FIC: One Day Like This; BBC's Sherlock, NC-17, Sarah/John/Sherlock.
Title: One Day Like This
Author: saathi1013
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: Sarah/John/Sherlock (est), mention of Molly/'Anthea' (est), hints of Mycroft/Lestrade.
Spoilers: Absolutely, spoilers for all 3 eps of s1.
Rating: NC-17 (AND HOW).
Contents/Warnings: Character death (but not really); slight PTSD fallout from previous chapters in this series; bloodplay, bondage, DP; brief mention of breathplay. Honestly, don't act shocked at all of that if you've read the rest of the series... :P
Series: This is the eighth and final installment (?!) in the Lorem Ipsum Series.
Summary: In which someone dies and their funeral is held; Sarah acquires coping mechanisms; a wedding is held with attendant surprises; and there is a lot of sex.
Word Count: ~9400
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N (* more at the end): This took forever, but I hope it'll be worth it. Thanks as ever to caoilin_noir for her brilliant beta work, and bonus thanks to accioayla for holding my hand through the creative anxiety and giving me a quick read-through before I posted it. Special adoration and gratitude to mariemjs for the lovely art she's done for this series thus far - here's the tumblr link if you haven't seen it yet, 'cos DAMN - and for the fact that she's taken it upon herself to do more (one for each installment, even!). O.o
I am also going to give a special shout-out to livia_carica , outing her as the anon behind the prompt on the kinkmeme that started all this. Not only is her brain filled with hot, addictive prompts but her fanart is also shiny as hell, go see.
***
After Sarah returns home from what she calls her 'captivity,' for lack of a better term, all she wants is for life to return to normal. Or as normal as life can be, all things considered. But of course, that is not in the cards for any of them.
First, someone dies. But then, isn't that how things usually start, with Sherlock?
***
Lestrade comes to the practice, looking travel-weary and haggard. Sarah spots him first and feels all the blood drain from her face.
“Give me a minute,” she tells the receptionist. “And John, too.” Linda rolls her eyes at yet another interruption to the schedule, but does as she's asked. Sarah takes Lestrade's arm and they hurry down the hall.
John's just seeing a patient out, and when he spots them, his expression switches to immediate concern. “What is it?” he asks, ushering them in and closing the door. “What's happened?”
Lestrade practically collapses into the nearest chair. “Nothing good,” he says, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. There wasn't anything I could do...”
***
The memorial service is tasteful, and well-attended, though Sarah doesn't recognise anyone there. She'd rather been expecting more luminaries and politicians, considering Holmes' career. But no, there's simply a couple dozen sombre men in black suits, and less than half as many severe-looking businesswomen, wives or co-workers or both.
Sherlock and Anthea spend most of the service off in one corner, reassuring each other and themselves that Mycroft isn't dead. They receive condolences with reserved but convincing solemnity. The omnipresent mobile in Anthea's hand is not her own, but Mycroft's, the only real evidence left behind at Reichenbach besides footprints in the mud, long since washed away.
There is an unsent text to Sherlock in the drafts folder of the mobile: “Consider this proof against your long-held opinions of my character. It has been my honour to have long held the title of your archnemesis, and I intend to defend my claim. With regards, M.”
When John had read this, his first response was a half-hearted, disbelieving chuckle. “Is this a Holmes version of 'No one beats up my little brother but me'?”
Sarah had pinched his arm in rebuke, but Sherlock simply arched an eyebrow. “It was supposed to be me, up there,” was his only response, and then he'd been silent for several days, despite Sarah and John's every effort.
The last sent text from Mycroft's mobile is to Anthea: “You have your orders.” She doesn't answer when Sarah asks about it, only gives a practised, diplomatic, Mona Lisa smile, and takes a sip of her tea.
When Sarah visits the office, Anthea sits behind Mycroft's old desk. The décor remains unchanged, as if she's simply holding the fort until her employer returns.
The loss casts a pall over their lives for a while, in a way Sarah can't quite fathom. It's not as if she really knew the man, after all. He was just... Well, he was very nearly a brother-in-law, all things considered, but never really someone with whom she'd been all that close.
But a part of her grieves for the loss, and she sees John doing the same, because Sherlock doesn't seem to bother doing it himself. Instead, he takes every case that comes their way, sometimes two or three at once. He's gone from the flat for days at a time.
John's gone with him, more often than not, and Sarah resigns herself to the now-familiar routine of standing vigil. She spends as much time as she can stand at their flat out of defiance, returning to her own only when she needs to.
Sometimes, when Sarah finds herself alone in 221b, she takes a book at random from the shelves and opens it, riffling through the pages, checking to make sure the pages aren't blank.
She's also grown fond of the skull, and the chemistry glassware everywhere.
It's the little differences that make the memories bearable.
***
Mrs. Hudson brings a package up one afternoon. Sarah thanks her absently and sets it on the large stack of correspondence threatening to spill off his desk. “Oh, no, dear, it's not for Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says. “It's for you.”
“What on earth...?” Sarah mutters to herself, getting the knife from the mantelpiece.
“I thought the same thing, you know,” Mrs. Hudson says. “I know you spend most of your time here, but this seemed a bit unusual.” Sarah glances over, but Mrs. Hudson simply looks curious; she's never been fussed about Sarah's regular presence before.
The envelope is plain manila, stiffened with cardboard, addressed with preprinted labels, and sent via standard post. Nothing like Moriarty's taunting reminders. He's dead, Sarah reminds herself. Mycroft gave his own life to ensure it, and Lestrade corroborated the story. But there's always a niggling uncertainty in the back of her mind, since Lestrade had been diverted back to the village beneath the falls at the last minute, and he hadn't seen the final altercation himself...
But he'd seen the tracks in the mud. Sherlock's default condescension aside, Lestrade is intelligent enough to read the signs of a struggle.
So. Not Moriarty, Sarah thinks firmly, splitting the seam of the flap.
There are three things inside: a glossy photograph, a smaller envelope (unsealed), and a note. He wanted you to have these, the note says in Anthea's familiar hand. Consider it an early wedding present. -A
The glossy photograph is one of those that had been censored and apparently confiscated by Mycroft from the scene of Sarah's release and rescue. Sherlock, kissing Sarah with evident relief; John with his arm round her waist, looking equally pleased and not at all upset by what his flatmate and his fiancée are up to less than a foot away. He almost looks... fond.
“Oh, isn't that a nice photo of you three,” Mrs. Hudson says warmly over Sarah's shoulder, and Sarah nearly jumps a foot. “Not something to hang on the wall or set on your desk, more's the pity, but it's a lovely picture regardless.”
Sarah feels a hot flush creep over her cheekbones and down her neck. “Mrs. Hudson-” she starts, but the other woman waves her off.
“Oh, look at me, sticking my nose into your business. I just wanted to make sure there wasn't anything... well. You know the kind of mail Sherlock gets. Ransom notes and death threats and once there was a trace of white powder on the flap that made me fret until Sherlock pointed out that it was Christmas and I'd just given the postman a plate of cookies dusted with sugar...”
Sarah closes her eyes, still mortified. “Yes, right, I understand...”
“Well, I'll just be off, then, now that I know you'll be all right. Let Sherlock know I'm charging him extra for the new scorch mark on the kitchen ceiling. Don't know how he does it, but I'm not repainting it myself...” Mrs. Hudson says as she bustles off, closing the door behind her.
Sarah looks down at the photograph in her hand. Mrs. Hudson is right; it is a nice picture. She tucks it behind Sherlock's microscope, hiding the one from Irene.
The second envelope has a cheque in it. The number on it has enough zeroes that Sarah finds herself stunned speechless for a second time.
***
She decides to invest half of the money in the practise, as a kind of apology to her other partners for the recent upheavals. The rest of it will go towards the wedding.
“Are you sure we'll need that much?” John asks her when she tells him about it that evening.
“With my family?” Sarah asks. “This will barely cover the reception.” John lets out a sigh.
“Hyperbole,” Sherlock declares, strolling out of the hallway with a towel slung low on his hips and another scrubbing at his damp hair. Sarah forgets what they're talking about for a minute. “I'm sure there's enough in that account to cover as large a wedding as you require and also ensure that you needn't work any longer.”
Sarah stops staring at the line of hair below Sherlock's navel and looks up to meet his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”
“You don't want children?” Sherlock asks, blinking at her. “I assumed, given your upbringing, that you were intending-”
“What makes you think-” Sarah starts, interrupting, then stops, taking a deep calming breath. “John and I haven't discussed it in detail yet, but I don't think our lives can accommodate as many children as my relatives tend to have. And I intend to keep working as long as possible.”
John gives her a smile, equal parts relief and pride. “Sounds just fine to me,” he says.
“Fair enough,” Sherlock concedes. “But I know you'll have at least two.”
“How do you figure?” Sarah asks. She's rather had her heart set on one, given she already has to look after Sherlock and John. Not that she'd going to say that aloud.
Sherlock grins at her. “Because one of them will be mine,” he replies.
“Oh, really-?” she starts.
“Hang on,” John interjects, “hang on, so am I to be raising this hypothetical child of yours as my own, or...?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock says irritably. “I am well aware of the dual requirements of both nature and nurture in a child's development, and as such, passing on my genetic traits alone will not ensure a proper legacy of my genius. So. I will assist in raising both children, assuming there will only be two.”
“...both children. Including, hypothetically, mine,” John says.
Sherlock grins again. “Of course. One ought to have a control.”
John looks at her. Sarah bites her lip, caught between hysterical laughter and outrage at their assumptions regarding the future use of her uterus.
“I'm going to kill him,” John informs her calmly, then stands to launch himself at Sherlock. He gets a towel in his face for his efforts and Sherlock retreats down the hall, John close on his heels.
“I'm going to kill them both,” Sarah says, giving in to the giggles.
There's a dreadful crash from the bedroom, and she sighs inwardly to go check on them.
***
One of the bookshelves has been upset. She stares down at the chaos of splayed covers and rumpled pages, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. She's so caught up in fighting the flood of panic rising like bile in her throat that she doesn't notice when John comes up behind her to catch her around the waist.
It's meant to be playful, an extension of whatever roughousing that they'd been indulging in before her arrival, but all she knows is blind terror. She lashes out, one elbow flying back to hit John's shoulder - his once-wounded shoulder, the one that can't bear weight for long with how the shattered bone had healed.
He drops her and stumbles back, and she's instantly filled with remorse at the low, pained sound that escapes him. “John!” she exclaims, turning and reaching out to where he's staggered back, his face clenched and pale. He waves her off.
“No, no, it's-” he takes a shuddering gulp of air. “I'm all right, just. Just give me a minute. I'll be all right,” he says over her tumble of apologies.
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't. I thought...”
Sherlock's at their side, looking as if he wants to touch one or the both of them. He's... indecisive, and that's as shocking as anything else that's happened in the last minute. One of his hands falls to rest on John's, where John is clutching his aching shoulder.
“I'm the one that's sorry,” John grunts. “I didn't think, Sarah, I should have realised...”
“Shut it,” she responds fiercely, the adrenaline still beating in her veins. “You didn't know.”
When he looks up at her, he's blinking away tears of pain but his jaw is resolute. “I do,” he says. “Well, nearly. These things-” he huffs a brief, humourless laugh, “they have a habit of sneaking up on you, don't they?”
She gives him a sad, sympathetic smile. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Yeah, they do.” She cups her hand around John's neck and bumps their foreheads together. “I'm still sorry, though. Your shoulder going to be all right?”
“Yeah,” he says, rolling it under his palm. Sherlock's hand slips until their fingers tangle. “Yeah, I think so. We'll just have to be careful tonight.” She tips her head and kisses him, chaste and reassuring.
