight to suppress the urge to hop down from the platform and yank the door open so he could finally see Sherlock for himself. He didn’t, and Antanas grinned at him.
“He is not so good at standing still as you.” The man confided. John put a little extra warmth in his return smile. He could imagine the frustrations Antanas had to endure, working for spoiled aristocrats all the time. He was determined to give the capable tailor a well earned respite from all the headache.
“Yes, well. The army and everything. At least you don’t have me at attention for three hours straight.”
Antanas chuckled, but his hands remained perfectly steady as they worked at the cuffs of John’s absurdly expensive trousers.
“You know, I’ve got another suit for the reception. My other tailor isn’t half as skilled as you.”
Antanas beamed. “You could not afford me, Dr Watson.”
John snorted. “No, I suppose not. Not yet, anyway.” He bit his lip. “What’s he like?” He asked tentatively.
Antanas shrugged. “Nervous. He has too much energy, your husband. He is always moving, and he looks too much. Always to see everything, that man. And he talks. Not to you, but at you. Like you are not able to speak. Or you should not speak. He does not look down on you, because he does not see you. He is like that.”
John sighed. “Anything good I should know about?”
Another shrug. “He loves his mother. That, I think, is good.”
“How...I mean, what does he look like?”
At that, Antanas smiled slyly. “Like someone you will see in one month.”
John didn’t even try to smother his smile. He rather liked Antanas. He was a thoroughly charming old man. The man rested a thick, work-worn hand on John’s arm. “You will be good for him. I can see this. Maybe he will be good for you as well.”
John tried to believe that. Really. But what could he possibly offer a man who already had so much? It was obvious John would only ever be a burden to this Sherlock character. He should opt out, cancel the wedding and go back to his dull, ordinary life.
But Harry was counting on this. And refusing, especially at this stage, would be a gross insult to the Holmes family, to the young prince whose life he’d managed not to snuff out, probably even to the queen herself somewhere along the line.
Face it, John. He said to himself. There’s no way out of this, any more than there was when you got that bloody letter. He still had it, tucked away in his foot locker. He’d spent several minutes just staring at the royal seal on the envelope before opening it. It had changed everything, that letter. And now it was tucked away under his army boots and medals.
Later, when Antanas had wandered off with a sheet of notes and promises of “One more fitting, Dr Watson, and we are done.” John meandered through the halls of the Holmes estate. The place was huge and daunting, and John sometimes thought of it as a minor palace. He wondered if he’d be living there, after the wedding. Surely Sherlock would want to stay in his childhood home. Somehow, the idea of living in the middle of all this opulence made John uneasy, a bit like that time he, Harry and their parents had taken that boat along the Thames, and John hadn’t been able to adjust to the constant rocking under his feet.
Voices drifted along the corridor, and John found himself moving closer out of curiosity. Two voices, both deep and cultured, both so low he couldn’t hear the words properly, were coming through the closed door of one of the rooms in the hall. He saw the door handle turning, and just managed to dive behind a massive potted fern before Mycroft Holmes emerged from the room.
“Very well, Sherlock. If you insist on behaving like a child, I have no hesitation in treating you as one. Consider yourself ‘grounded’ to this room until you’re ready to take these proceedings seriously.” A sudden flurry of motion, the sharp click of the door closing, and the unmistakable crash of something breakable being thrown against the wood. John peered around the leaves just enough to see Mycroft shaking his head sadly before striding off, an umbrella in his hand. John waited for Mycroft to disappear around a corner, then waited a while longer.
He shouldn’t do this. This was a really, really bad idea. He should just turn around, and walk away.
Only...John Watson had never been the sort of man to turn and walk away. Instead, he took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and approached the firmly closed door.
He’d barely put a hand on the thing when something heavy thudded against it, making the heavy wood shake and vibrate.
“Piss off!” Came a ragged, angry voice. It was hard to tell from the scream, but it sounded very deep. He wondered what Sherlock sounded like when he wasn’t shrieking in fury, and spared a moment to regret that this was his first memory of the man’s voice.
He cleared his throat. Oh, brilliant start John. He licked his lips and forced himself to speak. “It’s..it’s me.”
An unmistakable stillness fell on the other side of the door, and John brought his other hand up to press it flat against the wood, until he was as close to Sherlock Holmes as was physically possible considering the circumstances.
“It’s...I’m John...er, Watson I mean. I’m--well, you know. Obviously, I mean...I’m uh...him. I guess.” Footsteps, slow and cautious and accompanied by the tell-tale jingling, silence.
He licked his lips again. “Look I’m...I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t--but here I am and...well.” He let out a breath. His chest felt too tight. “I’m so sorry. I know I can’t be what you hoped for. I’m not...I’m no one, really. Just...look, Mist--uh, Sherlock. I just want you to know that...I don’t expect anything. I won’t--I mean, I’m not out to intrude on your life or anything. I understand if you don’t...want, er...oh Christ, what am I doing? Look, please don’t tell them I did this, okay? Oh, Harry’ll kill me if I screw this up. I’m sorry. I’m--” noises, along the corridor. “Oh fuck! Someone’s coming. Don’t say anything. Please? I was never here.” And he turned on his heel and hurried off, forcing himself not to run.
5.
Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and gently lowered his hands from the door, keeping the bracelet as quiet as possible. Perfect. Just perfect. First contact with the man he was to marry and his first words had been “piss off”. Bloody brilliant.
So. That was John Watson, eh? Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. John, it turned out, was a bit of a rule breaker. And obviously a man of compassion. He clearly wasn’t comfortable with the situation, and took for granted that Sherlock was equally ill at ease. He was, of course, but somehow less so now.
He clung to the memory of John’s voice. He closed his eyes to better remember it. It had been...light. Not high, per se, but not at all deep. It had contained a subtle rasp, off-setting the pleasant tenor. It was, Sherlock decided, a good voice. In every way an acceptable voice. It was a voice he wouldn’t cringe at hearing every day for the rest of his life. And it was all he had of John Watson that was real and immediate and his. If only he could have seen his face!
With a series of vexing chimes and clinks and jingles, Sherlock made his way to his bed and flopped down on the mattress with a heavy sigh. John...Watson...
He had a voice now. He had a personality now. He’d gone from a few sheets of paper in a blue folder to...a man. A real, live, breathing man. The thought made Sherlock intensely uncomfortable, as though his skin didn’t fit quite right. And yet...well there hadn’t been anything in that brief moment that made him dislike John. Dr Watson. John. And he had said he wasn’t out to take over Sherlock’s life. But could he really believe that?
John...Watson...
Parts 6-8
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