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Title: Fairy Tale Wedding
Rating: PG-13, possibly NC-17 in later chapters
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlaine Harris/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Harriet ‘Harry’ Watson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Misc. OCs.
Word Count: 1,538 words in this chapter
Disclaimer: ACD's Sherlock Holmes stories are public domain, but I mean no disrespect or illegality in my use of them or their BBC adaptations as source material.
Spoilers: Nope
Warnings: Non-graphic canon-typical violence, Canon Divergence, Crossdressing, Secret Identities, Women who love men, Men who love both women and men, Men who love men, Assorted smooches, Dangerously close to RomCom.
Original Prompt: Taken from "Society Page Seduction by Maureen Child": Millionaire Simon Pearce’s bride to be left him standing at the altar and wedding planner Megan Ashton was dumbfounded when she was asked to fill in. Be Simon’s bride. For a year. What better way to escape her situation than by marrying a gorgeous, powerful stranger?
Summary: Millionaire John Watson’s bride to be left him standing at the altar. Wedding planner Sherlaine Harris—secretly male consulting detective Sherlock Holmes—was dumbfounded when asked to fill in. Be John’s wife. For a year. What better way to escape his situation than by marrying a handsome, intriguing stranger? (The original title didn't work for the fic I ended up writing)
Author's Notes: I feel like I should be singing 'Getting to know you' or something. *eyeroll* Anyhoo, here's another chapter.
Back to Ch 1
Back to Ch 2
~~~
Ch 3 – The Wedding Venue
The venue for the wedding was a beautifully restored church from several centuries past with an equally well-restored refectory, where the reception would be held. The grounds were tidily groomed without seeming too fussy, and just about everything appeared to be blooming—spring was good for making that happen, John quipped to himself snarkily—so John certainly couldn’t fault Mary’s choice based on the view.
His footsteps echoed strangely up to the high stone and wood ceiling of the church, step, step, tap, step, step, tap, his cane making it a three-part rhythm as he went slowly up the main aisle. He’d changed from his travel clothes, all of which had been picked out by Harry when he’d taken her shopping a few weeks previous in Birmingham, to the sort of clothes he preferred for himself. Comfortable khaki trousers, a plaid shirt in shades of brown with a few fine stripes of red and yellow, and comfortable but sturdy leather loafers he’d had for years. Both Mary and Harry teased him for dressing like he was still living in that bedsit, but John didn’t see any use in being needlessly uncomfortable in the name of style or fashion. He now had the means to dress properly when the occasion called for it, but ‘the day’ wasn’t here yet and Mary knew his preferences—whether she fully approved of them or not—though his suit for the wedding was being tailored by one of those places in which he wouldn’t have dared to put one foot a year before.
However, since he was just being himself, plain old John Watson, the fancy cane had remained in the hotel room. John had brought along a gnarled old walking stick which had been a part of his Great Uncle Hamish’s estate; it somehow felt more comfortable in his hand than the fancy cane, and worlds better than the utilitarian metal crutch he’d been issued in hospital.
He paused to look up at the stained glass windows and the brass and glass chandelier high above the altar, tall off-white candles set in rounded holders forming a large oval, and he wasn’t sure whether he was actually smelling beeswax or some scent meant to imitate it. Taking a few steps further, he followed the sweep of heavy wooden beams down to wood and stone pillars, touching the nearest pillar where a bas relief carving of some saint or other knelt and looked pious. After ogling the sconces high up on the pillar and its neighbours, John took a few more steps up the main aisle before looking around at the gently-gleaming wooden pews as he smiled just a little, taking in a deep breath in the quiet. He wasn’t particularly religious, but one didn’t have to be in order to appreciate good craftsmanship.
A single, surprisingly quiet footstep was all the warning John had before an unexpectedly familiar voice came from somewhere close behind him. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, f—” Smothering what might have been a loud and quite profane response down to a sub-vocal ghost of actual speech, John turned to see a dark-haired woman standing about a yard away. Forcing himself to lower the walking stick back to the floor and unclench the fingers of his free hand, he took a better look at the woman. She wore a silky plum-coloured blouse with a froth of black lace at collar and cuffs, and his very first impressions were ‘statuesque’ and ‘elegant’. Though he couldn’t have said exactly why, John had the momentary impulse to add ‘dangerous’, but then scoffed at himself as he worked to speak at a normal volume despite the pounding of his heart. “Eh, yes. Um... sorry, you startled me.”
