Fic: The Way to a Man's Heart (7-8/8)
May. 29th, 2016 09:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargThis fic is also available on AO3
Chapters 1-3 on LJ
Chapters 4-6 on LJ
Sherlock didn't lose the rings. No one stumbled over their lines. Victor delivered a decent enough homily, nothing objectionable. It didn't rain on the way over to the pub for the reception. And Sherlock's speech was well received, drivel or not. Scattered laughter, no tears. Nods and smiles. Although Sherlock didn't escape a hug from Greg at the end. Not as close as John at his wedding, more of a side-armed hug-slash-clap-on-the-back combination. John beaming and looking proud. Well, he had more or less written the thing.
Sherlock was seated next to Greg at the front table with the rest of the wedding party, but aside from thanking him for the speech, Greg hadn't exchanged a word with him, having eyes only for Molly. And hands. Before they'd sat down, they'd both kept their arms wrapped around each other's waists or shoulders as if glued there. And once at the table, they'd either held hands or else Greg had kept his arm over the back of Molly's seat, his fingers constantly wandering up to touch her neck or shoulder. This would invariably cause Molly to squirm and shoot Greg a heated look or lean over to whisper something that would make him clear his throat and nip a quick kiss or two or three to her jaw. At one point, Sherlock became so annoyed he suggested they slip off to the loo to get it over with.
"Anticipation's half the fun, old man," Greg said knowingly, squeezing Molly's hand against his thigh under the table.
"Anticipation of what?" Sherlock scowled. "You've been having sex for eighteen months already. If you count that tryst in the morgue during the case with all the dismembered nuns, even though it only involved --"
Sherlock stopped short and looked around as he realised a lull in the room's conversation had coincided exactly with his statement. Looks of shock, surprise, amusement, and disgust, along with a solitary wolf whistle from the third table. John grinned and took a sip of his champagne.
Greg bent his head forward to rest his forehead on his hand.
Molly leaned forward to speak around him to Sherlock. "It was in my office," she said firmly. Then a little louder, defensively, to the room at large: "It was in my office!"
"Not making it any better, Molly," Greg muttered.
"What was that about the nuns," Sherlock heard Daisy hiss to John from their table as conversations resumed.
Sherlock sighed and returned to his stuffed mini peppers. He hoped John had been able to get the recipe. They were quite good.
It was insufferable that he'd been stuck up at the front table with the rest of the wedding party for the entirety of the dinner service, including dessert, while John sat at one of the other tables with a bunch of strangers. It was a small wedding, only about thirty guests, but Sherlock hardly knew anyone, aside from Molly's mother and sister and the five other men who had been at the stag night. Greg's father was frail, so he and Mrs Lestrade had only stayed for the tea. Sherlock had assumed the duty of driving them back to the train station, which meant he hadn't even been able to mingle with John during the break between tea and dinner.
Sherlock had lost track of how many glasses of champagne John had had. At least five. Spread out through the afternoon and evening, to be sure, but still. Plus the whisky. Sherlock had seen him on two separate occasions with a fresh tumbler in front of him. There might well have been more. John had been quite good at hiding his alcohol intake from Sherlock on his stag night. Both of them had been good at hiding things from each other.
Finally, the wedding cake. A frothy, over-the-top, multi-tiered confection in white and silver. Sherlock couldn't help comparing it to John's. John and Mary's. He realised he never thought of it as John and Mary's wedding, only as John's. But without Mary, there would have been no wedding. None of the rest, either. Maybe not even this. Would John have settled into this thing with Sherlock, whatever it was, if it hadn't been for her? Would he have met someone else? Found happiness with her? Impossible to say. Unproductive to speculate. It didn't matter. John was back home now, after a long and arduous detour.
John kept glancing at the front table, glancing at Sherlock. A nod now and then, a quick smile. Checking that Sherlock wasn't going to blurt out any more sex-in-the-morgue stories (and he did have several). Or maybe remembering. Was he also comparing everything to his (and Mary's) wedding? The cake, the wines, the colour scheme, the weather, the music. There was a three-piece local band -- friends of Jeremy's -- getting set up for the dancing to follow. Keyboard, guitar, and bass, with the keyboardist and guitar player collaborating on the vocals.
Sherlock was required to dance the first dance with Posy, but as soon as he let go of her, he looked around for John. He found him just releasing Daisy to Greg, trading for Molly in turn for the next song. Sherlock pursed his lips. Did John actually mean to dance with everyone there, now that Sherlock was finally free to spend the rest of the evening with him? He grabbed the next woman who passed by him -- a matronly woman in a purple trouser suit who belonged to Greg somehow -- and aggressively led her through a rather sloppy waltz as he tried to catch John's eye. John, however, aside from a friendly nod and wave, kept his attention on the bride, apparently engrossed in a quite serious conversation. Sherlock moved closer in an attempt to hear what they were talking about, but the music was too loud.
Posy claimed John for the next dance, and Sherlock resigned himself to making the best of a bad situation by sitting out that dance to observe everyone and find the most accomplished of the female dancers. That turned out to be a tall woman from the Subcontinent who, Sherlock discovered in the course of the small talk that arose as they moved around the cramped space that had been cleared for dancing, had been Molly's best friend during medical school. She was now a senior researcher at a pharmaceutical company, and moved with an easy grace that was often the exception rather than the rule amongst tall women.
They ended up sharing two dances, and by the time Sherlock returned her to her husband, John was back at his otherwise empty table with yet another drink in front of him.
Sherlock dropped into the chair next to him.
"Who was that you were dancing with?" John asked, not quite meeting Sherlock's eye.
Sherlock reached for one of the bottles of water that stood on all of the tables. "Old school friend of Molly's. Neela something or other." He cracked open the bottle and drank straight from it.
"The two of you looked good together." Anyone else would have heard only the compliment, but Sherlock caught the faint bitterness in the undertone.
He looked at John in consternation. He couldn't possibly be jealous. Not with the declarations that had been made. Or rather, Sherlock realised with a start, that hadn't been made. All of the discussions, admissions, and decisions had only taken place in Sherlock's head. For John, they were still at the point of his frustrated outburst in their kitchen. But that had been over a week ago!
Something loosened inside Sherlock. John. His Something. "She's married," he said gently. He nodded at the dance floor, where his erstwhile dancing partner had her arms wrapped around the neck of a dashing, square-jawed, broad-shouldered man, gazing at him with stars in her eyes.
John harrumphed. Then burped. Frowned and looked down at his drink, turning the tumbler slowly around. It was more than half empty. Only a couple of millimetres left. How many was that? Three? Four? More? Enough was enough.
