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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: 3,515 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: Now we're back to 'normal' chapter numbers, but I do think I may re-organize the whole thing later. We'll see. Anyhoo, more story! *points excitedly*
Back to Ch 1 Back to Ch 2 Back to Ch 3 Back to Ch 4
Back to Ch 5.1 - 5.2 Back to Ch 5.3 - 5.4 Back to Ch 5.5
~~~
Ch 6 – The Ubiquitous Montage Scene
The next week seemed, for the most part, to go by in a blur.
Mary said she was going to stay another day to finalise the details for coordinating the table settings with the centrepieces and other decorations. John thought that was a brilliant idea and stayed, as well. Mary spent several minutes questioning him, worried that he was giving up something important back home to stay; he assured her he’d cleared the rest of the week to be available to help with anything he could. He tried to keep his unwarranted suspicions at bay when it seemed Mary’s happy response didn’t seem quite as happy as he thought it ought to be, reminding himself of the things he’d spoken of with Ella, and that Mary was under a lot of stress with the wedding plans. He made sure to tell her he loved her, to hug her and ask if there was anything she needed, and she seemed reassured, but... well, he resolved to make another appointment with Ella, because he kept feeling an off note that he couldn’t account for. Still, they went through with the wedding plans; she seemed well determined on that front, if nothing else.
So it was that the day after the excellent ‘decision dinner’, John went along to Mary’s luncheon meeting with Sherlaine, despite the feeling that Mary hadn’t planned for him to be there. What in the planning of their wedding could there be that she wouldn’t want him to witness or participate in? Nothing, of course, and he told those strange feelings to bugger off, instead continuing to try being pleasant and supportive.
After the initial greetings, Mary and Sherlaine were soon deep into a discussion of the table settings—which had previously been ‘finalised’, but Mary’d had a different idea since—and John listened in with half an ear while perusing the paper he’d picked up in the lobby of the hotel on their way out. One of the front page articles was about a notorious serial killer’s trial and John was caught up in the lurid tale straight away.
Somewhere after the topic of what kind of wine glasses would be best with the new china pattern and the topic of serviette patterns, John heard his name in a querying tone and glanced up with raised brows. “Hm?”
“You weren’t listening at all, were you, darling?” Mary said in an exasperatedly fond manner.
John, who didn’t particularly like being spoken to as if he were an idiot—he’d graduated medical school, for god’s sake, which took a lot of concentration amidst distraction—worked to keep his expression bland as he quickly played back the last bits he’d heard of the conversation. Ah, yes, he nodded once and said, “To the part about the new dishes or the serviette folds? I don’t have an opinion on the plates as long as you’re happy with them; also, I know folding the serviettes like swans is supposed to be old-fashioned and boring, but I’ve always liked that look. Still, I’m okay with the...” he gestured with spread, clawed fingers as if over something oblong and about four or five inches off the table, “opera house things? They’re interesting, but I don’t see how they’re relevant to any interest of ours.”
Mary looked at him as if he’d sprouted antennae and Sherlaine’s face was almost neutral... almost. John just caught the merest hint of a quirk at the corner of her mouth along with the upward tic of one eyebrow before she smoothed out her features perfectly. He held her gaze—which almost certainly had a twinkle of mischief—just an instant longer than necessary and let his own lips tilt a little in a ghost of a smirk. Yes, they’d caught each others’ amusement.
“Well, then,” Mary said after a long moment, reaching out to pat John’s nearest hand and then squeeze. “You showed me, didn’t you? I won’t accuse you of ignoring me again, will I?” She laughed softly, sounding genuinely amused, and a little of John’s irritation slid away. There she was, again, the woman he’d fallen for.
“I don’t know,” he temporised, “next time the news might be a little more riveting, who can say?” They shared a little of that laughter then, and it was nice, really. Sherlaine’s lips pulled into a small, almost too perfectly precise smile, and John just knew it wasn’t as genuine as the tiny quirk a moment ago had been. He didn’t examine the fact that the knowledge disappointed him for some reason.
“I don’t know if I’d call a serial killer ‘riveting’,” Mary dismissed with a one-shoulder shrug. “Some psycho kills a bunch of people and suddenly he’s famous. It’s just an attention-getting ploy.”