There's another hand threading through the hair at her nape, and she almost startles until she scolds herself, Sherlock. The touch is gentle, almost hesitant, as it cards through the strands. She pulls away from John and tips her head back until it rests on Sherlock's shoulder.
“We're all right,” she says to him - confirming the fact to John, to herself. She puts her other hand on Sherlock's chest, trying to soothe him with the gesture. Scar tissue drags against her palm. “We're all right, really.”
Sherlock opens his mouth, then shuts it without uttering a word.
They're all quiet for a long minute, clustered together against the wall. They're tangled up in each other, hands braced against each other's wounds, and not a one can find words that will speak more than simple touch.
“Wait,” Sarah says, something just occurring to her. “Wait. Sherlock, are you naked?”
Sure enough, when she pulls away, she confirms that his second towel has gotten lost in the chaos of the room. Somehow she's back to giggling again, relief and affection and mild exasperation blending together into effervescence. John joins in a moment later, when Sherlock glances down at himself, frowning.
“Honestly,” he says haughtily, lifting his chin. “Like children sometimes, the both of you. One would think you hadn't seen it before.” Sarah shakes her head, breathless, unable to keep a straight face. John loops his arm round Sherlock's neck and pulls him in for a kiss, smiling against his mouth.
***
The two of them have been dreadfully careful, since Sarah came home from the hospital. It's awful.
She understands, really she does. First she had to let her injuries heal, and the week following was... inconvenient in a way that had her scowling down at her abdomen, muttering about having lost enough blood that month already, thanks.
But this. Pressed between them on Sherlock's bed, John before her and Sherlock behind, Sarah feels caught in a way that ought be reassuring, their gentle hands and quiet murmurs of affection against her skin an entirely new kind of captivity. Bonds of caution and care, their strong twined limbs a yielding cage about her. It's not at all what she wants, but they seem to believe that this is what she needs.
Sherlock's hands skim the waistband of her jeans, his fingertips dipping below in a maddening tease, and she tears her mouth away from John's, suddenly and irrationally infuriated. “For god's sake,” she says irritably, and both men freeze. “You'd think I was made of glass.”
“What-?” John says. She leans up on her elbows in the narrow space between them, dislodging their embrace.
“I think,” she says, forcing her voice to an even tone, “I've proven that I'm not a china doll. And that I prefer not to be treated like one.” John's face sharpens at her words, the beloved creases of his face falling into illegible relief as he stares up at her. After a long moment, his eyes flicker past her and he nods at whatever he sees in Sherlock's gaze.
And then John pushes her back down against the bed, familiar hands pinning her in place and oh. It's never John, who's like this, insistent and fierce and greedy, working her jaw open with sharp teeth and slick tongue and a thumb slotted beneath her cheekbone. She's so delighted that she doesn't even notice when Shelock slips away.
She notices when he returns, though, because he pries her clutching hands from John's back and hair, binding her wrists together above her head. Sarah tips her head back to laugh at him when he threads the rope around the slats of the headboard. “Missed a step,” she points out, grinning as John's teeth skim her collarbone, “I'm still dressed.”
“Easily remedied,” John mutters against her skin, dragging her blouse open with little finesse. Sherlock simply smiles, looming above them both, and that's when she spots the blade, glinting in his hand.
“Oh, fuck,” she says, voice jumping an octave, and she can feel John's laughter ghosting across her skin.
***
Everything fragments after that, moments suspended in time, like reflections in a broken mirror. Sarah wants to polish each shard and set them somewhere safe in her mind.
The burn of the rope on her wrists as John swipes antiseptic across her back, leaving goosebumps in its wake. His quiet voice, asking, “All right?” while he tucks her hair behind her ear. She nods, breathing deep, and he settles next to her, the stocky warmth of his body a pleasant anchor against her side.
Sherlock, straddling her legs, tracing light patterns against her skin with the blade, almost ticklish but for her hyper-awareness of what would happen if she trembled. An almost imperceptible change of pressure against her shoulder, heat blooming in its wake, making her hiss through her teeth.
She feels like parchment paper, the pigments of agony and bliss creeping under her skin to blend into an ache that makes her want to writhe shamelessly. The second cut doesn't double the sensation, but squares it, and John's expression darkens into something like concern at the high whine that builds in the back of her throat.
But his gaze is too intent on whatever he sees over her shoulder and his breath is coming too fast for it to be only worry. She wants to give him a knowing smile, but then the blade comes down again.
She loses track of how many times Sherlock gently scores her skin. It can't be that many, but her sense of time gets forgotten in favour of the mindless drift of her perception. The cuts themselves become secondary, moments of intensity that simply seep into her bones, leaving her trembling against the mattress.
A sweep of pressure below her shoulder, not the knife but something wet and yielding, and John shifts beside her. “What-” he says in half-hearted protest.
“Oh, give me some credit, John,” Sherlock murmurs, his erection pressing against Sarah's thigh as he leans to the side.
She forces her eyes open in time to see their kiss break, a mirrored streak of red on their mouths. John looks as dazed as she feels, his tongue darting out to clear the blood away. “Fuck,” she says, against her upper arm, and John's startled eyes snap to meet hers.
“I-” he says, conflicted.
“Don't,” she says. “Don't. Just. Come here, John.” She lifts her face over the swell of her shoulder and when he kisses her, John tastes of copper and Sherlock and himself.
“Bandage,” he says when they break apart, his voice raw and hoarse. He looks back to Sherlock, intent and resolute. “You're done with... that. For now.”
“Yes,” Sherlock replies, his own voice subdued. “Yes, all right.”
Sarah's close to begging, but Sherlock twines his gloved hand into her hair, the latex catching the strands at the root, and he pulls her head up enough so that they can kiss. It's misaligned, off-center and sloppy, but it's enough to distract her while John puts his skills to use in patching her up efficiently. A cool swipe of a wet cloth, the ferocious sting of antiseptic, and the careful press of gauze and tape follow in quick order.
With one hand gripping Sarah's hip, Sherlock twists them both onto their sides, his teeth marking out a map on the back of her neck, John's mouth covering hers in turn. He rolls his hips against her thigh, and she hooks her knee over his leg, pulling him closer. “I don't,” he murmurs against her lips. “I don't know what-”
Sherlock presses his forehead between Sarah's shoulder blades, his hair tickling her skin. “John. Listen carefully,” he says, his breath hot on her spine, “because this is probably the only time I will ever say this: stop thinking. This instant. We can work out your inner turmoil during the post-coital endorphin rush.”
“Hah,” John says, as Sarah presses her pelvis forward against his erection, hot and hard and so close to where she wants it. “Ah, all right. Fuck.”
“Sometime soon, yes,” Sarah says agreeably. Sherlock's hand slips between them, curling around John's prick, his knuckle grazing her clit. He's still wearing his gloves, she thinks, and oh Jesus, that's possibly the hottest thing ever.
Sherlock strokes John slowly, once and then twice, then he shoves forward, tipping Sarah's legs wider and guiding them together. John groans as he slides in easily, all the way to the root, his eyelids flickering shut. Sarah leans her shoulders against Sherlock's chest, feeling the drag of the gauze against her wounds. She twists her wrists in their bonds so that she can brace against the headboard, opening up to take John deeper as he starts a slow rhythm.
“You're so slick, Sherlock murmurs in her ear, his gloved fingertips slippery between her folds. “I could just-” and then he slides a finger in, right next to John, curling up and pressing just there, the spot that makes Sarah tip her head back and pant blindly for air.
“Oh, christ,” John says, each of his thrusts rocking Sarah back against Sherlock, whose own breathing is getting a bit ragged as his erection drags against the cleft of her arse.
“You can,” she breathes out between hitching gasps, “Sherlock. If you. If you want, you can-”
“What-?” John says, as Sherlock pulls his hand from between them, disrupting the rhythm. “Oh. Oh, my god.” He stops suddenly, biting his lower lip as his dick twitches deep within Sarah, clearly attempting to restrain himself. “Is that even-?”
“Stop talking,” Sarah says, craning forward to kiss him. He cradles her face in his hands, groaning as she clenches around him and nips at his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth.
Sherlock rolls away abruptly, then returns, his still-gloved hand slick with lube. She hitches her leg higher round John's waist as Sherlock breaches her slowly, one finger then two, twisting and teasing. They've done this before, but not with this intent in mind.
“Ah,” John says, eyes clenched shut. “Oh, fuck, I can feel-”
“John,” Sherlock says, low and intense. “What the lady said. Shut up.” He scissors his fingers, adds a third, and Sarah pulls at her bonds just for the distracting burn of rope on her wrists.
Then he pulls away, dropping a cluster of kisses against her shoulder. She hears the snap of the glove being removed, and his naked hand falls on her breast, pinching and pulling at her nipple. That sharp, bright burst of pleasant pain mingles with the sensation of his cock slowly breaching her.
“Oh my god,” Sarah says, “oh my god.” She might have lost the rest of her vocabulary, repeating it breathlessly over and over. “John,” she says eventually. “Sherlock. Oh my god.”
John's hips roll, an absent glide of friction that sets her trembling. “I don't think I can-” he mutters.
“I'll drive,” Sherlock says, hand on Sarah's hip again as he suits action to words.
And yes, fuck, his thrust sends her forward onto John, the dual pressure of them inside her setting her nerves alight. John groans, eyes wide and shocked, and she can't even begin to imagine what he's feeling.
Sherlock sets a careful pace. None of them can find purchase for anything swift or rough, but the slow tidal sway of their bodies is more than enough, after everything else, to drive Sarah inexorably towards the edge. Her shoulder aches beneath the bandage, John's breath is hot on her neck, Sherlock's hand is bruising her hip, and her wrists sting from the friction of the rope.
“Come on,” Sherlock murmurs, “come on, yes,” and she doesn't know if he's talking to her or to John, but it doesn't matter, because his hips are moving faster and John's hand has fallen to curl loosely at the base of her neck and just the thought of him closing it over her throat has her crying out. She's bruising and bleeding and trussed up and trapped between them, and she comes so hard she sees stars from the force of it. Her body clenches tight around them - both of them, and the thought sends her spiralling impossibly higher - until first Sherlock and then John follow her over, the former with a shout he muffles against her hair and the latter with a drawn-out stuttering groan that she swallows with a kiss.
Sherlock's body trembles against her spine, his hand convulsively clutching and releasing her hip. After a minute, John rolls away as far as their entangled limbs will allow, his arm sprawling across the mattress to hang over the edge.
“We can't do that ever again,” John mutters. “Not ever. It'd kill me, trying it twice in one lifetime.”
“Worth it,” Sarah says, wincing as Sherlock pulls out only to slump at her side, boneless as a cat. “Well. Only if we all went together, which does seem to be the ideal.”
“Can you imagine the scene,” Sherlock says dreamily. “Mrs. Hudson calling the police, everyone showing up, sure we've been murdered. And then the look on their faces when they realise...”
“Ugh, god, why do we let you talk?” John asks, sitting up with a frown and a wince. “You're cracked, you are. We should make gagging you standard procedure in the bedroom.”
“That's fine,” Sherlock says, undulating in a languorous stretch that makes several of his joints pop audibly. “But you do so like having access to my mouth that I think it's counter-productive.”
John drops his head to his hands and grinds his palms into his eyes. “I don't even-”
“Gents,” Sarah says. “Not that the show isn't entertaining, but mightn't I be a better audience if one of you, oh, untied me?”
“Shit,” John says, scrambling to do so. “I'm sorry, love-”
“No worries,” she says, laughing and rolling her shoulder in a shrug. “I'd do it myself, but I'm a bit uncoordinated at the moment.”
***
Sarah has to wear long-sleeved blouses to work for the next week. John spots the marks on her wrists one morning as she dresses and apologises again, his hand gently cupping the fresh bandage on her back.