Sherlock took a deep breath. Straightened his back. Stood up, pulling his waistcoat down and smoothing his jacket. John continued to brood over his drink.
"John," Sherlock began. John grunted, lifted his head, his eyes slightly glazed. "John, may I have the honour of the next dance?" He held out his hand, palm up, in invitation.
John looked up at Sherlock blankly. "What?"
"I'd like to dance with you, John."
John snorted. "You want to dance with me."
"Very much."
"Not sure how that would go over," John said, looking around the room at the other guests. Couples. All men with women and vice versa. Although the unaccompanied blonde with the nose ring (another of Molly's cousins?) was a lesbian and the keyboardist and bassist were definitely together. Sherlock also got strong bisexual indications from Robby, Greg's rugby playing friend who had been at the stag night, but he was here with his girlfriend.
"It will go over excellently," Sherlock said crisply, "as I am the best dancer here and I will make even you, in your inebriated state, look like Fred Astaire."
John brightened. "Or Ginger Rogers."
"Let's not overreach."
John chuckled. Giggled. Shook his head in amusement. Didn't move to take Sherlock's hand.
"John. I would like to have one dance with my partner. Please." There. He'd said it. Unmistakable. His heart chose that moment to lodge itself in his throat. He hadn't expected the admission to have such a strong effect on him. He swallowed, forced himself to keep breathing, and offered his hand again.
John stopped laughing. Shook his head a bit, as if clearing it. "Sorry, with your?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, still holding out his hand. Hoping this was the moment. That he hadn't got it wrong again.
John searched Sherlock's face, his own doing something complicated: scepticism, wonder; tenderness, maybe. Finally, it shifted into realisation. Softening. "All right. Yeah, all right," he said quietly.
John stood up. Sherlock resisted the urge to reach out and steady him. They moved out into the dancing area, Sherlock in front, John behind, not looking at each other.
John was self-conscious, Sherlock too careful. They barely touched, their fingers hovering lightly on their points of contact: Sherlock's shoulder, John's back, their palms. A chasm between them. John's shoulders were rigid, his legs wooden. Sherlock himself felt the tension in his neck, the stricture on him not to invade John's space. They'd danced like this before, of course, preparing for John's wedding. (John and Mary's.) That had been safe. Mostly. No witnesses. Covered by the veneer of John's engagement, of his commitment to someone else. This was like stepping out onto an unsecured scaffold. One false step, an inadvertent bump, even a slight breeze, would send one or the other of them skittering back to safety. Or plummeting to the ground. It's not the fall that kills you. It's the landing. Sherlock kicked the drawer shut. It was just the two of them now. As it should be. John had said yes.
They moved stiffly, John staring at his feet, willfully shutting out any outside eyes that might be on them. Sherlock was aware of them -- curious, startled; indulgent, pleased -- but kept his focus on John. On moving them safely around the other dancers, on keeping his motions smooth and confident. Sherlock ached for this to be something they could enjoy, moving freely and easily together, sharing the sensation of their bodies shifting in harmony, not a trial to be gotten through to prove a point. Doors were opening.
The song ended. Light applause. Sherlock started to release John but John didn't let him, grasping his hand more firmly. He lifted his head, for the first time since they'd stepped onto the dance floor. Determination in his eyes. Understanding. Gratitude. Something deeper.
"My turn now," he said. "Dance with me?"
Sherlock's heart swelled again. John. What he wouldn't do for this man. They switched their arms so that John was in the lead position. This time, John's grip on Sherlock's hand was tight and warm, his hand on Sherlock's back a solid, reliable presence. John nudged Sherlock closer until their chests almost touched. He kept his eyes on Sherlock's as the song began, as he steered them through the proscribed steps. Eyes to get lost in. Their eyes had met before, of course, countless times. Countless moments of something deeper, something rising up and threatening to inundate them, to sweep them with it. But they'd always looked away, stemmed the rising tide, fled before the storm. This time they allowed it, let it happen, let the current flow between them, accepted and welcomed it. Lost. And found.
"Shit dance instructor you are. I was looking at my feet the whole time. Eyes on your partner," John said, his voice both gruff and warm.
Sherlock's face bloomed into a smile. "Always." Always. His partner.
Anticipation. Sherlock forgot entirely about the rest of the guests. Forgot about why they were here. He did remember why he'd wanted to do this, though, as with every step, every glide, every breath, his and John's bodies fell ever more into alignment, into sync, the same rhythm, the same beat, blood and heat thrumming through their veins, pulses pounding, not just from the exertion. The single point where their skin touched between their hands insufficient. The single line of communication between their gazes overflowing.
By the end of the song, they were virtually chest to chest, hip to hip, toe to toe. There was no need to ask, no need to speak, as they held the position waiting for the next song to start.
Anticipation.
Sherlock relaxed his left arm to let it curl around John's shoulder. John bent his elbow to draw their joined hands in close to their chests. His arm around Sherlock's back held him snugly to his body. When the music started, their feet set into motion as one, not fast, not far, just enough for them both to feel the other's flesh and sinew, their combined power and strength, the anxious tension of the first dance given way to a new tension, the strictures keeping them apart released, redrawn as a thread drawn taut between them. Poised. Ready to be sprung.
It was too much: John's arms, his body, his heart, his eyes. Here in the midst of all these strangers. Friends too, Greg and Molly. Maybe Alfred, Sanjay, Robby. So many. Too much to be contained. Was there a need to contain it any more? Sherlock closed his eyes, drew John those last few centimetres closer so that Sherlock's cheek rested against the side of his head. The smell of his hair, of his perspiration, of the fusion of his aftershave with his own particular chemistry. John's ear just by his mouth. His lips. John's breath on his neck. His nose nudging Sherlock's jaw. His arms encircling Sherlock, squeezing gently, hugging him. Their feet were barely moving. Sherlock wasn't even sure they were moving in time with the music. The moment floated in time, detached from the here and now. Filling drawers, entire filing cabinets, every available nook and cranny in Sherlock's head, and heart. Eternity in the length of a song.
Still, it had to end. Too soon. John's grip relaxed. Sherlock let his arms drop, sliding down John's back and chest. Loath to lose the contact. As they started to move apart, Sherlock turned his head just a bit to gather one last breath of scent. His mouth grazed John's cheek. Inadvertent. Caught the corner of his mouth. Unintentional. Mostly. Partially. John paused. He hadn't let go. Sherlock moved his head away, slowly. Plausible deniability. But John followed his motion, chasing after him, darting forward to reclaim the lost centimetres. Full on, mouths closed, not moving but impossible to deny. He held it for a few seconds. Three. Five. Then broke it off, resting his face against Sherlock's.