“You don’t believe some people in this world are dangerously disturbed and would kill whether or not it ever made the news?” Sherlaine asked Mary curiously, gaze sharper than her mild expression seemed to warrant.
“I think some are, sure,” Mary acknowledged with a shrug, “but I also think most murderers are simply killers—no remorse, no moral dilemmas, just born that way—and they don’t moan about it to psychiatrists or the media, nor write a best-selling novel from prison. Sometimes they make a career out of it, but discreetly. You almost never hear about them, and they’re much more common.” Her tone was flat and no-nonsense, her expression jaded, and her manner confident.
John blinked a couple of times, surprised enough to pause with his glass halfway to his mouth; he’d rarely seen her like that, so cold compared to her usual warmth.
Mary met his eyes, hers going from rather hard to something like mildly startled, and she laughed with a wash of embarrassed pink tingeing her cheeks, shaking her head at John, “I don’t actually know anything, of course. I’m just going by what you see in the news and hear about all those crime syndicates, and such. Those people start early, you know, and never leave it. It’s in their blood, is all I’m saying.”
Sherlaine made a low, thoughtful sound, nodding once before sipping her wine. Her eyes rose to meet John’s over the rim of her glass, and he knew without a doubt that she was watching his reaction without trying to seem like she was. Glancing away again, she gestured gracefully at the front page story that sparked the conversation, saying in a gossipy sort of manner, “I’m familiar with someone who was involved in that case, by the way. Someone who occasionally consults for New Scotland Yard.”
John was grateful and relieved for the turn in the conversation, feeling decidedly uneasy about Mary’s odd little... whatever it had been. “Oh? Got some insider knowledge, hm?”
“Only that some of the details they didn’t share with the press. Details which revealed surprisingly intricate planning on the killer’s part.” Pale eyes caught John’s gaze, a sparkle of something like remembered excitement making John even more curious than he already was.
“Peculiar murders, then, were they?” he asked, brows up and entirely unaware of how his smallish smile lingered, lips parted.
“Peculiar and fascinating,” confirmed Sherlaine, her own lips pulling into a smile, as well. “The killer had a series of ritualised preparations after each victim was chosen, but before he took them.”
“Excuse me,” Mary said just as John opened his mouth to speak. She rose to her feet, taking up her bag and slinging the strap over one shoulder. “Off to the ladies’; back in a tick.”
John blinked a few times rapidly, then nodded, giving Mary a little acknowledging smile before turning back to Sherlaine as soon as Mary walked away. After the talk of patterns, placement, and all the other details of the wedding and reception, it was no surprise John wanted to speak of something different, unrelated to anything wedding-oriented. Of course that was why he’d been so caught up in Sherlaine’s inside information.
Mary was gone for a while, but John scarcely noticed until later, since he’d been enjoying hearing about the little bits and bobs of evidence and subtle clues that had led to the revelation of the serial killer’s identification, as well as his subsequent capture. Here and there, he and Sherlaine had gone off on side-trails regarding medical details about the victims; other detours ranged from conflicting data in the autopsies to a discussion of various types of scalpels and their differing uses, as well as the sort of signs they would leave on a corpse.
It was a bit of a surprise when Mary returned to their table, John twitched just the smallest bit when she put her hand upon his shoulder. She looked at him with an unusual combination of wry, amused, and annoyed as she asked if he was quite done. Sherlaine’s eyes were slightly widened and her brows elevated when they shared what John thought was a slightly guilty glance with a side of humour. He had an unexpected urge to lean in and laugh conspiratorially about getting so caught up in such a gruesome subject out of nowhere, or so it seemed.
They said their goodbyes amiably, John shaking Sherlaine’s hand in parting, again feeling a rather strong urge to keep her long-fingered hand longer than was socially acceptable. He also had the feeling it wasn’t just him, but... no, he was surely mistaken. Mary waved cheerily, leading John away while Sherlaine gathered her things; it didn’t feel right, John thought, even though they’d arrived separately, and he wasn’t quite dim enough to suggest they wait for her—he knew their long conversation had rudely excluded Mary, though he wasn’t entirely sure when she’d returned from the loo—nor did he pry into why Mary had been gone so long. It had felt like only a few minutes, but, judging by the time on his watch, it had actually been more than ‘a few’; nearly thirty minutes.