“It's all right,” she says, kissing him. “Really, it is.” She tips her forehead forward to rest against his, sighing. “John. I don't. I'm not sure how to explain it, but I. I'd rather.” She takes another deep breath. “I feel safer having you and Sherlock tie me down, mark me, anything - than I did in the copy of 221b without seeing a single soul for days on end...
“I'm... I'm going to marry a man who owns an unlicensed firearm and has PTSD nightmares that go away when he spends an evening getting shot at by street thugs. We're also likely to share our lives with a man who thinks nothing of keeping bovine placentas in the fridge and looks forward to puzzling murder sprees.” John laughs and she shares his smile. “I think. I think it's safe to say that nothing about us is ordinary, John. And frankly, if I have rope burns every now and then, I'll count myself lucky every time they're from you and not one of the suspects in your cases, all right?”
John tucks her closer against his chest, and props his chin on her shoulder. “...yeah. Yeah, all right. Just. Let me know if you don't...”
Sarah grips his shoulders, revelling as always in his sturdy strength. “Oh, sweetheart. Have I ever failed to put my foot down with either of you, when I felt it was necessary?”
John lets out a short bark of laughter. “No, I don't suppose you have.” He pulls back just enough to give her a quick kiss that turns out a little longer than it ought to. She catches the time and disentangles herself reluctantly. They're already late, but for once she doesn't mind.
***
Sherlock lets himself in to Sarah's apartment one afternoon, despite never having been given a key. Sarah looks up at him from her fortress of bridal planning magazines and brochures - sometimes she jokes that figuring out seating arrangements is as arduous as anything else she's had to manage since she first started dating John - in time to watch him fall into her armchair with an exaggerated flourish.
“Hello,” she greets amiably. “No case today?”
“I wouldn't know,” he replies dourly. “Even if I had one, I wouldn't be able to think, with all the noise in the place.”
“Funny,” she says, smiling, dog-earing a page depicting a promising centrepiece, “you're usually the one causing a ruckus. What's John doing, cleaning?” She says the last teasingly.
Sherlock gives her an arch look. “You can't tell? No, no, of course not. I have a dozen irritating and blatant signs of the recent disruption to 221 Baker Street, but far be it for you to observe them and reach the obvious conclusion.”
Sarah wrinkles her nose at him and returns to the magazine. “If you're going to be like that...” she says absently.
Sherlock abruptly swings upright and strides over to her. “Fine,” he says. “Observe the chalky residue of plaster dust on my shoulders and the cuffs of my trousers. There are carpet fibres that do not match anything in 221b caught on the soles of my shoes. There are flecks of paint in my hair.” Which is, apparently, the most grievous affront to his person one could devise.
Sarah looks up at him expectantly until he finally bursts out, “Mrs. Hudson is redecorating 221c! And she asked me to help, for whatever reason! Insufferable harpy! As if I have any interest in her new lodger or their theoretical taste!” He collapses onto the couch at Sarah's side, toppling her stack of sample invitations to the floor.
Sarah cards her fingers through his hair, picking out bits of paint as she goes. “So I was right,” she concludes, “when I deduced that you haven't any cases to work on.” Mrs. Hudson knows better than to interrupt him in the middle of his work.
Sherlock sulks, and Sarah fights the grin that threatens to break out over her expression. She'll have to keep him out of the bedroom, or else he'll spot the cardboard boxes, and there's her surprise gone.
***
John takes to wedding planning surprisingly well. “Soldier,” he points out when she looks surprised. “Might be a bit rusty, but if I could command a team of field medics under fire, I think I can handle caterers and groomsmen.”
She laughs and pulls over her notebook. “We'll just see about that,” she says.
Sherlock refuses to be best man, not even looking up from his laptop as he says no.
“I'm sorry?” John asks, blinking rapidly. “No? Why not?”
“Several reasons, the least of which is that I don't want to organise a 'stag do.' Nor do I wish to give a toast at the reception. I'm fairly certain that none of your families wish to hear my genuine thoughts on your blissful union.” He gives a sharp-edged grin with a hint of teeth that promises terrible, terrible things, and John's shoulders slump in surrender. “Besides, it should be Harry.”
Sarah blinks. He's right, of course, but.
“Hell, it's not as if anything else about this will be strictly traditional,” John admits with a rueful laugh. “Still. I was hoping to put on a good show of it.”
“Harry would throw a hell of a party,” Sarah points out.
“Groomsman, then?” John asks Sherlock.
“No,” Sherlock says shrugging it off, “I've a better idea.” He doesn't actually tell them, engrossed as he is in editing an article on Wikipedia about... it looks like beekeeping, of all things.
***
Time passes more quickly than expected, their days packed full with fittings and tastings and arguments about music crammed in around their work hours and Sherlock's erratic schedule. It's easier once the renovations on 221c are done and Sherlock stops living on her couch. Sarah doesn't get much sleep, though, secretly packing up her flat in what few evenings she has to herself.
There are a few near-misses, like the time John found a packing peanut clinging to her sweater “Just putting some things in storage,” she'd told him, “making room for the wedding presents.” Or the time Sherlock had run into her bringing in a box. “Helping Mrs. Hudson with a collection for her church,” she'd said, but he'd been too caught up in his current case to give her more than a distracted smile on his way out.
Oh, but it will be worth it, to see the looks on their faces, she thinks to herself when exhaustion drags at her heels.
Unbeknownst to her, there are three other people in London thinking the same thing.
The first two are Sherlock and John, each planning their own wedding-related surprise. The third, however, isn't even on the guest list, though he plans to attend regardless.
***
John counts it as a minor blessing that Sherlock pulls him - and Lestrade - away from his stag do halfway through the evening. “I've a line on Moran,” Sherlock says, a store mannequin under his arm for some reason, “and it's absolutely vital that you - is your sister making out with that ecdysiast?”
John has no idea what that means, and turns to look, immediately regretting it. “Yes. Yes, she is,” he says, wincing and turning back to face Sherlock. “Let's go.”
Lestrade takes a moment to stare forlornly over his shoulder at the party before following them with a heavy sigh.
***
The less said about Sarah's hen night, the better. She can't remember much of it the next morning, but she thinks that she'd won the impromptu game of 'Never Have I Ever' - the details of which she fervently hopes are as foggy for everyone else as they are for her - and she's also fairly certain that she'd left a filthy voicemail on Sherlock's phone. Or John's. Possibly both.
Her mobile rings shrilly, and she throws a pillow at it, deciding to take the day off. From everything.
It's only when she realises that Sherlock or John will come in person if she doesn't answer her phone that she grudgingly picks up.
“Amused,” Sherlock's drawl greets her.
“I'm sorry, what?” she groans in response, throwing an arm over her face.
“Ah. Of course. I suspected from your slurred consonants that you were inebriated enough that you might not remember leaving that message.”
She can't help but laugh, and immediately regrets it. “Ha, ow, yes, I remember leaving it. I just don't remember what I said...”
The low chuckle that rumbles over the line makes her blush hotly. “You asked how I'll feel in two weeks, when I'll be fucking a married woman.”
“Of course I did,” she mutters, dragging her hand down her face. “Hence 'amused,' got it now. I need paracetamol and a gallon of coffee for this conversation.” With effort, she suits action to words, dragging a robe over her pyjamas on her way to the kitchen.
“If it's any consolation, you left the same message for John,” Sherlock replies, chuckling again.
“And how was the stag do?” Sarah asks, hoping desperately for a change in subject as she downs three tablets with a glass of water.
“Harry scandalised John, and we left to set up a false assassination opportunity so that we could capture Colonel Sylvia Moran. The ruse was successful, but Moran escaped.” His voice goes flat, in the curious way it does when he's truly upset. “Then I received your message. It was....cheering.”
“Well, glad to have been able to help. Was there anything else you wanted, besides mocking me for ill-advised phone calls?”
“Breakfast?”
Her stomach lurches at the thought of food, but she knows Sherlock's habits. If Moran's gone, that's a case over, and he'll never be more willing to eat a proper meal this week, even if she can't. “...Yeah, all right. Be there in half an hour.”
***
They go out to a small café whose servers haven't all been completely alienated (yet) by Sherlock's demeanour. Sarah orders the largest espresso on the menu and picks at a croissant, while Sherlock tucks into his usual expansive post-case repast and tells her about Moran between fastidious forkfuls of egg and sausages.
“...and why, exactly, did you let this menace loose when you had her?” Sarah asks when he stops elaborating on his brilliance.
Sherlock looks at her as if she's missed every point he's ever made since the first day they met. “Because I'd rather have her loose and you free of Moriarty than vice versa,” he explains.
Sarah furrows her brow. “So you let two criminals free, one of them a rival genius and the other a highly trained military sniper... just to get me back?”
“Obviously,” he drawls, crumpling his napkin into a tight ball and dropping it atop his plate.
Sarah feels a smile creep across her face. “I love you too, you great idiot. Now let's get back home, John will be up by now. I want to surprise him with breakfast in bed, since he didn't get a proper party last night.”
***
Sarah picked out her dress alone to avoid the chaos of the entire female population of her family tagging along, but concedes to bringing her mother to the final fitting. “What do you think?” she asks, feeling self conscious, an imposter in a dress in which she doesn't belong, and yet still somehow transformed.
“Oh,” her mother says, eyes misting over. “Oh, you're lovely. Give me a spin.” Sarah does, picking up the slight train, the lace heavy with beadwork. “Wait. When did you get those tattoos?”
“Hell,” Sarah mutters under her breath, twisting round to see it in the mirror. The back panel is sheer with embroidered embellishments, and cuts low enough to show the top curls of her ink. “Um. Oh, to hell with it, I like this dress. Uncle Victor can be as scandalised as he likes.”
Her mother suppresses a smile, but for the merriment in her eyes. “We'll just put some foundation down on those top bits, and he won't suspect a thing.”
***
John answers the phone with a groggy and disgruntled “Morning?”
“Morning!” Sarah answers brightly. “You still in the city, or have you run off on me?” She steps into her flats and slings a bag over her shoulder, switching the phone to her other ear as she grabs a small wheeled overnight bag.
“What? Why would I-?” She hears rustling, then a muffled curse. “Shit. Sherlock, we're late!”
“What do you mean, late?” Sherlock's voice is faint on the line, and she laughs.
“Come on,” she says. “I know you don't have as full a day planned, but I was hoping you'd be there for the main event.”
“We're getting married today!” John says, exultant and exasperated with Sherlock simultaneously.
“You might be, but I'm not,” Sherlock grumbles.
“Yes we are,” Sarah replies to John. “I'm just off to the hairdresser's, but I wanted to call and tell you that I love you before we have to say it - at long and boring length - in front of several hundred people.”
“I love you too,” John says, breathless. “And if you get a chance, could you ask Uncle Victor to not glare at me as he walks you down the aisle?”
“I'll do what I can,” she says, hearing her phone beep at her. “Whoops, that's mum calling, wondering where I am. See you later! Love you both!” She switches over and looks around her near-empty flat as her mother rattles on anxiously.
By the end of the night, Sarah thinks to herself, The movers will be done and all my things will be at Baker Street. And I'll be married. It's surreal, like a very complicated prank that she and John are pulling over on everyone, including themselves.
“Yes, mum,” she says into the phone, giving herself over to the insanity of her own life once again. “Yes, I know. I'm on my way. I can't talk, I'm getting into the car. I'll be there quick as I can...”
***
Everything goes off without a hitch. Or if there are any hitches, no one lets her know, which is one of the very good reasons to choose one's bridesmaids with care. There's a brief scuffle over who gets to stand where in the preliminary photographs, but Sarah's mother swats her nieces on the shoulders with her clutch and they quiet down.