Sherlock waited a few moments, catching his breath, his mind whirling, he couldn't think, all he knew was that he had to be sure, had to know what this was, philia or eros, the bracing embrace of warrior brethren or the reunion of two halves rejoined. He curled in, tilting his head to touch John's lips with his once more, slow, cautious, tantalising the sensitive flesh, and John still didn't move away. Responded, a tight, choked sound, hands clenching in the material of Sherlock's suit, leaning in, pressure on Sherlock's mouth, moulding his lips to fit Sherlock's, adjusting and re-aligning, discovery, relief, tenderness, the underlying question being answered enthusiastically, unequivocally. Another pause, both of them with chests heaving, eyes closed, overwhelmed by their physical and emotional reactions.
"John," Sherlock whispered.
John nodded, his face against Sherlock's, his breath alcohol-sweet in Sherlock's mouth. "Yeah. Yes." Nodded again then kissed him again, hard, firm, punctuation marks, exclamation points. Yes. Yes!
The air was suddenly pierced by a sharp, shrill whistle coming from someone behind them. At the same time, a lusty shout of, "Yeeeaaah! Get it, son!" That was Greg.
Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head. The wedding guests. The band. Greg and Molly were on the opposite side of the dance floor, grinning at them like fools. The wolf whistle had come from Molly. She took her fingers out of her mouth and gave them a double thumbs-up. Greg made a pumping motion with his fist. The other guests watched, laughing. Some cheering and clapping. Happy for them. For both of them. All four of them. Friends.
"Hey Greg?" John called out cheerfully, then held up both hands behind Sherlock's back to give him the double bird.
"Molly's got it covered, thanks!" Greg called back cheekily, pointing at her. She laughed and put her arms around him again to pull him back into the dance.
John laughed too and hugged Sherlock again, relaxed and happy, rocking him back and forth for a few seconds. Sherlock hugged him back, running his hands up and down John's back. His body was buzzing. His head too. He felt as if he were floating. He could fly if he wanted to. He could do anything. John in his arms. His partner. The band was playing a faster song now. People moved around them, couples on the tiny dance floor, trying to avoid intruding on their moment but smiling at them as they danced. A shared moment. Doors opening.
"Think we're kind of in the way here," John said. No need to shout, his mouth right next to Sherlock's ear. His hands spread across Sherlock's back, also rubbing, caressing.
He was drunk. A little. More than a little? Enough. Sherlock should take him home. Wanted to take him home. Mycroft's car was outside. He'd done his part as Greg's best man. It wouldn't be the first time he left a wedding reception early. It would be the first time he left one happy. The first time he held John's hand in the dark back seat of a car. The first time he nudged John awake when they reached Baker Street by kissing him softly on the mouth and saying, "We're home."
Light snoring. A weight on the mattress next to him. Warmth under the covers. Sherlock cracked an eye open. It was day, but the light outside the window was muted, filtered by the heavy rainclouds drenching London with their effluvia. Sherlock judged it to be late morning. They hadn't gotten to sleep until very late. After midnight. They hadn't talked a lot. Not with words. They'd still managed to tell each other a great deal.
Sherlock was lying mostly on his stomach, his head half buried in his pillow. He opened his other eye, moved his head just a little so he could see John's face. He was on his back, his mouth open slightly. His jowls slack under his morning stubble. Adenoids. Exacerbated by the late night and alcohol. Sleep apnea might become an issue some day. Sherlock would have to train himself to wake up if the hissing and rasping ever stopped for longer than a few seconds. They hadn't discussed it yet, but there was no question in his mind that this was now their bed. No matter what took place -- or didn't take place -- in it.
Sherlock had enjoyed the touching and hugging and kissing a lot. Very, very much. Sherlock's body thrummed at the memory. Some parts more than enthusiastically. John had seemed to enjoy it as well. But he'd also been more than a little tipsy. Not that Sherlock thought John would regret any of it, or that he wouldn't have done the same things if he were completely sober. Wouldn't do the same things completely sober. But that might well be all there was. John hadn't been... well, his body hadn't displayed the same reactions in response to the stimulus of them lying pressed together in bed as Sherlock's had. It might have been the alcohol, of course. John had been tired too. And he was older than Sherlock. Not old, exactly, but well. There could be lots of reasons. It was fine.
John's breathing shifted. Muscles flickering into motion in his face. His mouth closing. A grimace. A sound in his throat. Swallowing. Attempting to, at least. Another grimace. Sherlock held his breath. He might settle again.
"Time is it?" John croaked. Not going to settle again.
Sherlock rolled onto his back to reach his phone on the bedside table where he'd put it to charge. "Just after eleven."
John groaned. Sherlock rolled back onto his side, facing John. "You can sleep some more. Nothing going on today. Do you want some aspirin?"
"Have to piss anyway." John lay there unmoving for a while. Sherlock thought maybe he'd drifted off again after all, but then he hauled himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed until his head stopped spinning. "Stay here, yeah?" he said, his voice gravelly, before he heaved himself up and stumbled into the bathroom, his eyes squinting against even the feeble light from outside, grasping furniture and walls along the way to steady himself.
Sherlock stayed there. He hadn't really thought John would backtrack or try to play off what had happened, but there was a possibility that he'd simply get on with things. That being intimate, allowing their bodies to express what was in their hearts, wasn't something that would be directly acknowledged, but like their shared meals, would simply be something that happened. That they both wanted, that they both made room for, that meant something beyond satiating a physical need. But that they didn't make a great fuss over.
The toilet flushed. Water ran. The medicine cabinet opened and closed. More water. Sherlock began to feel a pressing need himself.
John came back, looking steadier. He wore his pants from yesterday with the t-shirt Sherlock had handed him from his drawer before they got into bed. Sherlock had on his pyjama trousers and John's army t-shirt. It wasn't a conscious statement. It had simply been what he'd left on his bed from the previous night. Sharing clothes. John's eyes were open now as he climbed back into bed. He pulled the cover back up, settled it over Sherlock again, patting him through the material. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, looking sheepish and pleased and hungover, his eyes puffy and his face chalky, and something in Sherlock's chest tugged, that thread between them pinging.
Sherlock smiled, couldn't help it. Everything in him was happy. His face, his stomach, his ears, his toes. "Good morning."
John slid a little closer. "Morning." His eyes were on Sherlock's, a warm humour, affection, a shared secret. He tipped his chin forward, and Sherlock met him halfway. John had cleaned his teeth.
"I should clean my teeth too," Sherlock said between soft little meetings and partings of their lips.
"Don't care," John said. "I prefer you here."