Back at the hotel, there was no sex that night, unsurprisingly, but Mary clung to John as she drifted off to sleep; it was sweet, in a way. Likely due to that grip on his wrist, John dreamt it was Sherlaine, tugging him through an area sectioned off by white and blue caution tape, where he invited John to examine a whole row of bodies, verifying the causes of their deaths and looking for any unusual evidence...
John woke with a little gasp, somehow surprised to find there wasn’t a strange/familiar mouth only inches from his own, and then surprised at himself for being disappointed. Turning his head, he found Mary curled on her side, one hand still clutching his wrist, the other curled under her chin with a fold of the covers caught up in her fingers.
Breathing deliberately slowly and deeply, John mouthed the words, “None of that, Watson,” at whatever inner part of himself was responsible for the dream. Though he expected to have trouble going back to sleep, he was gone again before he had time to brood or self-examine much, and the next time he opened his eyelids it was because the alarm was going off.
~~~
Sherlaine rang Mary while they were on their way to Mary’s flat from Heathrow, apparently to arrange another meeting in London for the coming week. Though he tried not to listen, it was impossible while sitting shoulder to shoulder in the limo that had been awaiting them—thanks to Uncle Hamish’s estate manager, Mike Stamford—and John just knew the moment in the conversation when Sherlaine must have mentioned John’s coming along.
Mary kept her eyes aimed forward at the road ahead as she said in a tone of perfectly casual regret, “Not possible, I’m afraid.”
John didn’t know because he overheard the other half of the conversation, or due to any particular thing he could have pointed out if asked, but he knew it in his gut. He even opened his mouth to argue the point, but didn’t; he wasn’t even sure why. Mary agreed to something—the time, maybe—and ended the call before tucking her mobile into her purse.
“Scheduling conflict, then?” John asked after several minutes, during which time Mary blithely said nothing.
“She wanted to meet on one of my spa days,” Mary explained, her tone familiar, as if John should know about Mary’s 'spa days’. He knew she’d gone to pamper herself at a spa a number of times since they’d been engaged, but not that it was a specifically scheduled thing.
“Ah,” he responded, nodding once and turning his head to watch the other cars outside the tinted safety glass of his window. Pursing his lips, he told himself he was probably reading things wrong. His therapist would have given him one of her looks, because John’s inner self didn’t seem to want to let go of his ‘trust issues’, no matter how much logic John and Ella threw at it.
“All right, darling?” Mary asked after a few more minutes had slipped past in further silence. She put one cool hand into John’s, fingers twining in his and gripping tight before giving his hand a shake. “You don’t have to go to that meeting with the estate lawyers tomorrow, you know.” John turned to look at her with raised brows—he’d actually forgotten about the meeting—but she returned the look with a tilt of her head and a teasing smile. “For all that legal nonsense you were complaining about a few weeks ago?”
“Right, that,” John said belatedly, not hiding his confusion about where she was going with this.
“It’s just, you know,” she said winsomely, lifting his hand to press a little kiss to the back of it, “we just got back and it’s all been so busy and stressful, planning the wedding. We could do with some time for just the two of us, don’t you think?”
“It was just the two of us back at the hotel in Carlisle,” John pointed out with a bemused sort of almost-frown/almost-smile.
“That’s not the same as being the two of us at home, John.” Mary shook her head, smiling that ‘you’re being silly now’ smile that he couldn’t quite get used to. “I’ll stay over at yours,” she suggested in an intimate tone, scrunching up her shoulders and her nose in that cute way that had originally charmed him thoroughly. “We’ll laze about in bed scandalously late and do nothing at all useful for days... well a couple days, anyhow. Weren’t you going on about how you wanted to show me some of your Uncle’s antiques? We could do that.”
“Sure, that sounds all right,” John agreed, trying not to sound like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of course it sounded all right, why wouldn’t he want to spend some time with the woman he was going to marry? Why wouldn’t he want to linger in bed cuddling, or whatever—particularly the ‘whatever’ option—and then show Mary around his old/new home, including some of his Uncle Hamish’s old treasures? He’d been trying to get her to do that with him for a while now. “Good. Let’s do it.”