“Obviously,” she murmured with the tiniest bit of amusement curling the corners of her cupid’s bow lips, her light coloured eyes sweeping over him like a searchlight. When John opened his mouth to speak, she took one graceful step toward him, holding up one finger to silence him. It worked, though John wasn’t entirely sure why, and her gaze flitted from point to point upon his person yet again before she asked interestedly, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“What?” John breathed, utterly thrown, and when she—almost certainly Sherlaine Harris, with that voice—lifted her brows and tilted her head just so, it seemed to pull the response from him. “Afghanistan. How could you know that?” Had Mary spoken to her about him?
“It’s a matter of observation,” she replied confidently. “I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. It’s faded a bit, but your face is tanned, yet I saw when you reached up to touch that pillar that you had no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad for a long stretch of time, only returning in the last six months or so, but you weren’t sunbathing. You limp when you walk, but you don’t favour it or lean noticeably when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then.” She made a fluttering sort of a wave of her fingers at him as she concluded, “Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq.”
As she’d spoken, quickly yet confidently, her voice lost a little of its breathiness to a kind of firmness that brooked no argument, and yet kept an edge of velvet John found appealing. Along with the actual content of what she was saying in that arresting voice, her striking eyes and strong, charismatic presence had John riveted. His jaw dropped further and further until she reached her conclusion, and he blinked a few times before closing his mouth and swallowing to wet his suddenly dry tongue. “That... that was...” He shook his head, at a loss for a descriptor.
One of Sherlaine Harris’ finely arched dark eyebrows arched even higher, her hands clasped before her black summer weight wool skirt. She didn’t say it, but her expression and posture said it for her. That was what?
Shaking his head, John found the connection to his speech centres once more and said smilingly, “Extraordinary. That was quite... extraordinary.”
“That’s not what most people say,” Ms. Harris informed him almost primly, though John was sure he caught a small bloom of pink in her cheeks, which quickly faded.
“What do most people say?” John couldn’t help but ask.
Her lips pulled a little askew in wry humour as she answered, “Most people say ‘Piss off!’.”
John chuckled, as much at such a cool and collected-looking woman saying ‘piss off’ as at the mental image of someone finding it unnerving to be... just... revealed like that; although John had found it almost exhilarating. This striking, unusual woman had really seen him. He shook his head again. “Not me. Amazing eye for detail you have. Must serve you well in the event planning, I suppose? All those little things to keep track of?”
If John had thought the woman’s gaze sharp before, he watched as her eyes widened very slightly and then focussed on him one again, sharply enough that he ought to have felt a physical reaction, ought to have felt twin stabs of ice. “Your voice... we’ve spoken.” Before John could do more than part his lips, she gave a soft, barely vocalised, little “Ah,” and lifted her chin, though she sounded intrigued rather than cold. “You’re Mr. Watson, Miss Morstan’s fiancé.”
He smiled and nodded. “I am. And you’re Ms. Harris.” He extended his hand politely.
“Sherlaine,” she corrected with a gracious nod.
“John,” he responded politely, but it wasn’t the pressure of social interaction that made him implicitly tell her to use his given name; it was the genuine interest in hearing her say it.
Blinking slowly, she inclined her head barely enough to register, like the most minimalist nod ever. “John it is,” she confirmed, voice all velvet and smoke. Waving her long-fingered hand toward a side door beyond the nearest pews, she then swept the same hand into a beckoning gesture, saying, “Come with me.”
She wore relatively low-heeled pumps in the same plum colour as her blouse, a black grosgrain bow decorating the back of each heel; and, though her feet weren’t exactly dainty, it was plainly due to the fact that she must have been close to six foot in her stockings. Stockings like black mist, which emphasised the fact that her legs were long and leanly muscled, her stride as smooth as a dancer’s. In fact, he wondered if she danced—possibly as a hobby or former occupation—because her shape was slender without being bony and her movements fluidly deliberate. Furthermore, as John followed her through the door, it was plain to see that she had a shapelier... derrière... than John would have expected in someone of her general proportions.
Charmed, curious, and slowly filling up with conjecture and suppositions, John followed Sherlaine through the side door, outside, and along a flagstone-paved walkway to the refectory he’d only seen in photos thus far. He was barely aware of his limp or the placement of his walking stick, but never once stumbled.
~~~
To Ch 4
.
Rating: PG-13, possibly NC-17 in later chapters
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlaine Harris/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Harriet ‘Harry’ Watson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Misc. OCs.
Word Count: 1,538 words in this chapter
Disclaimer: ACD's Sherlock Holmes stories are public domain, but I mean no disrespect or illegality in my use of them or their BBC adaptations as source material.