The worst thing about the whole ordeal is the waiting. Sarah wants to fidget, but she can't touch her hair or her makeup or her nails or her dress or her bouquet, for fear of unravelling the whole façade with an errant pluck at a pin or loose thread. “You look beautiful,” everyone assures her, but all she sees in the mirror is a slightly enhanced version of her face, superimposed on an image she's built in her mind over months of planning. She doesn't know if what she sees is real, or if it's just pent-up wishful thinking distorting her perception.
Her mother hands around a flask with a knowing smile. “Doesn't seem that long ago that your father and I...” she comments, trailing off as Sarah takes a healthy nip. “I wish. Well. It all turned out for the best in the end,” she says, taking it back and blinking away tears. “And he's looking down on us right now, as proud as can be, I'm sure of it.”
Finally the event coordinator of the hall beckons them all into place, and Sarah beams up at her uncle as she takes his arm, her chest full to bursting with anticipation and terror. They follow the bridesmaids, who link up with their assigned groomsmen (oh, how they'd all been disappointed that Sherlock wasn't in the bridal party) and walk with self-conscious dignity around the corner.
Then Sarah and Victor are the only ones left, and she takes a deep breath before stepping forward to the doorway. There's a pause, the rustle of everyone getting to their feet, then the high, sweet strains of a violin, leading the small orchestra.
Oh, she thinks, blinking back tears lest she ruin her makeup. Oh, Sherlock, you insufferable prat. Then she spots John at the end of the aisle, proud and handsome in his dress uniform. His face looks as though it's about to split wide open from the smile on his face, and that's all she can see for the rest of the ceremony.
***
They turn together to face their assembled families and friends as the officiant declares them, “Mr. and Mrs. Watson,” and the whole crowd cheers. And back against the far wall stand both Holmes brothers, applauding with the rest. They seem to be competing to see which of them can look the most archly amused while ignoring each other's presence.
Sarah almost trips on the hem of her gown when she realises what she's just seen. “John?” she asks quietly, pulling him close by their linked elbows.
“I see him,” John mutters through his teeth, though his smile doesn't falter.
Sarah can't be bothered to get upset at Mycroft's little stunt. It's her wedding day, dammit, and if that means she has to ask Anthea that her wedding present involve stuffing her boss in the boot of a car, by god, she'll do it.
***
They duck into a small side room provided for the purpose to wait for the reception to start. John crowds her against the wall and kisses her senseless. “Wife!” he exclaims exultantly when they break apart, and she laughs so hard that she has to hold onto his shoulders to stand.
“Huh-husband,” she retorts between giggles, tasting the word on her mouth as if it's brand new. “My husband.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees, kissing her again.
“Am I going to have to listen to that for the next several months?” Sherlock comments from the doorway.
“Sherlock,” Sarah teases, “You almost sound jealous.” John steps out so that he can pull Sherlock in beside them.
Sherlock sniffs, looking disdainful. “I've already given my opinion on this archaic waste of time and money.”
“Shut it,” John said. “If you really believed that, you wouldn't have come, let alone played for us.”
Sarah tugs on Sherlock's tie playfully. “Nor rented this suit. Can I just say, I feel as if I've unfairly stolen the affection of the two most handsome men at my own wedding? Or is that within my rights?”
“I've never really given much credence to unwritten social convention,” Sherlock replies.
“Thank god for that,” John says, pulling Sherlock down for a kiss. “Oh, that reminds me.” He retrieves his hands - one from Sarah's bum and the other from Sherlock's hair - and starts searching his pockets. “Ah, there it is.”
He pulls out a ring. Sarah blinks. It's an almost-perfect match to the one she'd just (was it only minutes ago?) slipped onto John's finger.
“...I know your feelings on this kind of thing,” John's stammering, “but I just thought, ah. You're probably not going anywhere, are you? And it would be nice if. Um. Consider it a gesture-”
“Oh, do stop that,” Sherlock says, plucking the ring from John's hand and slipping it easily on his left hand. “It's mortifying. 'Probably not going anywhere.' Sometimes I wonder about you, really I do.” He curls his hand around John's neck and pulls him in close for another kiss, deep and filthy and quick. His other arm comes to rest on Sarah's waist and he treats her to the same. “Now, if that's settled, I think we have a reception to attend. And I have a socially-obligated threat to deliver to Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He steps towards the doorway, opening it a bit to peer into the hallway.
“...wait, what?” Sarah asks, still trying to process the events of the last minute and failing, what with everything else happening.
Sherlock's eyes crinkle in a devilish grin. “Isn't that the thing one does to a sibling's paramour?” He's out the door before either of the newlyweds can formulate a response.
John leans his forehead against Sarah's shoulder, his body trembling with suppressed laughter. “One of these days,” he says shakily, “we are going to learn to not ask.”
***
There are photographs to pose for, and a really fine meal to eat, and endless toasts to endure, and any number of rituals in between. And then there is dancing. John, it turns out, is a good dancer. He's not brilliant, but he can find a rhythm and he doesn't step on Sarah's toes. He's also willing to make a fool of himself to make Sarah laugh, which makes up for any amount of extravagant skill.
After a few songs, Sarah begs off for some refreshment, and they collapse into the nearest seats with champagne.
Harry appears at John's side, looking absolutely furious. “You invited Clara?” she hisses, darting a glance over her shoulder.
“Of course I did,” John says agreeably, taking a sip from his flute. “She's my friend.”
“Your friend?” Harry repeats incredulously, tugging uncomfortably at her tie and looking enviously at their champagne.
“Yes,” John says, still doggedly unruffled. “After all, she was my friend first.”
“She was only friends with you to get close to me,” Harry spits.
John smirks at her. “For a year? Pull the other one, Harriet.”
Sarah finishes her drink and leans forward, elbows on knees, the beading digging into her crossed forearms. “Harry. As of two hours ago, we're family, so I feel I can say this. If you cause a scene at my wedding, I will have a small number of my large, rugby-playing cousins toss you into the reflecting pool out front. So. Either you man up, as the saying goes, sober up, and ask that woman to dance, or you can shut it and sulk in a corner. Either way, we'll be on the dance floor.” Sarah stands up, ignoring Harry's gobsmacked expression, and drags John along by the arm.
“I can't believe you just said that,” John says, grinning. “You're brilliant.”
“Shh, which one is Clara again?” Sarah asks, peering over his shoulder
“The ginger in the green dress, over by the chocolate fountain.”
“That's what I thought. Harry's going up to her now.” They pivot so that they can both watch. The two make a striking couple, Sarah has to admit, especially with Harry in the same tuxedo the other groomsmen are wearing. “Ooh, what a shame,” Sarah says after a moment, wincing.
John scoffs. “That's nothing. I'm willing to bet they'll get caught snogging in the coat room by the end of the evening.”
Sarah laughs, and he steps back to give her a spin. “Look,” she says, when he pulls her close again. “Over there.” She inclines her head, and John's gaze follows the gesture to see Mycroft bending in a courtly bow, one hand outstretched to a reluctant Lestrade. Seated beside him, Anthea shoves Lestrade forward, a giggling Molly perched on her lap.
And somehow, Sally Donovan convinces Sherlock to dance with her.
“She promised to stop calling me 'freak' for two weeks,” he informs them later, adding dryly, “With the offer of such an immense sacrifice on her part, how could I refuse?”
***
They tumble into the limo, shrieking with laughter and covered in confetti. They are also very, very drunk. Sarah crawls into John's lap as soon as the door closes.
“Wait, hold on,” he says when she lets him up for air. “Where to next? Your place is closer...”
“No, it's not,” she says, trying to hitch up the hem of her dress so that she can sit astride his lap. She's been dodging this question for weeks, usually shrugging him off with 'we'll figure something out,' or 'that's not really as important as figuring out where to seat your cousin - is he bringing a guest?' This was the only detail she'd really omitted telling him.
John clenches his eyes shut as she shifts atop him, trying to focus his attention on the conversation at hand. “I know we're not leaving until tomorrow, but can we not spend our wedding night at 221b?”
“Absolutely,” she agrees, bending to kiss him again before twisting round to knock on the partition. “221 Baker Street,” she informs the driver, who nods and puts the screen back up.
“What-?” John asks. “I just said... oh, never mind.” He gives up, with her hands busy at his trousers. She gives up trying to disentangle herself from the heavy train, and slides to her knees on the floor between his legs.
He's understandably distracted for the rest of their trip.
***
When they get to the door, he insists on picking her up and carrying over the threshhold, while she giggles and shrieks at him, glad that Mrs. Hudson is still at the reception, flirting with one of Sarah's uncles. He lets her down, and Sarah gets the key from her little beaded purse, ignoring John's bewildered protests as she bypasses the stairs.
“Come on,” she says, swinging the door wide and going down the stairs. John follows after a minute, fumbling in the dark. At the bottom, she flips the light switch and watches his face break open in understanding as he sees the stacks of boxes and the jumble of familiar furniture.
“...Sarah,” he breathes, staring around. “How did you do all this?”
“Very carefully,” she says, laughing, stepping out of her shoes. “It was difficult to keep it a secret, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“...does Sherlock know?”
“You know what?” she says, slinging her arms around her husband's - her husband! it still seems surreal - neck and kissing him. “He very well could. But I don't care.”
“Want to give me a tour?” John asks, nuzzling up under her ear.
“Absolutely,” she says. “But the only room I've got set up right now is the bedroom...” She's been sleeping on her couch for a week, but it will be worth it.
“That's a shame,” he says, teeth grazing her neck. Somehow, they stumble in the right direction, hands scrabbling at buttons and zips. John tumbles her to the bed, his fingers woven through the mass of hair curled and pinned and sprayed in place. “...is the bed bigger?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Mmmhmm,” she says, pushing his crimson waistcoat off his shoulders. “And I soundproofed. You know, just in case.”
He nips and kisses a line down her jaw and neck, peeling the dress away as he goes. “We'll have to test that, won't we?” he murmurs against the swell of one breast. “Mrs. Watson.” She rolls her head back, laughter bubbling up in her chest.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” she replies, and then he sets about rendering her speechless.
***
Sarah wakes at around dawn when Sherlock slips into the bed behind her. “Morning,” she says, drowsy and content, accepting the brief peck he gives in greeting. “Did you just get in?”
“Mm,” he says in confirmation, pulling the blanket up over their shoulders. “Trina lifted my wallet while we were dancing. I had to chase her back to her flat and break in to retrieve it.”
Sarah covers her face with her palm. “You didn't.”
“Of course I did,” he says. “And then I had to figure out where you and John had gone. Well done, by the way. I like what you've done with the place.”
“I thought you might,” she replies, snuggling back against his embrace, their hands entwining atop the still-slumbering John's waist.
Their rings click against one another, and she falls asleep smiling.
- END -
* Further Notes: Thanks to *every single one of you* who've been ever so kind as I've been posting this, for your patience and your really really astonishingly nice comments. I am deeply flattered by the responses I've gotten to this series, and without your encouragement, this would probably have remained a porny one-shot on the kinkmeme or a languishing WiP in my archives. Really, you're all *awesome,* thank you.
With this coda, the series is done. It may sound insufferably self-important, but I hereby release it into the wild. Should anyone wish to do a remix, podfic, or any derivative work in this 'verse, I welcome it with open arms provided I get a link back - in fact, should anyone wish to write the Mycroft/Lestrade hinted at in this installment, I would be effing *ecstatic.*
The title to this installment is taken from the song of the same name, by the band Elbow (as is the cut-text), and picking it for this fic is unbelievably self-indulgent, because it was the song to which my husband & I danced our first dance at our wedding. But the lyrics are here if you're interested, and if you squint, it totally applies. Holy cow, we love Cumberbatch's eyes, indeed. ^_^
I may have written an additional 'honeymoon smutlet' on April Fool's Day, rather unexpectedly, titled Wish You Were Here.