“Lovely!” She leaned against him with a delighted little smile, keeping his hand in hers and holding onto his arm the way she used to when they were dating.
He relaxed into her warm presence after a little while, quietly snorting out a little breath at himself for his doubts. Paranoia was deceptive, he reminded himself, hearing Ella’s voice saying the words in his head. Maybe they needed some ‘alone time’, after all, since it seemed his subconscious was getting a bit out of hand lately.
~~~
Mary had John drop her off at her flat, promising she’d be out to his place that evening. She was true to her word, too, showing up around seven o’clock with still-warm takeaway in a padded container from one of John’s favourite London restaurants. They ate and talked, nearly as flirty and cozy as they’d been just before they first got engaged, and the sex that night—granted after a little too much wine in front of an entirely unnecessary fire—was pretty great. Not fireworks and passing out from ecstasy, but a good time was had by all, and then some. John fell asleep curled around Mary, a bit of a smile lingering on his face, after sleepily mocking his worries from earlier, yet again.
The next morning he woke up late, legs still twined in Mary’s, her head on his chest, and eased out of the bed only long enough to use the loo and belatedly reschedule his meeting with the estate lawyers. The rest of the day was full of lazy cuddles, sex, snoozing, and raiding the fridge for something to eat before a mutual shower and a ramble through the big old mansion. As planned, John showed Mary some of the interesting things Uncle Hamish had collected over the years—some of which John was discovering at the same time as showing them to Mary.
Not for the first time, John wished he’d had the opportunity to know his great uncle better, other than brief encounters at a few random family gatherings he’d been taken to as a child; most of those having gone poorly when John’s father drank too much and got in a fight with some other family member, which inevitably led to them not going to any more family events. The last time he’d seen his great Uncle Hamish, as far as John could recall, had been around the time he’d turned about nine or ten. John still hadn’t a clue why Hamish had left him the majority of his estate, though he was certainly grateful, because just being named after the man didn’t quite seem a good enough reason, but there really was no way to know now.
Mary was sweet and charming, only rarely showing any dissatisfaction or impatience—John couldn’t argue that his fascination with Uncle Hamish’s collection of medals and military memorabilia wasn’t something just anyone could dive right into with equal enjoyment. Still, she was generally tactful about asking if they could move on, and apologised lovingly for not being more into such things. Over all, it was a nice couple of days. They hugged and nuzzled and smooched for nearly half an hour on the doorstep before Mary had to leave him, smiling and pretty well contented, waving at her from the open doorway as she drove away down the long gravel drive to the road.
~~~
To Ch 7
.
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: 3,515 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: Now we're back to 'normal' chapter numbers, but I do think I may re-organize the whole thing later. We'll see. Anyhoo, more story! *points excitedly*
Back to Ch 1 Back to Ch 2 Back to Ch 3 Back to Ch 4
Back to Ch 5.1 - 5.2 Back to Ch 5.3 - 5.4 Back to Ch 5.5
~~~
Ch 6 – The Ubiquitous Montage Scene
The next week seemed, for the most part, to go by in a blur.
Mary said she was going to stay another day to finalise the details for coordinating the table settings with the centrepieces and other decorations. John thought that was a brilliant idea and stayed, as well. Mary spent several minutes questioning him, worried that he was giving up something important back home to stay; he assured her he’d cleared the rest of the week to be available to help with anything he could. He tried to keep his unwarranted suspicions at bay when it seemed Mary’s happy response didn’t seem quite as happy as he thought it ought to be, reminding himself of the things he’d spoken of with Ella, and that Mary was under a lot of stress with the wedding plans. He made sure to tell her he loved her, to hug her and ask if there was anything she needed, and she seemed reassured, but... well, he resolved to make another appointment with Ella, because he kept feeling an off note that he couldn’t account for. Still, they went through with the wedding plans; she seemed well determined on that front, if nothing else.