Sherlock did too, so he didn't argue. He put his free arm around John and slung one leg over his, but kept his hips back. He didn't want to startle him or incite that discussion right now. He was enjoying the kissing. John was too, to go by the way he was clutching Sherlock's back, sliding a hand up the back of his neck. Following the line of Sherlock's jaw to his neck, nuzzling and nipping and generally causing mayhem down below.
Sherlock had been careful the night before not to touch John anywhere too delicate, nowhere alarming, kept his hands above the waist and over his clothes. But now he found to his dual consternation and delight that his hands had somehow slipped inside John's pants to grip and knead his arse. John didn't seem to mind one bit. In fact, he responded by clenching his buttocks to thrust his hips forward and making very enthusiastic sounds, redoubling his efforts to unhinge Sherlock completely by means of applying his mouth to Sherlock's skin.
John wasn't gay. Sherlock wasn't sure that he was wholly bisexual either, in the sense of finding the male form and male attributes generally appealing and arousing in the same way he did with women. His eyes didn't linger on attractive men the way they did on women. He licked his lips far less often in the presence of a sexually available male than a female. Sherlock had never found gay porn in his browser cache. He'd never responded with the slightest bit of encouragement to flirtation attempts by other men. And yet here John was, in bed with Sherlock, the evidence all but incontrovertible that he was not an absolute Kinsey zero.
He wondered -- extremely briefly -- if this were in fact not John's first foray into this area, but decided immediately that particular investigation could wait, as John had apparently taken the position of Sherlock's hand as permission for mutual exploration, and was rubbing and squeezing Sherlock's arse now too as his mouth found its way back to Sherlock's, where he suckled and played with his lips. Sherlock didn't think he could stand much more. All of his self-control and good intentions crumbled as he let John pull his hips forward to bring them into full contact. They both groaned, finding the other's readiness confirmed.
Somewhere overlaying the all-consuming heat and urgency, the wonder and gladness, a thought fluttered its wings, begging attention: this was going too fast. Sherlock was-- He hadn't showered, they had no supplies. He actually needed to empty his bladder rather desperately. More importantly, he hadn't had time to properly process it all, and neither had John. It felt as if they were on a train barrelling toward the station with no time to admire the view. It wasn't that he felt they should take things slow, exactly. But neither of them had slept well, John was hungover and not at his peak in terms of performance. That wasn't something that necessarily bothered Sherlock, but he felt certain John would want to make a -- to put it crassly -- good impression for the first time they shared this together. And it did look very much as if the station they were headed towards involved at least one of them blowing their whistle in the next few minutes.
It seemed that John was having some kind of second thoughts as well, as he suddenly broke away, taking laboured breaths through his nose. His face was pinched and pasty, his eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck. Fuck. Sorry."
Sherlock moved back a bit to give him some space. This looked less like second thoughts than physical illness. John blinked his eyes open and lifted his hand to touch Sherlock's face. "Not you," he assured him. "Not you. Sorry. I'm still feeling pretty shite. I shouldn't have drunk so much. God, I'm making a mess of this."
Sherlock was actually quite glad for the chance to catch his breath. It wasn't the right time for this. It was good (marvelous, fantastic, spectacular) that John was interested in more physicality, but not when he was ill.
"I could get up and let you sleep a bit more," Sherlock offered. "Or make you some tea?"
John huffed wryly, letting his thumb absently caress Sherlock's cheek. "I thought, if we ever ended up like this, our first morning together we'd make this big breakfast. Sausage and toast and eggs, a big pan of hash browns. Oh God, I'm making myself sick just thinking about it." John flopped onto his back and closed his eyes, looking distinctly green about the gills.
John had thought about this as a possibility. Of course he had. He was braver than Sherlock. Sherlock had never let himself imagine anything beyond keeping John in his life. His blogger. His partner. His friend. His north.
John had imagined sausage and hash browns.
"Dry toast and tea," Sherlock said decisively, giving John a peck on the forehead. "I'll make it."
"Maybe we could re-do it tonight?" John said, his voice thin but hopeful.
Sherlock made a questioning sound, still hovering over John.
John opened his eyes. The blue depths bloodshot but steady. He reached up to pull Sherlock down so that their foreheads were touching, an attempt to escape Sherlock's all-seeing gaze. "Our first night together," he said quietly, his breath warm on Sherlock's face. "No alcohol. Maybe one bottle of wine. We could go out to dinner. Go back to Angelo's, we haven't been there in a while."
Sherlock smiled. "I'd like that," he said, then closed the last few millimetres to kiss John lightly on the lips. "I'll make the reservations later."
There would be a candle, of course. And this time John wouldn't say anything about it. They would sit at the table by the window, and everyone would think they were a couple, and this time it would be true. And then maybe Greg would text them, and maybe there would end up being a footrace through London, an adventure in the sewers, danger on the rooftops. Or maybe they would come back home and make love, make it however they wanted, make each other feel and see and taste and know that they were each other's better half. That there was no one else they would rather be with, no one who could ever be what they were to each other. Friends. Partners. In everything. Always.
But now, tea.
Credits:
All savoury wedding menu items found here: http://kempandkempcatering.co.uk/our-food/
All afternoon tea items found here: http://www.kingfishercaterers.co.uk/downloads/Kingfisher_Afternoon%20tea_menu.pdf
All pub quiz questions and answers found here: http://www.freepubquiz.co.uk/
The stained glass window described is from St. John's church in Snape: http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/1886245
Bon Appetit!
Chapters 1-3 on LJ
Chapters 4-6 on LJ
Chapter Seven: Cake and Champagne
Sherlock didn't lose the rings. No one stumbled over their lines. Victor delivered a decent enough homily, nothing objectionable. It didn't rain on the way over to the pub for the reception. And Sherlock's speech was well received, drivel or not. Scattered laughter, no tears. Nods and smiles. Although Sherlock didn't escape a hug from Greg at the end. Not as close as John at his wedding, more of a side-armed hug-slash-clap-on-the-back combination. John beaming and looking proud. Well, he had more or less written the thing.
Sherlock was seated next to Greg at the front table with the rest of the wedding party, but aside from thanking him for the speech, Greg hadn't exchanged a word with him, having eyes only for Molly. And hands. Before they'd sat down, they'd both kept their arms wrapped around each other's waists or shoulders as if glued there. And once at the table, they'd either held hands or else Greg had kept his arm over the back of Molly's seat, his fingers constantly wandering up to touch her neck or shoulder. This would invariably cause Molly to squirm and shoot Greg a heated look or lean over to whisper something that would make him clear his throat and nip a quick kiss or two or three to her jaw. At one point, Sherlock became so annoyed he suggested they slip off to the loo to get it over with.