[ Lorem Ipsum Series Masterpost ]
This entry was originally posted at my Dreamwidth; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.
Author: saathi1013
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: Sarah/John/Sherlock (est), mention of Molly/'Anthea' (est), hints of Mycroft/Lestrade.
Spoilers: Absolutely, spoilers for all 3 eps of s1.
Rating: NC-17 (AND HOW).
Contents/Warnings: Character death (but not really); slight PTSD fallout from previous chapters in this series; bloodplay, bondage, DP; brief mention of breathplay. Honestly, don't act shocked at all of that if you've read the rest of the series... :P
Series: This is the eighth and final installment (?!) in the Lorem Ipsum Series.
Summary: In which someone dies and their funeral is held; Sarah acquires coping mechanisms; a wedding is held with attendant surprises; and there is a lot of sex.
Word Count: ~9400
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N (* more at the end): This took forever, but I hope it'll be worth it. Thanks as ever to caoilin_noir for her brilliant beta work, and bonus thanks to accioayla for holding my hand through the creative anxiety and giving me a quick read-through before I posted it. Special adoration and gratitude to mariemjs for the lovely art she's done for this series thus far - here's the tumblr link if you haven't seen it yet, 'cos DAMN - and for the fact that she's taken it upon herself to do more (one for each installment, even!). O.o
I am also going to give a special shout-out to livia_carica , outing her as the anon behind the prompt on the kinkmeme that started all this. Not only is her brain filled with hot, addictive prompts but her fanart is also shiny as hell, go see.
***
After Sarah returns home from what she calls her 'captivity,' for lack of a better term, all she wants is for life to return to normal. Or as normal as life can be, all things considered. But of course, that is not in the cards for any of them.
First, someone dies. But then, isn't that how things usually start, with Sherlock?
***
Lestrade comes to the practice, looking travel-weary and haggard. Sarah spots him first and feels all the blood drain from her face.
“Give me a minute,” she tells the receptionist. “And John, too.” Linda rolls her eyes at yet another interruption to the schedule, but does as she's asked. Sarah takes Lestrade's arm and they hurry down the hall.
John's just seeing a patient out, and when he spots them, his expression switches to immediate concern. “What is it?” he asks, ushering them in and closing the door. “What's happened?”
Lestrade practically collapses into the nearest chair. “Nothing good,” he says, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. There wasn't anything I could do...”
***
The memorial service is tasteful, and well-attended, though Sarah doesn't recognise anyone there. She'd rather been expecting more luminaries and politicians, considering Holmes' career. But no, there's simply a couple dozen sombre men in black suits, and less than half as many severe-looking businesswomen, wives or co-workers or both.
Sherlock and Anthea spend most of the service off in one corner, reassuring each other and themselves that Mycroft isn't dead. They receive condolences with reserved but convincing solemnity. The omnipresent mobile in Anthea's hand is not her own, but Mycroft's, the only real evidence left behind at Reichenbach besides footprints in the mud, long since washed away.
There is an unsent text to Sherlock in the drafts folder of the mobile: “Consider this proof against your long-held opinions of my character. It has been my honour to have long held the title of your archnemesis, and I intend to defend my claim. With regards, M.”
When John had read this, his first response was a half-hearted, disbelieving chuckle. “Is this a Holmes version of 'No one beats up my little brother but me'?”
Sarah had pinched his arm in rebuke, but Sherlock simply arched an eyebrow. “It was supposed to be me, up there,” was his only response, and then he'd been silent for several days, despite Sarah and John's every effort.
The last sent text from Mycroft's mobile is to Anthea: “You have your orders.” She doesn't answer when Sarah asks about it, only gives a practised, diplomatic, Mona Lisa smile, and takes a sip of her tea.
When Sarah visits the office, Anthea sits behind Mycroft's old desk. The décor remains unchanged, as if she's simply holding the fort until her employer returns.
The loss casts a pall over their lives for a while, in a way Sarah can't quite fathom. It's not as if she really knew the man, after all. He was just... Well, he was very nearly a brother-in-law, all things considered, but never really someone with whom she'd been all that close.
But a part of her grieves for the loss, and she sees John doing the same, because Sherlock doesn't seem to bother doing it himself. Instead, he takes every case that comes their way, sometimes two or three at once. He's gone from the flat for days at a time.
John's gone with him, more often than not, and Sarah resigns herself to the now-familiar routine of standing vigil. She spends as much time as she can stand at their flat out of defiance, returning to her own only when she needs to.
Sometimes, when Sarah finds herself alone in 221b, she takes a book at random from the shelves and opens it, riffling through the pages, checking to make sure the pages aren't blank.
She's also grown fond of the skull, and the chemistry glassware everywhere.
It's the little differences that make the memories bearable.
***
Mrs. Hudson brings a package up one afternoon. Sarah thanks her absently and sets it on the large stack of correspondence threatening to spill off his desk. “Oh, no, dear, it's not for Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says. “It's for you.”
“What on earth...?” Sarah mutters to herself, getting the knife from the mantelpiece.
“I thought the same thing, you know,” Mrs. Hudson says. “I know you spend most of your time here, but this seemed a bit unusual.” Sarah glances over, but Mrs. Hudson simply looks curious; she's never been fussed about Sarah's regular presence before.
The envelope is plain manila, stiffened with cardboard, addressed with preprinted labels, and sent via standard post. Nothing like Moriarty's taunting reminders. He's dead, Sarah reminds herself. Mycroft gave his own life to ensure it, and Lestrade corroborated the story. But there's always a niggling uncertainty in the back of her mind, since Lestrade had been diverted back to the village beneath the falls at the last minute, and he hadn't seen the final altercation himself...
But he'd seen the tracks in the mud. Sherlock's default condescension aside, Lestrade is intelligent enough to read the signs of a struggle.
So. Not Moriarty, Sarah thinks firmly, splitting the seam of the flap.
There are three things inside: a glossy photograph, a smaller envelope (unsealed), and a note. He wanted you to have these, the note says in Anthea's familiar hand. Consider it an early wedding present. -A
The glossy photograph is one of those that had been censored and apparently confiscated by Mycroft from the scene of Sarah's release and rescue. Sherlock, kissing Sarah with evident relief; John with his arm round her waist, looking equally pleased and not at all upset by what his flatmate and his fiancée are up to less than a foot away. He almost looks... fond.
“Oh, isn't that a nice photo of you three,” Mrs. Hudson says warmly over Sarah's shoulder, and Sarah nearly jumps a foot. “Not something to hang on the wall or set on your desk, more's the pity, but it's a lovely picture regardless.”
Sarah feels a hot flush creep over her cheekbones and down her neck. “Mrs. Hudson-” she starts, but the other woman waves her off.
“Oh, look at me, sticking my nose into your business. I just wanted to make sure there wasn't anything... well. You know the kind of mail Sherlock gets. Ransom notes and death threats and once there was a trace of white powder on the flap that made me fret until Sherlock pointed out that it was Christmas and I'd just given the postman a plate of cookies dusted with sugar...”
Sarah closes her eyes, still mortified. “Yes, right, I understand...”
“Well, I'll just be off, then, now that I know you'll be all right. Let Sherlock know I'm charging him extra for the new scorch mark on the kitchen ceiling. Don't know how he does it, but I'm not repainting it myself...” Mrs. Hudson says as she bustles off, closing the door behind her.
Sarah looks down at the photograph in her hand. Mrs. Hudson is right; it is a nice picture. She tucks it behind Sherlock's microscope, hiding the one from Irene.
The second envelope has a cheque in it. The number on it has enough zeroes that Sarah finds herself stunned speechless for a second time.
***
She decides to invest half of the money in the practise, as a kind of apology to her other partners for the recent upheavals. The rest of it will go towards the wedding.
“Are you sure we'll need that much?” John asks her when she tells him about it that evening.
“With my family?” Sarah asks. “This will barely cover the reception.” John lets out a sigh.
“Hyperbole,” Sherlock declares, strolling out of the hallway with a towel slung low on his hips and another scrubbing at his damp hair. Sarah forgets what they're talking about for a minute. “I'm sure there's enough in that account to cover as large a wedding as you require and also ensure that you needn't work any longer.”
Sarah stops staring at the line of hair below Sherlock's navel and looks up to meet his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”
“You don't want children?” Sherlock asks, blinking at her. “I assumed, given your upbringing, that you were intending-”
“What makes you think-” Sarah starts, interrupting, then stops, taking a deep calming breath. “John and I haven't discussed it in detail yet, but I don't think our lives can accommodate as many children as my relatives tend to have. And I intend to keep working as long as possible.”
John gives her a smile, equal parts relief and pride. “Sounds just fine to me,” he says.
“Fair enough,” Sherlock concedes. “But I know you'll have at least two.”
“How do you figure?” Sarah asks. She's rather had her heart set on one, given she already has to look after Sherlock and John. Not that she'd going to say that aloud.
Sherlock grins at her. “Because one of them will be mine,” he replies.
“Oh, really-?” she starts.
“Hang on,” John interjects, “hang on, so am I to be raising this hypothetical child of yours as my own, or...?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock says irritably. “I am well aware of the dual requirements of both nature and nurture in a child's development, and as such, passing on my genetic traits alone will not ensure a proper legacy of my genius. So. I will assist in raising both children, assuming there will only be two.”
“...both children. Including, hypothetically, mine,” John says.
Sherlock grins again. “Of course. One ought to have a control.”
John looks at her. Sarah bites her lip, caught between hysterical laughter and outrage at their assumptions regarding the future use of her uterus.
“I'm going to kill him,” John informs her calmly, then stands to launch himself at Sherlock. He gets a towel in his face for his efforts and Sherlock retreats down the hall, John close on his heels.
“I'm going to kill them both,” Sarah says, giving in to the giggles.
There's a dreadful crash from the bedroom, and she sighs inwardly to go check on them.
***
One of the bookshelves has been upset. She stares down at the chaos of splayed covers and rumpled pages, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. She's so caught up in fighting the flood of panic rising like bile in her throat that she doesn't notice when John comes up behind her to catch her around the waist.
It's meant to be playful, an extension of whatever roughousing that they'd been indulging in before her arrival, but all she knows is blind terror. She lashes out, one elbow flying back to hit John's shoulder - his once-wounded shoulder, the one that can't bear weight for long with how the shattered bone had healed.
He drops her and stumbles back, and she's instantly filled with remorse at the low, pained sound that escapes him. “John!” she exclaims, turning and reaching out to where he's staggered back, his face clenched and pale. He waves her off.
“No, no, it's-” he takes a shuddering gulp of air. “I'm all right, just. Just give me a minute. I'll be all right,” he says over her tumble of apologies.
“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't. I thought...”
Sherlock's at their side, looking as if he wants to touch one or the both of them. He's... indecisive, and that's as shocking as anything else that's happened in the last minute. One of his hands falls to rest on John's, where John is clutching his aching shoulder.
“I'm the one that's sorry,” John grunts. “I didn't think, Sarah, I should have realised...”
“Shut it,” she responds fiercely, the adrenaline still beating in her veins. “You didn't know.”
When he looks up at her, he's blinking away tears of pain but his jaw is resolute. “I do,” he says. “Well, nearly. These things-” he huffs a brief, humourless laugh, “they have a habit of sneaking up on you, don't they?”
She gives him a sad, sympathetic smile. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Yeah, they do.” She cups her hand around John's neck and bumps their foreheads together. “I'm still sorry, though. Your shoulder going to be all right?”
“Yeah,” he says, rolling it under his palm. Sherlock's hand slips until their fingers tangle. “Yeah, I think so. We'll just have to be careful tonight.” She tips her head and kisses him, chaste and reassuring.