So it was that the day after the excellent ‘decision dinner’, John went along to Mary’s luncheon meeting with Sherlaine, despite the feeling that Mary hadn’t planned for him to be there. What in the planning of their wedding could there be that she wouldn’t want him to witness or participate in? Nothing, of course, and he told those strange feelings to bugger off, instead continuing to try being pleasant and supportive.
After the initial greetings, Mary and Sherlaine were soon deep into a discussion of the table settings—which had previously been ‘finalised’, but Mary’d had a different idea since—and John listened in with half an ear while perusing the paper he’d picked up in the lobby of the hotel on their way out. One of the front page articles was about a notorious serial killer’s trial and John was caught up in the lurid tale straight away.
Somewhere after the topic of what kind of wine glasses would be best with the new china pattern and the topic of serviette patterns, John heard his name in a querying tone and glanced up with raised brows. “Hm?”
“You weren’t listening at all, were you, darling?” Mary said in an exasperatedly fond manner.
John, who didn’t particularly like being spoken to as if he were an idiot—he’d graduated medical school, for god’s sake, which took a lot of concentration amidst distraction—worked to keep his expression bland as he quickly played back the last bits he’d heard of the conversation. Ah, yes, he nodded once and said, “To the part about the new dishes or the serviette folds? I don’t have an opinion on the plates as long as you’re happy with them; also, I know folding the serviettes like swans is supposed to be old-fashioned and boring, but I’ve always liked that look. Still, I’m okay with the...” he gestured with spread, clawed fingers as if over something oblong and about four or five inches off the table, “opera house things? They’re interesting, but I don’t see how they’re relevant to any interest of ours.”
Mary looked at him as if he’d sprouted antennae and Sherlaine’s face was almost neutral... almost. John just caught the merest hint of a quirk at the corner of her mouth along with the upward tic of one eyebrow before she smoothed out her features perfectly. He held her gaze—which almost certainly had a twinkle of mischief—just an instant longer than necessary and let his own lips tilt a little in a ghost of a smirk. Yes, they’d caught each others’ amusement.
“Well, then,” Mary said after a long moment, reaching out to pat John’s nearest hand and then squeeze. “You showed me, didn’t you? I won’t accuse you of ignoring me again, will I?” She laughed softly, sounding genuinely amused, and a little of John’s irritation slid away. There she was, again, the woman he’d fallen for.
“I don’t know,” he temporised, “next time the news might be a little more riveting, who can say?” They shared a little of that laughter then, and it was nice, really. Sherlaine’s lips pulled into a small, almost too perfectly precise smile, and John just knew it wasn’t as genuine as the tiny quirk a moment ago had been. He didn’t examine the fact that the knowledge disappointed him for some reason.
“I don’t know if I’d call a serial killer ‘riveting’,” Mary dismissed with a one-shoulder shrug. “Some psycho kills a bunch of people and suddenly he’s famous. It’s just an attention-getting ploy.”
“You don’t believe some people in this world are dangerously disturbed and would kill whether or not it ever made the news?” Sherlaine asked Mary curiously, gaze sharper than her mild expression seemed to warrant.
“I think some are, sure,” Mary acknowledged with a shrug, “but I also think most murderers are simply killers—no remorse, no moral dilemmas, just born that way—and they don’t moan about it to psychiatrists or the media, nor write a best-selling novel from prison. Sometimes they make a career out of it, but discreetly. You almost never hear about them, and they’re much more common.” Her tone was flat and no-nonsense, her expression jaded, and her manner confident.
John blinked a couple of times, surprised enough to pause with his glass halfway to his mouth; he’d rarely seen her like that, so cold compared to her usual warmth.
Mary met his eyes, hers going from rather hard to something like mildly startled, and she laughed with a wash of embarrassed pink tingeing her cheeks, shaking her head at John, “I don’t actually know anything, of course. I’m just going by what you see in the news and hear about all those crime syndicates, and such. Those people start early, you know, and never leave it. It’s in their blood, is all I’m saying.”
Sherlaine made a low, thoughtful sound, nodding once before sipping her wine. Her eyes rose to meet John’s over the rim of her glass, and he knew without a doubt that she was watching his reaction without trying to seem like she was. Glancing away again, she gestured gracefully at the front page story that sparked the conversation, saying in a gossipy sort of manner, “I’m familiar with someone who was involved in that case, by the way. Someone who occasionally consults for New Scotland Yard.”