"Anticipation's half the fun, old man," Greg said knowingly, squeezing Molly's hand against his thigh under the table.
"Anticipation of what?" Sherlock scowled. "You've been having sex for eighteen months already. If you count that tryst in the morgue during the case with all the dismembered nuns, even though it only involved --"
Sherlock stopped short and looked around as he realised a lull in the room's conversation had coincided exactly with his statement. Looks of shock, surprise, amusement, and disgust, along with a solitary wolf whistle from the third table. John grinned and took a sip of his champagne.
Greg bent his head forward to rest his forehead on his hand.
Molly leaned forward to speak around him to Sherlock. "It was in my office," she said firmly. Then a little louder, defensively, to the room at large: "It was in my office!"
"Not making it any better, Molly," Greg muttered.
"What was that about the nuns," Sherlock heard Daisy hiss to John from their table as conversations resumed.
Sherlock sighed and returned to his stuffed mini peppers. He hoped John had been able to get the recipe. They were quite good.
It was insufferable that he'd been stuck up at the front table with the rest of the wedding party for the entirety of the dinner service, including dessert, while John sat at one of the other tables with a bunch of strangers. It was a small wedding, only about thirty guests, but Sherlock hardly knew anyone, aside from Molly's mother and sister and the five other men who had been at the stag night. Greg's father was frail, so he and Mrs Lestrade had only stayed for the tea. Sherlock had assumed the duty of driving them back to the train station, which meant he hadn't even been able to mingle with John during the break between tea and dinner.
Sherlock had lost track of how many glasses of champagne John had had. At least five. Spread out through the afternoon and evening, to be sure, but still. Plus the whisky. Sherlock had seen him on two separate occasions with a fresh tumbler in front of him. There might well have been more. John had been quite good at hiding his alcohol intake from Sherlock on his stag night. Both of them had been good at hiding things from each other.
Finally, the wedding cake. A frothy, over-the-top, multi-tiered confection in white and silver. Sherlock couldn't help comparing it to John's. John and Mary's. He realised he never thought of it as John and Mary's wedding, only as John's. But without Mary, there would have been no wedding. None of the rest, either. Maybe not even this. Would John have settled into this thing with Sherlock, whatever it was, if it hadn't been for her? Would he have met someone else? Found happiness with her? Impossible to say. Unproductive to speculate. It didn't matter. John was back home now, after a long and arduous detour.
John kept glancing at the front table, glancing at Sherlock. A nod now and then, a quick smile. Checking that Sherlock wasn't going to blurt out any more sex-in-the-morgue stories (and he did have several). Or maybe remembering. Was he also comparing everything to his (and Mary's) wedding? The cake, the wines, the colour scheme, the weather, the music. There was a three-piece local band -- friends of Jeremy's -- getting set up for the dancing to follow. Keyboard, guitar, and bass, with the keyboardist and guitar player collaborating on the vocals.
Sherlock was required to dance the first dance with Posy, but as soon as he let go of her, he looked around for John. He found him just releasing Daisy to Greg, trading for Molly in turn for the next song. Sherlock pursed his lips. Did John actually mean to dance with everyone there, now that Sherlock was finally free to spend the rest of the evening with him? He grabbed the next woman who passed by him -- a matronly woman in a purple trouser suit who belonged to Greg somehow -- and aggressively led her through a rather sloppy waltz as he tried to catch John's eye. John, however, aside from a friendly nod and wave, kept his attention on the bride, apparently engrossed in a quite serious conversation. Sherlock moved closer in an attempt to hear what they were talking about, but the music was too loud.
Posy claimed John for the next dance, and Sherlock resigned himself to making the best of a bad situation by sitting out that dance to observe everyone and find the most accomplished of the female dancers. That turned out to be a tall woman from the Subcontinent who, Sherlock discovered in the course of the small talk that arose as they moved around the cramped space that had been cleared for dancing, had been Molly's best friend during medical school. She was now a senior researcher at a pharmaceutical company, and moved with an easy grace that was often the exception rather than the rule amongst tall women.
They ended up sharing two dances, and by the time Sherlock returned her to her husband, John was back at his otherwise empty table with yet another drink in front of him.
Sherlock dropped into the chair next to him.
"Who was that you were dancing with?" John asked, not quite meeting Sherlock's eye.
Sherlock reached for one of the bottles of water that stood on all of the tables. "Old school friend of Molly's. Neela something or other." He cracked open the bottle and drank straight from it.
"The two of you looked good together." Anyone else would have heard only the compliment, but Sherlock caught the faint bitterness in the undertone.
He looked at John in consternation. He couldn't possibly be jealous. Not with the declarations that had been made. Or rather, Sherlock realised with a start, that hadn't been made. All of the discussions, admissions, and decisions had only taken place in Sherlock's head. For John, they were still at the point of his frustrated outburst in their kitchen. But that had been over a week ago!
Something loosened inside Sherlock. John. His Something. "She's married," he said gently. He nodded at the dance floor, where his erstwhile dancing partner had her arms wrapped around the neck of a dashing, square-jawed, broad-shouldered man, gazing at him with stars in her eyes.
John harrumphed. Then burped. Frowned and looked down at his drink, turning the tumbler slowly around. It was more than half empty. Only a couple of millimetres left. How many was that? Three? Four? More? Enough was enough.
Sherlock took a deep breath. Straightened his back. Stood up, pulling his waistcoat down and smoothing his jacket. John continued to brood over his drink.
"John," Sherlock began. John grunted, lifted his head, his eyes slightly glazed. "John, may I have the honour of the next dance?" He held out his hand, palm up, in invitation.
John looked up at Sherlock blankly. "What?"
"I'd like to dance with you, John."
John snorted. "You want to dance with me."
"Very much."
"Not sure how that would go over," John said, looking around the room at the other guests. Couples. All men with women and vice versa. Although the unaccompanied blonde with the nose ring (another of Molly's cousins?) was a lesbian and the keyboardist and bassist were definitely together. Sherlock also got strong bisexual indications from Robby, Greg's rugby playing friend who had been at the stag night, but he was here with his girlfriend.
"It will go over excellently," Sherlock said crisply, "as I am the best dancer here and I will make even you, in your inebriated state, look like Fred Astaire."
John brightened. "Or Ginger Rogers."
"Let's not overreach."
John chuckled. Giggled. Shook his head in amusement. Didn't move to take Sherlock's hand.
"John. I would like to have one dance with my partner. Please." There. He'd said it. Unmistakable. His heart chose that moment to lodge itself in his throat. He hadn't expected the admission to have such a strong effect on him. He swallowed, forced himself to keep breathing, and offered his hand again.