There's another hand threading through the hair at her nape, and she almost startles until she scolds herself, Sherlock. The touch is gentle, almost hesitant, as it cards through the strands. She pulls away from John and tips her head back until it rests on Sherlock's shoulder.
“We're all right,” she says to him - confirming the fact to John, to herself. She puts her other hand on Sherlock's chest, trying to soothe him with the gesture. Scar tissue drags against her palm. “We're all right, really.”
Sherlock opens his mouth, then shuts it without uttering a word.
They're all quiet for a long minute, clustered together against the wall. They're tangled up in each other, hands braced against each other's wounds, and not a one can find words that will speak more than simple touch.
“Wait,” Sarah says, something just occurring to her. “Wait. Sherlock, are you naked?”
Sure enough, when she pulls away, she confirms that his second towel has gotten lost in the chaos of the room. Somehow she's back to giggling again, relief and affection and mild exasperation blending together into effervescence. John joins in a moment later, when Sherlock glances down at himself, frowning.
“Honestly,” he says haughtily, lifting his chin. “Like children sometimes, the both of you. One would think you hadn't seen it before.” Sarah shakes her head, breathless, unable to keep a straight face. John loops his arm round Sherlock's neck and pulls him in for a kiss, smiling against his mouth.
***
The two of them have been dreadfully careful, since Sarah came home from the hospital. It's awful.
She understands, really she does. First she had to let her injuries heal, and the week following was... inconvenient in a way that had her scowling down at her abdomen, muttering about having lost enough blood that month already, thanks.
But this. Pressed between them on Sherlock's bed, John before her and Sherlock behind, Sarah feels caught in a way that ought be reassuring, their gentle hands and quiet murmurs of affection against her skin an entirely new kind of captivity. Bonds of caution and care, their strong twined limbs a yielding cage about her. It's not at all what she wants, but they seem to believe that this is what she needs.
Sherlock's hands skim the waistband of her jeans, his fingertips dipping below in a maddening tease, and she tears her mouth away from John's, suddenly and irrationally infuriated. “For god's sake,” she says irritably, and both men freeze. “You'd think I was made of glass.”
“What-?” John says. She leans up on her elbows in the narrow space between them, dislodging their embrace.
“I think,” she says, forcing her voice to an even tone, “I've proven that I'm not a china doll. And that I prefer not to be treated like one.” John's face sharpens at her words, the beloved creases of his face falling into illegible relief as he stares up at her. After a long moment, his eyes flicker past her and he nods at whatever he sees in Sherlock's gaze.
And then John pushes her back down against the bed, familiar hands pinning her in place and oh. It's never John, who's like this, insistent and fierce and greedy, working her jaw open with sharp teeth and slick tongue and a thumb slotted beneath her cheekbone. She's so delighted that she doesn't even notice when Shelock slips away.
She notices when he returns, though, because he pries her clutching hands from John's back and hair, binding her wrists together above her head. Sarah tips her head back to laugh at him when he threads the rope around the slats of the headboard. “Missed a step,” she points out, grinning as John's teeth skim her collarbone, “I'm still dressed.”
“Easily remedied,” John mutters against her skin, dragging her blouse open with little finesse. Sherlock simply smiles, looming above them both, and that's when she spots the blade, glinting in his hand.
“Oh, fuck,” she says, voice jumping an octave, and she can feel John's laughter ghosting across her skin.
***
Everything fragments after that, moments suspended in time, like reflections in a broken mirror. Sarah wants to polish each shard and set them somewhere safe in her mind.
The burn of the rope on her wrists as John swipes antiseptic across her back, leaving goosebumps in its wake. His quiet voice, asking, “All right?” while he tucks her hair behind her ear. She nods, breathing deep, and he settles next to her, the stocky warmth of his body a pleasant anchor against her side.
Sherlock, straddling her legs, tracing light patterns against her skin with the blade, almost ticklish but for her hyper-awareness of what would happen if she trembled. An almost imperceptible change of pressure against her shoulder, heat blooming in its wake, making her hiss through her teeth.
She feels like parchment paper, the pigments of agony and bliss creeping under her skin to blend into an ache that makes her want to writhe shamelessly. The second cut doesn't double the sensation, but squares it, and John's expression darkens into something like concern at the high whine that builds in the back of her throat.
But his gaze is too intent on whatever he sees over her shoulder and his breath is coming too fast for it to be only worry. She wants to give him a knowing smile, but then the blade comes down again.
She loses track of how many times Sherlock gently scores her skin. It can't be that many, but her sense of time gets forgotten in favour of the mindless drift of her perception. The cuts themselves become secondary, moments of intensity that simply seep into her bones, leaving her trembling against the mattress.
A sweep of pressure below her shoulder, not the knife but something wet and yielding, and John shifts beside her. “What-” he says in half-hearted protest.
“Oh, give me some credit, John,” Sherlock murmurs, his erection pressing against Sarah's thigh as he leans to the side.
She forces her eyes open in time to see their kiss break, a mirrored streak of red on their mouths. John looks as dazed as she feels, his tongue darting out to clear the blood away. “Fuck,” she says, against her upper arm, and John's startled eyes snap to meet hers.
“I-” he says, conflicted.
“Don't,” she says. “Don't. Just. Come here, John.” She lifts her face over the swell of her shoulder and when he kisses her, John tastes of copper and Sherlock and himself.
“Bandage,” he says when they break apart, his voice raw and hoarse. He looks back to Sherlock, intent and resolute. “You're done with... that. For now.”
“Yes,” Sherlock replies, his own voice subdued. “Yes, all right.”
Sarah's close to begging, but Sherlock twines his gloved hand into her hair, the latex catching the strands at the root, and he pulls her head up enough so that they can kiss. It's misaligned, off-center and sloppy, but it's enough to distract her while John puts his skills to use in patching her up efficiently. A cool swipe of a wet cloth, the ferocious sting of antiseptic, and the careful press of gauze and tape follow in quick order.
With one hand gripping Sarah's hip, Sherlock twists them both onto their sides, his teeth marking out a map on the back of her neck, John's mouth covering hers in turn. He rolls his hips against her thigh, and she hooks her knee over his leg, pulling him closer. “I don't,” he murmurs against her lips. “I don't know what-”
Sherlock presses his forehead between Sarah's shoulder blades, his hair tickling her skin. “John. Listen carefully,” he says, his breath hot on her spine, “because this is probably the only time I will ever say this: stop thinking. This instant. We can work out your inner turmoil during the post-coital endorphin rush.”
“Hah,” John says, as Sarah presses her pelvis forward against his erection, hot and hard and so close to where she wants it. “Ah, all right. Fuck.”
“Sometime soon, yes,” Sarah says agreeably. Sherlock's hand slips between them, curling around John's prick, his knuckle grazing her clit. He's still wearing his gloves, she thinks, and oh Jesus, that's possibly the hottest thing ever.
Sherlock strokes John slowly, once and then twice, then he shoves forward, tipping Sarah's legs wider and guiding them together. John groans as he slides in easily, all the way to the root, his eyelids flickering shut. Sarah leans her shoulders against Sherlock's chest, feeling the drag of the gauze against her wounds. She twists her wrists in their bonds so that she can brace against the headboard, opening up to take John deeper as he starts a slow rhythm.
“You're so slick, Sherlock murmurs in her ear, his gloved fingertips slippery between her folds. “I could just-” and then he slides a finger in, right next to John, curling up and pressing just there, the spot that makes Sarah tip her head back and pant blindly for air.
“Oh, christ,” John says, each of his thrusts rocking Sarah back against Sherlock, whose own breathing is getting a bit ragged as his erection drags against the cleft of her arse.
“You can,” she breathes out between hitching gasps, “Sherlock. If you. If you want, you can-”
“What-?” John says, as Sherlock pulls his hand from between them, disrupting the rhythm. “Oh. Oh, my god.” He stops suddenly, biting his lower lip as his dick twitches deep within Sarah, clearly attempting to restrain himself. “Is that even-?”
“Stop talking,” Sarah says, craning forward to kiss him. He cradles her face in his hands, groaning as she clenches around him and nips at his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth.
Sherlock rolls away abruptly, then returns, his still-gloved hand slick with lube. She hitches her leg higher round John's waist as Sherlock breaches her slowly, one finger then two, twisting and teasing. They've done this before, but not with this intent in mind.
“Ah,” John says, eyes clenched shut. “Oh, fuck, I can feel-”
“John,” Sherlock says, low and intense. “What the lady said. Shut up.” He scissors his fingers, adds a third, and Sarah pulls at her bonds just for the distracting burn of rope on her wrists.
Then he pulls away, dropping a cluster of kisses against her shoulder. She hears the snap of the glove being removed, and his naked hand falls on her breast, pinching and pulling at her nipple. That sharp, bright burst of pleasant pain mingles with the sensation of his cock slowly breaching her.
“Oh my god,” Sarah says, “oh my god.” She might have lost the rest of her vocabulary, repeating it breathlessly over and over. “John,” she says eventually. “Sherlock. Oh my god.”
John's hips roll, an absent glide of friction that sets her trembling. “I don't think I can-” he mutters.
“I'll drive,” Sherlock says, hand on Sarah's hip again as he suits action to words.
And yes, fuck, his thrust sends her forward onto John, the dual pressure of them inside her setting her nerves alight. John groans, eyes wide and shocked, and she can't even begin to imagine what he's feeling.
Sherlock sets a careful pace. None of them can find purchase for anything swift or rough, but the slow tidal sway of their bodies is more than enough, after everything else, to drive Sarah inexorably towards the edge. Her shoulder aches beneath the bandage, John's breath is hot on her neck, Sherlock's hand is bruising her hip, and her wrists sting from the friction of the rope.
“Come on,” Sherlock murmurs, “come on, yes,” and she doesn't know if he's talking to her or to John, but it doesn't matter, because his hips are moving faster and John's hand has fallen to curl loosely at the base of her neck and just the thought of him closing it over her throat has her crying out. She's bruising and bleeding and trussed up and trapped between them, and she comes so hard she sees stars from the force of it. Her body clenches tight around them - both of them, and the thought sends her spiralling impossibly higher - until first Sherlock and then John follow her over, the former with a shout he muffles against her hair and the latter with a drawn-out stuttering groan that she swallows with a kiss.
Sherlock's body trembles against her spine, his hand convulsively clutching and releasing her hip. After a minute, John rolls away as far as their entangled limbs will allow, his arm sprawling across the mattress to hang over the edge.
“We can't do that ever again,” John mutters. “Not ever. It'd kill me, trying it twice in one lifetime.”
“Worth it,” Sarah says, wincing as Sherlock pulls out only to slump at her side, boneless as a cat. “Well. Only if we all went together, which does seem to be the ideal.”
“Can you imagine the scene,” Sherlock says dreamily. “Mrs. Hudson calling the police, everyone showing up, sure we've been murdered. And then the look on their faces when they realise...”
“Ugh, god, why do we let you talk?” John asks, sitting up with a frown and a wince. “You're cracked, you are. We should make gagging you standard procedure in the bedroom.”
“That's fine,” Sherlock says, undulating in a languorous stretch that makes several of his joints pop audibly. “But you do so like having access to my mouth that I think it's counter-productive.”
John drops his head to his hands and grinds his palms into his eyes. “I don't even-”
“Gents,” Sarah says. “Not that the show isn't entertaining, but mightn't I be a better audience if one of you, oh, untied me?”
“Shit,” John says, scrambling to do so. “I'm sorry, love-”
“No worries,” she says, laughing and rolling her shoulder in a shrug. “I'd do it myself, but I'm a bit uncoordinated at the moment.”
***
Sarah has to wear long-sleeved blouses to work for the next week. John spots the marks on her wrists one morning as she dresses and apologises again, his hand gently cupping the fresh bandage on her back.