John was grateful and relieved for the turn in the conversation, feeling decidedly uneasy about Mary’s odd little... whatever it had been. “Oh? Got some insider knowledge, hm?”
“Only that some of the details they didn’t share with the press. Details which revealed surprisingly intricate planning on the killer’s part.” Pale eyes caught John’s gaze, a sparkle of something like remembered excitement making John even more curious than he already was.
“Peculiar murders, then, were they?” he asked, brows up and entirely unaware of how his smallish smile lingered, lips parted.
“Peculiar and fascinating,” confirmed Sherlaine, her own lips pulling into a smile, as well. “The killer had a series of ritualised preparations after each victim was chosen, but before he took them.”
“Excuse me,” Mary said just as John opened his mouth to speak. She rose to her feet, taking up her bag and slinging the strap over one shoulder. “Off to the ladies’; back in a tick.”
John blinked a few times rapidly, then nodded, giving Mary a little acknowledging smile before turning back to Sherlaine as soon as Mary walked away. After the talk of patterns, placement, and all the other details of the wedding and reception, it was no surprise John wanted to speak of something different, unrelated to anything wedding-oriented. Of course that was why he’d been so caught up in Sherlaine’s inside information.
Mary was gone for a while, but John scarcely noticed until later, since he’d been enjoying hearing about the little bits and bobs of evidence and subtle clues that had led to the revelation of the serial killer’s identification, as well as his subsequent capture. Here and there, he and Sherlaine had gone off on side-trails regarding medical details about the victims; other detours ranged from conflicting data in the autopsies to a discussion of various types of scalpels and their differing uses, as well as the sort of signs they would leave on a corpse.
It was a bit of a surprise when Mary returned to their table, John twitched just the smallest bit when she put her hand upon his shoulder. She looked at him with an unusual combination of wry, amused, and annoyed as she asked if he was quite done. Sherlaine’s eyes were slightly widened and her brows elevated when they shared what John thought was a slightly guilty glance with a side of humour. He had an unexpected urge to lean in and laugh conspiratorially about getting so caught up in such a gruesome subject out of nowhere, or so it seemed.
They said their goodbyes amiably, John shaking Sherlaine’s hand in parting, again feeling a rather strong urge to keep her long-fingered hand longer than was socially acceptable. He also had the feeling it wasn’t just him, but... no, he was surely mistaken. Mary waved cheerily, leading John away while Sherlaine gathered her things; it didn’t feel right, John thought, even though they’d arrived separately, and he wasn’t quite dim enough to suggest they wait for her—he knew their long conversation had rudely excluded Mary, though he wasn’t entirely sure when she’d returned from the loo—nor did he pry into why Mary had been gone so long. It had felt like only a few minutes, but, judging by the time on his watch, it had actually been more than ‘a few’; nearly thirty minutes.
Back at the hotel, there was no sex that night, unsurprisingly, but Mary clung to John as she drifted off to sleep; it was sweet, in a way. Likely due to that grip on his wrist, John dreamt it was Sherlaine, tugging him through an area sectioned off by white and blue caution tape, where he invited John to examine a whole row of bodies, verifying the causes of their deaths and looking for any unusual evidence...
In his dream, the tall, dark-haired event planner moved quickly, yet gracefully, from corpse to corpse, describing their manner of death and how long they’d gone undiscovered, all without more than what seemed a cursory sweep of her unusual, sharply intelligent eyes. John, with excitement welling up in his chest, confirmed each one, feeling admiration and respect for Sherlaine’s incredible attention to detail and ability to put all those tiny clues together so fast and yet so accurately.
When they got to the last body, the killer—who had obviously been watching from somewhere nearby—realised they were about to reveal everything and tried to attack Sherlaine, but John stepped in and deflected the killer’s specialised scalpel with the horrid aluminium cane they’d given him after his leg proved untrustworthy; however, despite not using the cane as it was designed to be, John somehow managed to keep from stumbling while he grappled with the killer quite effectively.