John stopped laughing. Shook his head a bit, as if clearing it. "Sorry, with your?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, still holding out his hand. Hoping this was the moment. That he hadn't got it wrong again.
John searched Sherlock's face, his own doing something complicated: scepticism, wonder; tenderness, maybe. Finally, it shifted into realisation. Softening. "All right. Yeah, all right," he said quietly.
John stood up. Sherlock resisted the urge to reach out and steady him. They moved out into the dancing area, Sherlock in front, John behind, not looking at each other.
John was self-conscious, Sherlock too careful. They barely touched, their fingers hovering lightly on their points of contact: Sherlock's shoulder, John's back, their palms. A chasm between them. John's shoulders were rigid, his legs wooden. Sherlock himself felt the tension in his neck, the stricture on him not to invade John's space. They'd danced like this before, of course, preparing for John's wedding. (John and Mary's.) That had been safe. Mostly. No witnesses. Covered by the veneer of John's engagement, of his commitment to someone else. This was like stepping out onto an unsecured scaffold. One false step, an inadvertent bump, even a slight breeze, would send one or the other of them skittering back to safety. Or plummeting to the ground. It's not the fall that kills you. It's the landing. Sherlock kicked the drawer shut. It was just the two of them now. As it should be. John had said yes.
They moved stiffly, John staring at his feet, willfully shutting out any outside eyes that might be on them. Sherlock was aware of them -- curious, startled; indulgent, pleased -- but kept his focus on John. On moving them safely around the other dancers, on keeping his motions smooth and confident. Sherlock ached for this to be something they could enjoy, moving freely and easily together, sharing the sensation of their bodies shifting in harmony, not a trial to be gotten through to prove a point. Doors were opening.
The song ended. Light applause. Sherlock started to release John but John didn't let him, grasping his hand more firmly. He lifted his head, for the first time since they'd stepped onto the dance floor. Determination in his eyes. Understanding. Gratitude. Something deeper.
"My turn now," he said. "Dance with me?"
Sherlock's heart swelled again. John. What he wouldn't do for this man. They switched their arms so that John was in the lead position. This time, John's grip on Sherlock's hand was tight and warm, his hand on Sherlock's back a solid, reliable presence. John nudged Sherlock closer until their chests almost touched. He kept his eyes on Sherlock's as the song began, as he steered them through the proscribed steps. Eyes to get lost in. Their eyes had met before, of course, countless times. Countless moments of something deeper, something rising up and threatening to inundate them, to sweep them with it. But they'd always looked away, stemmed the rising tide, fled before the storm. This time they allowed it, let it happen, let the current flow between them, accepted and welcomed it. Lost. And found.
"Shit dance instructor you are. I was looking at my feet the whole time. Eyes on your partner," John said, his voice both gruff and warm.
Sherlock's face bloomed into a smile. "Always." Always. His partner.
Anticipation. Sherlock forgot entirely about the rest of the guests. Forgot about why they were here. He did remember why he'd wanted to do this, though, as with every step, every glide, every breath, his and John's bodies fell ever more into alignment, into sync, the same rhythm, the same beat, blood and heat thrumming through their veins, pulses pounding, not just from the exertion. The single point where their skin touched between their hands insufficient. The single line of communication between their gazes overflowing.
By the end of the song, they were virtually chest to chest, hip to hip, toe to toe. There was no need to ask, no need to speak, as they held the position waiting for the next song to start.
Anticipation.
Sherlock relaxed his left arm to let it curl around John's shoulder. John bent his elbow to draw their joined hands in close to their chests. His arm around Sherlock's back held him snugly to his body. When the music started, their feet set into motion as one, not fast, not far, just enough for them both to feel the other's flesh and sinew, their combined power and strength, the anxious tension of the first dance given way to a new tension, the strictures keeping them apart released, redrawn as a thread drawn taut between them. Poised. Ready to be sprung.
It was too much: John's arms, his body, his heart, his eyes. Here in the midst of all these strangers. Friends too, Greg and Molly. Maybe Alfred, Sanjay, Robby. So many. Too much to be contained. Was there a need to contain it any more? Sherlock closed his eyes, drew John those last few centimetres closer so that Sherlock's cheek rested against the side of his head. The smell of his hair, of his perspiration, of the fusion of his aftershave with his own particular chemistry. John's ear just by his mouth. His lips. John's breath on his neck. His nose nudging Sherlock's jaw. His arms encircling Sherlock, squeezing gently, hugging him. Their feet were barely moving. Sherlock wasn't even sure they were moving in time with the music. The moment floated in time, detached from the here and now. Filling drawers, entire filing cabinets, every available nook and cranny in Sherlock's head, and heart. Eternity in the length of a song.
Still, it had to end. Too soon. John's grip relaxed. Sherlock let his arms drop, sliding down John's back and chest. Loath to lose the contact. As they started to move apart, Sherlock turned his head just a bit to gather one last breath of scent. His mouth grazed John's cheek. Inadvertent. Caught the corner of his mouth. Unintentional. Mostly. Partially. John paused. He hadn't let go. Sherlock moved his head away, slowly. Plausible deniability. But John followed his motion, chasing after him, darting forward to reclaim the lost centimetres. Full on, mouths closed, not moving but impossible to deny. He held it for a few seconds. Three. Five. Then broke it off, resting his face against Sherlock's.
Sherlock waited a few moments, catching his breath, his mind whirling, he couldn't think, all he knew was that he had to be sure, had to know what this was, philia or eros, the bracing embrace of warrior brethren or the reunion of two halves rejoined. He curled in, tilting his head to touch John's lips with his once more, slow, cautious, tantalising the sensitive flesh, and John still didn't move away. Responded, a tight, choked sound, hands clenching in the material of Sherlock's suit, leaning in, pressure on Sherlock's mouth, moulding his lips to fit Sherlock's, adjusting and re-aligning, discovery, relief, tenderness, the underlying question being answered enthusiastically, unequivocally. Another pause, both of them with chests heaving, eyes closed, overwhelmed by their physical and emotional reactions.
"John," Sherlock whispered.
John nodded, his face against Sherlock's, his breath alcohol-sweet in Sherlock's mouth. "Yeah. Yes." Nodded again then kissed him again, hard, firm, punctuation marks, exclamation points. Yes. Yes!
The air was suddenly pierced by a sharp, shrill whistle coming from someone behind them. At the same time, a lusty shout of, "Yeeeaaah! Get it, son!" That was Greg.
Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head. The wedding guests. The band. Greg and Molly were on the opposite side of the dance floor, grinning at them like fools. The wolf whistle had come from Molly. She took her fingers out of her mouth and gave them a double thumbs-up. Greg made a pumping motion with his fist. The other guests watched, laughing. Some cheering and clapping. Happy for them. For both of them. All four of them. Friends.
"Hey Greg?" John called out cheerfully, then held up both hands behind Sherlock's back to give him the double bird.
"Molly's got it covered, thanks!" Greg called back cheekily, pointing at her. She laughed and put her arms around him again to pull him back into the dance.
John laughed too and hugged Sherlock again, relaxed and happy, rocking him back and forth for a few seconds. Sherlock hugged him back, running his hands up and down John's back. His body was buzzing. His head too. He felt as if he were floating. He could fly if he wanted to. He could do anything. John in his arms. His partner. The band was playing a faster song now. People moved around them, couples on the tiny dance floor, trying to avoid intruding on their moment but smiling at them as they danced. A shared moment. Doors opening.
"Think we're kind of in the way here," John said. No need to shout, his mouth right next to Sherlock's ear. His hands spread across Sherlock's back, also rubbing, caressing.
He was drunk. A little. More than a little? Enough. Sherlock should take him home. Wanted to take him home. Mycroft's car was outside. He'd done his part as Greg's best man. It wouldn't be the first time he left a wedding reception early. It would be the first time he left one happy. The first time he held John's hand in the dark back seat of a car. The first time he nudged John awake when they reached Baker Street by kissing him softly on the mouth and saying, "We're home."
* * * * * *
Vanilla Wedding Cake
Source: http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/10860/easy-vanilla-cake
250g pack unsalted butter, softened, plus extra for greasing
250g golden caster sugar
seeds scraped from 1 vanilla pod or 1 tsp vanilla paste
5 large eggs, cracked into a jug
85g plain flour
100g full-fat Greek yogurt
250g self-raising flour
3 tbsp semi-skimmed milk
For the syrup
50g golden caster sugar
seeds ½ vanilla pod or ½ tsp vanilla paste
Heat oven to 160 C / 325 F. Grease a round, deep 20cm tin, then line the base and sides with non-stick baking paper.
Using electric beaters or a tabletop mixer, beat the butter, sugar, vanilla and ¼ tsp salt together until pale and fluffy, then pour in the eggs, one at a time, giving the mix a really good beating before adding the next. Add 1 tbsp of the plain flour if the mix starts to look slimy rather than fluffy. Beat in the yogurt.
Mix the flours; then, using a large metal spoon, fold them into the batter, followed by the milk. Spoon the mix into the tin and bake for 1 hr 20 mins or until well risen and golden – a skewer inserted into the middle should come out clean.
Meanwhile, make the syrup by gently heating 50ml water with the sugar and vanilla in a pan until the sugar dissolves. Set aside. Once the cake is out of the oven, leave to cool for 30 mins in the tin, then use a skewer to poke holes all over the cake, going right to the bottom. Pour the syrup over, letting it completely soak in after each addition. Leave to cool completely, then either wrap the cake well or fill and ice it.
Chapter Eight: Aspirin and Tea
Light snoring. A weight on the mattress next to him. Warmth under the covers. Sherlock cracked an eye open. It was day, but the light outside the window was muted, filtered by the heavy rainclouds drenching London with their effluvia. Sherlock judged it to be late morning. They hadn't gotten to sleep until very late. After midnight. They hadn't talked a lot. Not with words. They'd still managed to tell each other a great deal.
Sherlock was lying mostly on his stomach, his head half buried in his pillow. He opened his other eye, moved his head just a little so he could see John's face. He was on his back, his mouth open slightly. His jowls slack under his morning stubble. Adenoids. Exacerbated by the late night and alcohol. Sleep apnea might become an issue some day. Sherlock would have to train himself to wake up if the hissing and rasping ever stopped for longer than a few seconds. They hadn't discussed it yet, but there was no question in his mind that this was now their bed. No matter what took place -- or didn't take place -- in it.
Sherlock had enjoyed the touching and hugging and kissing a lot. Very, very much. Sherlock's body thrummed at the memory. Some parts more than enthusiastically. John had seemed to enjoy it as well. But he'd also been more than a little tipsy. Not that Sherlock thought John would regret any of it, or that he wouldn't have done the same things if he were completely sober. Wouldn't do the same things completely sober. But that might well be all there was. John hadn't been... well, his body hadn't displayed the same reactions in response to the stimulus of them lying pressed together in bed as Sherlock's had. It might have been the alcohol, of course. John had been tired too. And he was older than Sherlock. Not old, exactly, but well. There could be lots of reasons. It was fine.
John's breathing shifted. Muscles flickering into motion in his face. His mouth closing. A grimace. A sound in his throat. Swallowing. Attempting to, at least. Another grimace. Sherlock held his breath. He might settle again.
"Time is it?" John croaked. Not going to settle again.
Sherlock rolled onto his back to reach his phone on the bedside table where he'd put it to charge. "Just after eleven."
John groaned. Sherlock rolled back onto his side, facing John. "You can sleep some more. Nothing going on today. Do you want some aspirin?"
"Have to piss anyway." John lay there unmoving for a while. Sherlock thought maybe he'd drifted off again after all, but then he hauled himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed until his head stopped spinning. "Stay here, yeah?" he said, his voice gravelly, before he heaved himself up and stumbled into the bathroom, his eyes squinting against even the feeble light from outside, grasping furniture and walls along the way to steady himself.
Sherlock stayed there. He hadn't really thought John would backtrack or try to play off what had happened, but there was a possibility that he'd simply get on with things. That being intimate, allowing their bodies to express what was in their hearts, wasn't something that would be directly acknowledged, but like their shared meals, would simply be something that happened. That they both wanted, that they both made room for, that meant something beyond satiating a physical need. But that they didn't make a great fuss over.
The toilet flushed. Water ran. The medicine cabinet opened and closed. More water. Sherlock began to feel a pressing need himself.
John came back, looking steadier. He wore his pants from yesterday with the t-shirt Sherlock had handed him from his drawer before they got into bed. Sherlock had on his pyjama trousers and John's army t-shirt. It wasn't a conscious statement. It had simply been what he'd left on his bed from the previous night. Sharing clothes. John's eyes were open now as he climbed back into bed. He pulled the cover back up, settled it over Sherlock again, patting him through the material. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, looking sheepish and pleased and hungover, his eyes puffy and his face chalky, and something in Sherlock's chest tugged, that thread between them pinging.
Sherlock smiled, couldn't help it. Everything in him was happy. His face, his stomach, his ears, his toes. "Good morning."