“It's all right,” she says, kissing him. “Really, it is.” She tips her forehead forward to rest against his, sighing. “John. I don't. I'm not sure how to explain it, but I. I'd rather.” She takes another deep breath. “I feel safer having you and Sherlock tie me down, mark me, anything - than I did in the copy of 221b without seeing a single soul for days on end...
“I'm... I'm going to marry a man who owns an unlicensed firearm and has PTSD nightmares that go away when he spends an evening getting shot at by street thugs. We're also likely to share our lives with a man who thinks nothing of keeping bovine placentas in the fridge and looks forward to puzzling murder sprees.” John laughs and she shares his smile. “I think. I think it's safe to say that nothing about us is ordinary, John. And frankly, if I have rope burns every now and then, I'll count myself lucky every time they're from you and not one of the suspects in your cases, all right?”
John tucks her closer against his chest, and props his chin on her shoulder. “...yeah. Yeah, all right. Just. Let me know if you don't...”
Sarah grips his shoulders, revelling as always in his sturdy strength. “Oh, sweetheart. Have I ever failed to put my foot down with either of you, when I felt it was necessary?”
John lets out a short bark of laughter. “No, I don't suppose you have.” He pulls back just enough to give her a quick kiss that turns out a little longer than it ought to. She catches the time and disentangles herself reluctantly. They're already late, but for once she doesn't mind.
***
Sherlock lets himself in to Sarah's apartment one afternoon, despite never having been given a key. Sarah looks up at him from her fortress of bridal planning magazines and brochures - sometimes she jokes that figuring out seating arrangements is as arduous as anything else she's had to manage since she first started dating John - in time to watch him fall into her armchair with an exaggerated flourish.
“Hello,” she greets amiably. “No case today?”
“I wouldn't know,” he replies dourly. “Even if I had one, I wouldn't be able to think, with all the noise in the place.”
“Funny,” she says, smiling, dog-earing a page depicting a promising centrepiece, “you're usually the one causing a ruckus. What's John doing, cleaning?” She says the last teasingly.
Sherlock gives her an arch look. “You can't tell? No, no, of course not. I have a dozen irritating and blatant signs of the recent disruption to 221 Baker Street, but far be it for you to observe them and reach the obvious conclusion.”
Sarah wrinkles her nose at him and returns to the magazine. “If you're going to be like that...” she says absently.
Sherlock abruptly swings upright and strides over to her. “Fine,” he says. “Observe the chalky residue of plaster dust on my shoulders and the cuffs of my trousers. There are carpet fibres that do not match anything in 221b caught on the soles of my shoes. There are flecks of paint in my hair.” Which is, apparently, the most grievous affront to his person one could devise.
Sarah looks up at him expectantly until he finally bursts out, “Mrs. Hudson is redecorating 221c! And she asked me to help, for whatever reason! Insufferable harpy! As if I have any interest in her new lodger or their theoretical taste!” He collapses onto the couch at Sarah's side, toppling her stack of sample invitations to the floor.
Sarah cards her fingers through his hair, picking out bits of paint as she goes. “So I was right,” she concludes, “when I deduced that you haven't any cases to work on.” Mrs. Hudson knows better than to interrupt him in the middle of his work.
Sherlock sulks, and Sarah fights the grin that threatens to break out over her expression. She'll have to keep him out of the bedroom, or else he'll spot the cardboard boxes, and there's her surprise gone.
***
John takes to wedding planning surprisingly well. “Soldier,” he points out when she looks surprised. “Might be a bit rusty, but if I could command a team of field medics under fire, I think I can handle caterers and groomsmen.”
She laughs and pulls over her notebook. “We'll just see about that,” she says.
Sherlock refuses to be best man, not even looking up from his laptop as he says no.
“I'm sorry?” John asks, blinking rapidly. “No? Why not?”
“Several reasons, the least of which is that I don't want to organise a 'stag do.' Nor do I wish to give a toast at the reception. I'm fairly certain that none of your families wish to hear my genuine thoughts on your blissful union.” He gives a sharp-edged grin with a hint of teeth that promises terrible, terrible things, and John's shoulders slump in surrender. “Besides, it should be Harry.”
Sarah blinks. He's right, of course, but.
“Hell, it's not as if anything else about this will be strictly traditional,” John admits with a rueful laugh. “Still. I was hoping to put on a good show of it.”
“Harry would throw a hell of a party,” Sarah points out.
“Groomsman, then?” John asks Sherlock.
“No,” Sherlock says shrugging it off, “I've a better idea.” He doesn't actually tell them, engrossed as he is in editing an article on Wikipedia about... it looks like beekeeping, of all things.
***
Time passes more quickly than expected, their days packed full with fittings and tastings and arguments about music crammed in around their work hours and Sherlock's erratic schedule. It's easier once the renovations on 221c are done and Sherlock stops living on her couch. Sarah doesn't get much sleep, though, secretly packing up her flat in what few evenings she has to herself.
There are a few near-misses, like the time John found a packing peanut clinging to her sweater “Just putting some things in storage,” she'd told him, “making room for the wedding presents.” Or the time Sherlock had run into her bringing in a box. “Helping Mrs. Hudson with a collection for her church,” she'd said, but he'd been too caught up in his current case to give her more than a distracted smile on his way out.
Oh, but it will be worth it, to see the looks on their faces, she thinks to herself when exhaustion drags at her heels.
Unbeknownst to her, there are three other people in London thinking the same thing.
The first two are Sherlock and John, each planning their own wedding-related surprise. The third, however, isn't even on the guest list, though he plans to attend regardless.
***
John counts it as a minor blessing that Sherlock pulls him - and Lestrade - away from his stag do halfway through the evening. “I've a line on Moran,” Sherlock says, a store mannequin under his arm for some reason, “and it's absolutely vital that you - is your sister making out with that ecdysiast?”
John has no idea what that means, and turns to look, immediately regretting it. “Yes. Yes, she is,” he says, wincing and turning back to face Sherlock. “Let's go.”
Lestrade takes a moment to stare forlornly over his shoulder at the party before following them with a heavy sigh.
***
The less said about Sarah's hen night, the better. She can't remember much of it the next morning, but she thinks that she'd won the impromptu game of 'Never Have I Ever' - the details of which she fervently hopes are as foggy for everyone else as they are for her - and she's also fairly certain that she'd left a filthy voicemail on Sherlock's phone. Or John's. Possibly both.
Her mobile rings shrilly, and she throws a pillow at it, deciding to take the day off. From everything.
It's only when she realises that Sherlock or John will come in person if she doesn't answer her phone that she grudgingly picks up.
“Amused,” Sherlock's drawl greets her.
“I'm sorry, what?” she groans in response, throwing an arm over her face.
“Ah. Of course. I suspected from your slurred consonants that you were inebriated enough that you might not remember leaving that message.”
She can't help but laugh, and immediately regrets it. “Ha, ow, yes, I remember leaving it. I just don't remember what I said...”
The low chuckle that rumbles over the line makes her blush hotly. “You asked how I'll feel in two weeks, when I'll be fucking a married woman.”
“Of course I did,” she mutters, dragging her hand down her face. “Hence 'amused,' got it now. I need paracetamol and a gallon of coffee for this conversation.” With effort, she suits action to words, dragging a robe over her pyjamas on her way to the kitchen.
“If it's any consolation, you left the same message for John,” Sherlock replies, chuckling again.
“And how was the stag do?” Sarah asks, hoping desperately for a change in subject as she downs three tablets with a glass of water.
“Harry scandalised John, and we left to set up a false assassination opportunity so that we could capture Colonel Sylvia Moran. The ruse was successful, but Moran escaped.” His voice goes flat, in the curious way it does when he's truly upset. “Then I received your message. It was....cheering.”
“Well, glad to have been able to help. Was there anything else you wanted, besides mocking me for ill-advised phone calls?”
“Breakfast?”
Her stomach lurches at the thought of food, but she knows Sherlock's habits. If Moran's gone, that's a case over, and he'll never be more willing to eat a proper meal this week, even if she can't. “...Yeah, all right. Be there in half an hour.”
***
They go out to a small café whose servers haven't all been completely alienated (yet) by Sherlock's demeanour. Sarah orders the largest espresso on the menu and picks at a croissant, while Sherlock tucks into his usual expansive post-case repast and tells her about Moran between fastidious forkfuls of egg and sausages.
“...and why, exactly, did you let this menace loose when you had her?” Sarah asks when he stops elaborating on his brilliance.
Sherlock looks at her as if she's missed every point he's ever made since the first day they met. “Because I'd rather have her loose and you free of Moriarty than vice versa,” he explains.
Sarah furrows her brow. “So you let two criminals free, one of them a rival genius and the other a highly trained military sniper... just to get me back?”
“Obviously,” he drawls, crumpling his napkin into a tight ball and dropping it atop his plate.
Sarah feels a smile creep across her face. “I love you too, you great idiot. Now let's get back home, John will be up by now. I want to surprise him with breakfast in bed, since he didn't get a proper party last night.”
***
Sarah picked out her dress alone to avoid the chaos of the entire female population of her family tagging along, but concedes to bringing her mother to the final fitting. “What do you think?” she asks, feeling self conscious, an imposter in a dress in which she doesn't belong, and yet still somehow transformed.
“Oh,” her mother says, eyes misting over. “Oh, you're lovely. Give me a spin.” Sarah does, picking up the slight train, the lace heavy with beadwork. “Wait. When did you get those tattoos?”
“Hell,” Sarah mutters under her breath, twisting round to see it in the mirror. The back panel is sheer with embroidered embellishments, and cuts low enough to show the top curls of her ink. “Um. Oh, to hell with it, I like this dress. Uncle Victor can be as scandalised as he likes.”
Her mother suppresses a smile, but for the merriment in her eyes. “We'll just put some foundation down on those top bits, and he won't suspect a thing.”
***
John answers the phone with a groggy and disgruntled “Morning?”
“Morning!” Sarah answers brightly. “You still in the city, or have you run off on me?” She steps into her flats and slings a bag over her shoulder, switching the phone to her other ear as she grabs a small wheeled overnight bag.
“What? Why would I-?” She hears rustling, then a muffled curse. “Shit. Sherlock, we're late!”
“What do you mean, late?” Sherlock's voice is faint on the line, and she laughs.
“Come on,” she says. “I know you don't have as full a day planned, but I was hoping you'd be there for the main event.”
“We're getting married today!” John says, exultant and exasperated with Sherlock simultaneously.
“You might be, but I'm not,” Sherlock grumbles.
“Yes we are,” Sarah replies to John. “I'm just off to the hairdresser's, but I wanted to call and tell you that I love you before we have to say it - at long and boring length - in front of several hundred people.”
“I love you too,” John says, breathless. “And if you get a chance, could you ask Uncle Victor to not glare at me as he walks you down the aisle?”
“I'll do what I can,” she says, hearing her phone beep at her. “Whoops, that's mum calling, wondering where I am. See you later! Love you both!” She switches over and looks around her near-empty flat as her mother rattles on anxiously.
By the end of the night, Sarah thinks to herself, The movers will be done and all my things will be at Baker Street. And I'll be married. It's surreal, like a very complicated prank that she and John are pulling over on everyone, including themselves.
“Yes, mum,” she says into the phone, giving herself over to the insanity of her own life once again. “Yes, I know. I'm on my way. I can't talk, I'm getting into the car. I'll be there quick as I can...”
***
Everything goes off without a hitch. Or if there are any hitches, no one lets her know, which is one of the very good reasons to choose one's bridesmaids with care. There's a brief scuffle over who gets to stand where in the preliminary photographs, but Sarah's mother swats her nieces on the shoulders with her clutch and they quiet down.