Spoilers: Nope
Warnings: Non-graphic canon-typical violence, Canon Divergence, Crossdressing, Secret Identities, Women who love men, Men who love both women and men, Men who love men, Assorted smooches, Dangerously close to RomCom.
Original Prompt: Taken from "Society Page Seduction by Maureen Child": Millionaire Simon Pearce’s bride to be left him standing at the altar and wedding planner Megan Ashton was dumbfounded when she was asked to fill in. Be Simon’s bride. For a year. What better way to escape her situation than by marrying a gorgeous, powerful stranger?
Summary: Millionaire John Watson’s bride to be left him standing at the altar. Wedding planner Sherlaine Harris—secretly male consulting detective Sherlock Holmes—was dumbfounded when asked to fill in. Be John’s wife. For a year. What better way to escape his situation than by marrying a handsome, intriguing stranger? (The original title didn't work for the fic I ended up writing)
Author's Notes: I feel like I should be singing 'Getting to know you' or something. *eyeroll* Anyhoo, here's another chapter.
Back to Ch 1
Back to Ch 2
~~~
Ch 3 – The Wedding Venue
The venue for the wedding was a beautifully restored church from several centuries past with an equally well-restored refectory, where the reception would be held. The grounds were tidily groomed without seeming too fussy, and just about everything appeared to be blooming—spring was good for making that happen, John quipped to himself snarkily—so John certainly couldn’t fault Mary’s choice based on the view.
His footsteps echoed strangely up to the high stone and wood ceiling of the church, step, step, tap, step, step, tap, his cane making it a three-part rhythm as he went slowly up the main aisle. He’d changed from his travel clothes, all of which had been picked out by Harry when he’d taken her shopping a few weeks previous in Birmingham, to the sort of clothes he preferred for himself. Comfortable khaki trousers, a plaid shirt in shades of brown with a few fine stripes of red and yellow, and comfortable but sturdy leather loafers he’d had for years. Both Mary and Harry teased him for dressing like he was still living in that bedsit, but John didn’t see any use in being needlessly uncomfortable in the name of style or fashion. He now had the means to dress properly when the occasion called for it, but ‘the day’ wasn’t here yet and Mary knew his preferences—whether she fully approved of them or not—though his suit for the wedding was being tailored by one of those places in which he wouldn’t have dared to put one foot a year before.
However, since he was just being himself, plain old John Watson, the fancy cane had remained in the hotel room. John had brought along a gnarled old walking stick which had been a part of his Great Uncle Hamish’s estate; it somehow felt more comfortable in his hand than the fancy cane, and worlds better than the utilitarian metal crutch he’d been issued in hospital.
He paused to look up at the stained glass windows and the brass and glass chandelier high above the altar, tall off-white candles set in rounded holders forming a large oval, and he wasn’t sure whether he was actually smelling beeswax or some scent meant to imitate it. Taking a few steps further, he followed the sweep of heavy wooden beams down to wood and stone pillars, touching the nearest pillar where a bas relief carving of some saint or other knelt and looked pious. After ogling the sconces high up on the pillar and its neighbours, John took a few more steps up the main aisle before looking around at the gently-gleaming wooden pews as he smiled just a little, taking in a deep breath in the quiet. He wasn’t particularly religious, but one didn’t have to be in order to appreciate good craftsmanship.
A single, surprisingly quiet footstep was all the warning John had before an unexpectedly familiar voice came from somewhere close behind him. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, f—” Smothering what might have been a loud and quite profane response down to a sub-vocal ghost of actual speech, John turned to see a dark-haired woman standing about a yard away. Forcing himself to lower the walking stick back to the floor and unclench the fingers of his free hand, he took a better look at the woman. She wore a silky plum-coloured blouse with a froth of black lace at collar and cuffs, and his very first impressions were ‘statuesque’ and ‘elegant’. Though he couldn’t have said exactly why, John had the momentary impulse to add ‘dangerous’, but then scoffed at himself as he worked to speak at a normal volume despite the pounding of his heart. “Eh, yes. Um... sorry, you startled me.”
“Obviously,” she murmured with the tiniest bit of amusement curling the corners of her cupid’s bow lips, her light coloured eyes sweeping over him like a searchlight. When John opened his mouth to speak, she took one graceful step toward him, holding up one finger to silence him. It worked, though John wasn’t entirely sure why, and her gaze flitted from point to point upon his person yet again before she asked interestedly, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“What?” John breathed, utterly thrown, and when she—almost certainly Sherlaine Harris, with that voice—lifted her brows and tilted her head just so, it seemed to pull the response from him. “Afghanistan. How could you know that?” Had Mary spoken to her about him?