John slid a little closer. "Morning." His eyes were on Sherlock's, a warm humour, affection, a shared secret. He tipped his chin forward, and Sherlock met him halfway. John had cleaned his teeth.
"I should clean my teeth too," Sherlock said between soft little meetings and partings of their lips.
"Don't care," John said. "I prefer you here."
Sherlock did too, so he didn't argue. He put his free arm around John and slung one leg over his, but kept his hips back. He didn't want to startle him or incite that discussion right now. He was enjoying the kissing. John was too, to go by the way he was clutching Sherlock's back, sliding a hand up the back of his neck. Following the line of Sherlock's jaw to his neck, nuzzling and nipping and generally causing mayhem down below.
Sherlock had been careful the night before not to touch John anywhere too delicate, nowhere alarming, kept his hands above the waist and over his clothes. But now he found to his dual consternation and delight that his hands had somehow slipped inside John's pants to grip and knead his arse. John didn't seem to mind one bit. In fact, he responded by clenching his buttocks to thrust his hips forward and making very enthusiastic sounds, redoubling his efforts to unhinge Sherlock completely by means of applying his mouth to Sherlock's skin.
John wasn't gay. Sherlock wasn't sure that he was wholly bisexual either, in the sense of finding the male form and male attributes generally appealing and arousing in the same way he did with women. His eyes didn't linger on attractive men the way they did on women. He licked his lips far less often in the presence of a sexually available male than a female. Sherlock had never found gay porn in his browser cache. He'd never responded with the slightest bit of encouragement to flirtation attempts by other men. And yet here John was, in bed with Sherlock, the evidence all but incontrovertible that he was not an absolute Kinsey zero.
He wondered -- extremely briefly -- if this were in fact not John's first foray into this area, but decided immediately that particular investigation could wait, as John had apparently taken the position of Sherlock's hand as permission for mutual exploration, and was rubbing and squeezing Sherlock's arse now too as his mouth found its way back to Sherlock's, where he suckled and played with his lips. Sherlock didn't think he could stand much more. All of his self-control and good intentions crumbled as he let John pull his hips forward to bring them into full contact. They both groaned, finding the other's readiness confirmed.
Somewhere overlaying the all-consuming heat and urgency, the wonder and gladness, a thought fluttered its wings, begging attention: this was going too fast. Sherlock was-- He hadn't showered, they had no supplies. He actually needed to empty his bladder rather desperately. More importantly, he hadn't had time to properly process it all, and neither had John. It felt as if they were on a train barrelling toward the station with no time to admire the view. It wasn't that he felt they should take things slow, exactly. But neither of them had slept well, John was hungover and not at his peak in terms of performance. That wasn't something that necessarily bothered Sherlock, but he felt certain John would want to make a -- to put it crassly -- good impression for the first time they shared this together. And it did look very much as if the station they were headed towards involved at least one of them blowing their whistle in the next few minutes.
It seemed that John was having some kind of second thoughts as well, as he suddenly broke away, taking laboured breaths through his nose. His face was pinched and pasty, his eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck. Fuck. Sorry."
Sherlock moved back a bit to give him some space. This looked less like second thoughts than physical illness. John blinked his eyes open and lifted his hand to touch Sherlock's face. "Not you," he assured him. "Not you. Sorry. I'm still feeling pretty shite. I shouldn't have drunk so much. God, I'm making a mess of this."
Sherlock was actually quite glad for the chance to catch his breath. It wasn't the right time for this. It was good (marvelous, fantastic, spectacular) that John was interested in more physicality, but not when he was ill.
"I could get up and let you sleep a bit more," Sherlock offered. "Or make you some tea?"
John huffed wryly, letting his thumb absently caress Sherlock's cheek. "I thought, if we ever ended up like this, our first morning together we'd make this big breakfast. Sausage and toast and eggs, a big pan of hash browns. Oh God, I'm making myself sick just thinking about it." John flopped onto his back and closed his eyes, looking distinctly green about the gills.
John had thought about this as a possibility. Of course he had. He was braver than Sherlock. Sherlock had never let himself imagine anything beyond keeping John in his life. His blogger. His partner. His friend. His north.
John had imagined sausage and hash browns.
"Dry toast and tea," Sherlock said decisively, giving John a peck on the forehead. "I'll make it."
"Maybe we could re-do it tonight?" John said, his voice thin but hopeful.
Sherlock made a questioning sound, still hovering over John.
John opened his eyes. The blue depths bloodshot but steady. He reached up to pull Sherlock down so that their foreheads were touching, an attempt to escape Sherlock's all-seeing gaze. "Our first night together," he said quietly, his breath warm on Sherlock's face. "No alcohol. Maybe one bottle of wine. We could go out to dinner. Go back to Angelo's, we haven't been there in a while."
Sherlock smiled. "I'd like that," he said, then closed the last few millimetres to kiss John lightly on the lips. "I'll make the reservations later."
There would be a candle, of course. And this time John wouldn't say anything about it. They would sit at the table by the window, and everyone would think they were a couple, and this time it would be true. And then maybe Greg would text them, and maybe there would end up being a footrace through London, an adventure in the sewers, danger on the rooftops. Or maybe they would come back home and make love, make it however they wanted, make each other feel and see and taste and know that they were each other's better half. That there was no one else they would rather be with, no one who could ever be what they were to each other. Friends. Partners. In everything. Always.
But now, tea.
THE END
* * * * * *
Hash Browns
Source: http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/hashbrowns_12454
1 egg, beaten
4 medium potatoes, peeled (like maris piper or king Edwards)
1 medium onion
salt and pepper
vegetable oil for frying
Coarsely grate the potatoes and onion into a clean tea towel and then squeeze out the excess liquid by twisting the towel. Place the mix in a large bowl.
Add the egg, a good couple of pinches of salt and freshly ground black pepper. Mix the ingredients well. (You need to salt the mix well otherwise the hash browns can be quite bland).
Heat a good glug of oil in a heavy based frying pan and when the oil is hot (but not smoking), add spoonfuls of the potato mixture into the pan and flatten into patties about 1cm thick. Flip over once browned and crispy - about 2-3 minutes each side.
Serve hot as a breakfast or supper side dish. Especially good with bacon and eggs.
All savoury wedding menu items found here: http://kempandkempcatering.co.uk/our-food/
All afternoon tea items found here: http://www.kingfishercaterers.co.uk/downloads/Kingfisher_Afternoon%20tea_menu.pdf
All pub quiz questions and answers found here: http://www.freepubquiz.co.uk/
The stained glass window described is from St. John's church in Snape: http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/1886245