The worst thing about the whole ordeal is the waiting. Sarah wants to fidget, but she can't touch her hair or her makeup or her nails or her dress or her bouquet, for fear of unravelling the whole façade with an errant pluck at a pin or loose thread. “You look beautiful,” everyone assures her, but all she sees in the mirror is a slightly enhanced version of her face, superimposed on an image she's built in her mind over months of planning. She doesn't know if what she sees is real, or if it's just pent-up wishful thinking distorting her perception.
Her mother hands around a flask with a knowing smile. “Doesn't seem that long ago that your father and I...” she comments, trailing off as Sarah takes a healthy nip. “I wish. Well. It all turned out for the best in the end,” she says, taking it back and blinking away tears. “And he's looking down on us right now, as proud as can be, I'm sure of it.”
Finally the event coordinator of the hall beckons them all into place, and Sarah beams up at her uncle as she takes his arm, her chest full to bursting with anticipation and terror. They follow the bridesmaids, who link up with their assigned groomsmen (oh, how they'd all been disappointed that Sherlock wasn't in the bridal party) and walk with self-conscious dignity around the corner.
Then Sarah and Victor are the only ones left, and she takes a deep breath before stepping forward to the doorway. There's a pause, the rustle of everyone getting to their feet, then the high, sweet strains of a violin, leading the small orchestra.
Oh, she thinks, blinking back tears lest she ruin her makeup. Oh, Sherlock, you insufferable prat. Then she spots John at the end of the aisle, proud and handsome in his dress uniform. His face looks as though it's about to split wide open from the smile on his face, and that's all she can see for the rest of the ceremony.
***
They turn together to face their assembled families and friends as the officiant declares them, “Mr. and Mrs. Watson,” and the whole crowd cheers. And back against the far wall stand both Holmes brothers, applauding with the rest. They seem to be competing to see which of them can look the most archly amused while ignoring each other's presence.
Sarah almost trips on the hem of her gown when she realises what she's just seen. “John?” she asks quietly, pulling him close by their linked elbows.
“I see him,” John mutters through his teeth, though his smile doesn't falter.
Sarah can't be bothered to get upset at Mycroft's little stunt. It's her wedding day, dammit, and if that means she has to ask Anthea that her wedding present involve stuffing her boss in the boot of a car, by god, she'll do it.
***
They duck into a small side room provided for the purpose to wait for the reception to start. John crowds her against the wall and kisses her senseless. “Wife!” he exclaims exultantly when they break apart, and she laughs so hard that she has to hold onto his shoulders to stand.
“Huh-husband,” she retorts between giggles, tasting the word on her mouth as if it's brand new. “My husband.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees, kissing her again.
“Am I going to have to listen to that for the next several months?” Sherlock comments from the doorway.
“Sherlock,” Sarah teases, “You almost sound jealous.” John steps out so that he can pull Sherlock in beside them.
Sherlock sniffs, looking disdainful. “I've already given my opinion on this archaic waste of time and money.”
“Shut it,” John said. “If you really believed that, you wouldn't have come, let alone played for us.”
Sarah tugs on Sherlock's tie playfully. “Nor rented this suit. Can I just say, I feel as if I've unfairly stolen the affection of the two most handsome men at my own wedding? Or is that within my rights?”
“I've never really given much credence to unwritten social convention,” Sherlock replies.
“Thank god for that,” John says, pulling Sherlock down for a kiss. “Oh, that reminds me.” He retrieves his hands - one from Sarah's bum and the other from Sherlock's hair - and starts searching his pockets. “Ah, there it is.”
He pulls out a ring. Sarah blinks. It's an almost-perfect match to the one she'd just (was it only minutes ago?) slipped onto John's finger.
“...I know your feelings on this kind of thing,” John's stammering, “but I just thought, ah. You're probably not going anywhere, are you? And it would be nice if. Um. Consider it a gesture-”
“Oh, do stop that,” Sherlock says, plucking the ring from John's hand and slipping it easily on his left hand. “It's mortifying. 'Probably not going anywhere.' Sometimes I wonder about you, really I do.” He curls his hand around John's neck and pulls him in close for another kiss, deep and filthy and quick. His other arm comes to rest on Sarah's waist and he treats her to the same. “Now, if that's settled, I think we have a reception to attend. And I have a socially-obligated threat to deliver to Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He steps towards the doorway, opening it a bit to peer into the hallway.
“...wait, what?” Sarah asks, still trying to process the events of the last minute and failing, what with everything else happening.
Sherlock's eyes crinkle in a devilish grin. “Isn't that the thing one does to a sibling's paramour?” He's out the door before either of the newlyweds can formulate a response.
John leans his forehead against Sarah's shoulder, his body trembling with suppressed laughter. “One of these days,” he says shakily, “we are going to learn to not ask.”
***
There are photographs to pose for, and a really fine meal to eat, and endless toasts to endure, and any number of rituals in between. And then there is dancing. John, it turns out, is a good dancer. He's not brilliant, but he can find a rhythm and he doesn't step on Sarah's toes. He's also willing to make a fool of himself to make Sarah laugh, which makes up for any amount of extravagant skill.
After a few songs, Sarah begs off for some refreshment, and they collapse into the nearest seats with champagne.
Harry appears at John's side, looking absolutely furious. “You invited Clara?” she hisses, darting a glance over her shoulder.
“Of course I did,” John says agreeably, taking a sip from his flute. “She's my friend.”
“Your friend?” Harry repeats incredulously, tugging uncomfortably at her tie and looking enviously at their champagne.
“Yes,” John says, still doggedly unruffled. “After all, she was my friend first.”
“She was only friends with you to get close to me,” Harry spits.
John smirks at her. “For a year? Pull the other one, Harriet.”
Sarah finishes her drink and leans forward, elbows on knees, the beading digging into her crossed forearms. “Harry. As of two hours ago, we're family, so I feel I can say this. If you cause a scene at my wedding, I will have a small number of my large, rugby-playing cousins toss you into the reflecting pool out front. So. Either you man up, as the saying goes, sober up, and ask that woman to dance, or you can shut it and sulk in a corner. Either way, we'll be on the dance floor.” Sarah stands up, ignoring Harry's gobsmacked expression, and drags John along by the arm.
“I can't believe you just said that,” John says, grinning. “You're brilliant.”
“Shh, which one is Clara again?” Sarah asks, peering over his shoulder
“The ginger in the green dress, over by the chocolate fountain.”
“That's what I thought. Harry's going up to her now.” They pivot so that they can both watch. The two make a striking couple, Sarah has to admit, especially with Harry in the same tuxedo the other groomsmen are wearing. “Ooh, what a shame,” Sarah says after a moment, wincing.
John scoffs. “That's nothing. I'm willing to bet they'll get caught snogging in the coat room by the end of the evening.”
Sarah laughs, and he steps back to give her a spin. “Look,” she says, when he pulls her close again. “Over there.” She inclines her head, and John's gaze follows the gesture to see Mycroft bending in a courtly bow, one hand outstretched to a reluctant Lestrade. Seated beside him, Anthea shoves Lestrade forward, a giggling Molly perched on her lap.
And somehow, Sally Donovan convinces Sherlock to dance with her.
“She promised to stop calling me 'freak' for two weeks,” he informs them later, adding dryly, “With the offer of such an immense sacrifice on her part, how could I refuse?”
***
They tumble into the limo, shrieking with laughter and covered in confetti. They are also very, very drunk. Sarah crawls into John's lap as soon as the door closes.
“Wait, hold on,” he says when she lets him up for air. “Where to next? Your place is closer...”
“No, it's not,” she says, trying to hitch up the hem of her dress so that she can sit astride his lap. She's been dodging this question for weeks, usually shrugging him off with 'we'll figure something out,' or 'that's not really as important as figuring out where to seat your cousin - is he bringing a guest?' This was the only detail she'd really omitted telling him.
John clenches his eyes shut as she shifts atop him, trying to focus his attention on the conversation at hand. “I know we're not leaving until tomorrow, but can we not spend our wedding night at 221b?”
“Absolutely,” she agrees, bending to kiss him again before twisting round to knock on the partition. “221 Baker Street,” she informs the driver, who nods and puts the screen back up.
“What-?” John asks. “I just said... oh, never mind.” He gives up, with her hands busy at his trousers. She gives up trying to disentangle herself from the heavy train, and slides to her knees on the floor between his legs.
He's understandably distracted for the rest of their trip.
***
When they get to the door, he insists on picking her up and carrying over the threshhold, while she giggles and shrieks at him, glad that Mrs. Hudson is still at the reception, flirting with one of Sarah's uncles. He lets her down, and Sarah gets the key from her little beaded purse, ignoring John's bewildered protests as she bypasses the stairs.
“Come on,” she says, swinging the door wide and going down the stairs. John follows after a minute, fumbling in the dark. At the bottom, she flips the light switch and watches his face break open in understanding as he sees the stacks of boxes and the jumble of familiar furniture.
“...Sarah,” he breathes, staring around. “How did you do all this?”
“Very carefully,” she says, laughing, stepping out of her shoes. “It was difficult to keep it a secret, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“...does Sherlock know?”
“You know what?” she says, slinging her arms around her husband's - her husband! it still seems surreal - neck and kissing him. “He very well could. But I don't care.”
“Want to give me a tour?” John asks, nuzzling up under her ear.
“Absolutely,” she says. “But the only room I've got set up right now is the bedroom...” She's been sleeping on her couch for a week, but it will be worth it.
“That's a shame,” he says, teeth grazing her neck. Somehow, they stumble in the right direction, hands scrabbling at buttons and zips. John tumbles her to the bed, his fingers woven through the mass of hair curled and pinned and sprayed in place. “...is the bed bigger?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Mmmhmm,” she says, pushing his crimson waistcoat off his shoulders. “And I soundproofed. You know, just in case.”
He nips and kisses a line down her jaw and neck, peeling the dress away as he goes. “We'll have to test that, won't we?” he murmurs against the swell of one breast. “Mrs. Watson.” She rolls her head back, laughter bubbling up in her chest.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” she replies, and then he sets about rendering her speechless.
***
Sarah wakes at around dawn when Sherlock slips into the bed behind her. “Morning,” she says, drowsy and content, accepting the brief peck he gives in greeting. “Did you just get in?”
“Mm,” he says in confirmation, pulling the blanket up over their shoulders. “Trina lifted my wallet while we were dancing. I had to chase her back to her flat and break in to retrieve it.”
Sarah covers her face with her palm. “You didn't.”
“Of course I did,” he says. “And then I had to figure out where you and John had gone. Well done, by the way. I like what you've done with the place.”
“I thought you might,” she replies, snuggling back against his embrace, their hands entwining atop the still-slumbering John's waist.
Their rings click against one another, and she falls asleep smiling.
- END -
* Further Notes: Thanks to *every single one of you* who've been ever so kind as I've been posting this, for your patience and your really really astonishingly nice comments. I am deeply flattered by the responses I've gotten to this series, and without your encouragement, this would probably have remained a porny one-shot on the kinkmeme or a languishing WiP in my archives. Really, you're all *awesome,* thank you.
With this coda, the series is done. It may sound insufferably self-important, but I hereby release it into the wild. Should anyone wish to do a remix, podfic, or any derivative work in this 'verse, I welcome it with open arms provided I get a link back - in fact, should anyone wish to write the Mycroft/Lestrade hinted at in this installment, I would be effing *ecstatic.*
The title to this installment is taken from the song of the same name, by the band Elbow (as is the cut-text), and picking it for this fic is unbelievably self-indulgent, because it was the song to which my husband & I danced our first dance at our wedding. But the lyrics are here if you're interested, and if you squint, it totally applies. Holy cow, we love Cumberbatch's eyes, indeed. ^_^
I may have written an additional 'honeymoon smutlet' on April Fool's Day, rather unexpectedly, titled Wish You Were Here.
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