“It’s a matter of observation,” she replied confidently. “I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. It’s faded a bit, but your face is tanned, yet I saw when you reached up to touch that pillar that you had no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad for a long stretch of time, only returning in the last six months or so, but you weren’t sunbathing. You limp when you walk, but you don’t favour it or lean noticeably when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then.” She made a fluttering sort of a wave of her fingers at him as she concluded, “Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq.”
As she’d spoken, quickly yet confidently, her voice lost a little of its breathiness to a kind of firmness that brooked no argument, and yet kept an edge of velvet John found appealing. Along with the actual content of what she was saying in that arresting voice, her striking eyes and strong, charismatic presence had John riveted. His jaw dropped further and further until she reached her conclusion, and he blinked a few times before closing his mouth and swallowing to wet his suddenly dry tongue. “That... that was...” He shook his head, at a loss for a descriptor.
One of Sherlaine Harris’ finely arched dark eyebrows arched even higher, her hands clasped before her black summer weight wool skirt. She didn’t say it, but her expression and posture said it for her. That was what?
Shaking his head, John found the connection to his speech centres once more and said smilingly, “Extraordinary. That was quite... extraordinary.”
“That’s not what most people say,” Ms. Harris informed him almost primly, though John was sure he caught a small bloom of pink in her cheeks, which quickly faded.
“What do most people say?” John couldn’t help but ask.
Her lips pulled a little askew in wry humour as she answered, “Most people say ‘Piss off!’.”
John chuckled, as much at such a cool and collected-looking woman saying ‘piss off’ as at the mental image of someone finding it unnerving to be... just... revealed like that; although John had found it almost exhilarating. This striking, unusual woman had really seen him. He shook his head again. “Not me. Amazing eye for detail you have. Must serve you well in the event planning, I suppose? All those little things to keep track of?”
If John had thought the woman’s gaze sharp before, he watched as her eyes widened very slightly and then focussed on him one again, sharply enough that he ought to have felt a physical reaction, ought to have felt twin stabs of ice. “Your voice... we’ve spoken.” Before John could do more than part his lips, she gave a soft, barely vocalised, little “Ah,” and lifted her chin, though she sounded intrigued rather than cold. “You’re Mr. Watson, Miss Morstan’s fiancé.”
He smiled and nodded. “I am. And you’re Ms. Harris.” He extended his hand politely.
“Sherlaine,” she corrected with a gracious nod.
“John,” he responded politely, but it wasn’t the pressure of social interaction that made him implicitly tell her to use his given name; it was the genuine interest in hearing her say it.
Blinking slowly, she inclined her head barely enough to register, like the most minimalist nod ever. “John it is,” she confirmed, voice all velvet and smoke. Waving her long-fingered hand toward a side door beyond the nearest pews, she then swept the same hand into a beckoning gesture, saying, “Come with me.”
She wore relatively low-heeled pumps in the same plum colour as her blouse, a black grosgrain bow decorating the back of each heel; and, though her feet weren’t exactly dainty, it was plainly due to the fact that she must have been close to six foot in her stockings. Stockings like black mist, which emphasised the fact that her legs were long and leanly muscled, her stride as smooth as a dancer’s. In fact, he wondered if she danced—possibly as a hobby or former occupation—because her shape was slender without being bony and her movements fluidly deliberate. Furthermore, as John followed her through the door, it was plain to see that she had a shapelier... derrière... than John would have expected in someone of her general proportions.
Charmed, curious, and slowly filling up with conjecture and suppositions, John followed Sherlaine through the side door, outside, and along a flagstone-paved walkway to the refectory he’d only seen in photos thus far. He was barely aware of his limp or the placement of his walking stick, but never once stumbled.
~~~
To Ch 4
.
Tags:
- #fairy tale wedding,
- au,
- ch: greg lestrade,
- ch: john watson,
- ch: mary morstan,
- ch: mrs. hudson,
- ch: mycroft holmes,
- ch: oc,
- ch: sherlaine holmes,
- ch: sherlock holmes,
- challenge,
- creativity,
- crossdressing,
- dreamwidth,
- fanfic,
- fic type: chaptered,
- gender juggling,
- incomplete,
- prompt fic,
- setting: beeblock (in general),
- sherlock holmes,
- transgender,
- unconventional courtship,
- wip,
- written word