The killer was the one who stumbled, tripping over the last of the bodies, dragging John down despite his best efforts. The killer twisted cleverly on the way down, fouling John’s planned manoeuvre, and John knew it was all over, knew the killer would cut his throat when they hit the ground. Before the strangely elaborate scalpel could reach John’s vulnerable jugular, even as they thumped into the ground, Sherlaine stepped in and caught the killer’s wrist. Giving it a sharp twist with an elegant movement of her arm and hand, she made him drop the deadly weapon and rolled him off of John and into the waiting arms of several waiting police constables.
Taking Sherlaine’s large hand when it was offered, John let himself be hauled to his feet, both of them laughing triumphantly, as if they’d just played a spectacular game of rugby or something. Sherlaine still had very subtle make-up on her face, but she was wearing trousers and a button-down of the sort generally coded as masculine, her dark hair cut into a mass of short curls.
“Isn’t this a lot more fun than planning a wedding?” she—or would it be he now?—asked archly, voice clearer and yet far deeper than normal.
Wordlessly, John reached up to put his fingers to her sensual mouth, or his mouth, wondering if a kiss on that mouth would feel feminine or masculine.
Tilting her head, Sherlaine lifted one eyebrow challengingly and murmured, “Only one way to find out, Watson,” as her strikingly unusual face loomed closer...
John woke with a little gasp, somehow surprised to find there wasn’t a strange/familiar mouth only inches from his own, and then surprised at himself for being disappointed. Turning his head, he found Mary curled on her side, one hand still clutching his wrist, the other curled under her chin with a fold of the covers caught up in her fingers.
Breathing deliberately slowly and deeply, John mouthed the words, “None of that, Watson,” at whatever inner part of himself was responsible for the dream. Though he expected to have trouble going back to sleep, he was gone again before he had time to brood or self-examine much, and the next time he opened his eyelids it was because the alarm was going off.
~~~
Sherlaine rang Mary while they were on their way to Mary’s flat from Heathrow, apparently to arrange another meeting in London for the coming week. Though he tried not to listen, it was impossible while sitting shoulder to shoulder in the limo that had been awaiting them—thanks to Uncle Hamish’s estate manager, Mike Stamford—and John just knew the moment in the conversation when Sherlaine must have mentioned John’s coming along.
Mary kept her eyes aimed forward at the road ahead as she said in a tone of perfectly casual regret, “Not possible, I’m afraid.”
John didn’t know because he overheard the other half of the conversation, or due to any particular thing he could have pointed out if asked, but he knew it in his gut. He even opened his mouth to argue the point, but didn’t; he wasn’t even sure why. Mary agreed to something—the time, maybe—and ended the call before tucking her mobile into her purse.
“Scheduling conflict, then?” John asked after several minutes, during which time Mary blithely said nothing.
“She wanted to meet on one of my spa days,” Mary explained, her tone familiar, as if John should know about Mary’s 'spa days’. He knew she’d gone to pamper herself at a spa a number of times since they’d been engaged, but not that it was a specifically scheduled thing.
“Ah,” he responded, nodding once and turning his head to watch the other cars outside the tinted safety glass of his window. Pursing his lips, he told himself he was probably reading things wrong. His therapist would have given him one of her looks, because John’s inner self didn’t seem to want to let go of his ‘trust issues’, no matter how much logic John and Ella threw at it.
“All right, darling?” Mary asked after a few more minutes had slipped past in further silence. She put one cool hand into John’s, fingers twining in his and gripping tight before giving his hand a shake. “You don’t have to go to that meeting with the estate lawyers tomorrow, you know.” John turned to look at her with raised brows—he’d actually forgotten about the meeting—but she returned the look with a tilt of her head and a teasing smile. “For all that legal nonsense you were complaining about a few weeks ago?”
“Right, that,” John said belatedly, not hiding his confusion about where she was going with this.
“It’s just, you know,” she said winsomely, lifting his hand to press a little kiss to the back of it, “we just got back and it’s all been so busy and stressful, planning the wedding. We could do with some time for just the two of us, don’t you think?”
“It was just the two of us back at the hotel in Carlisle,” John pointed out with a bemused sort of almost-frown/almost-smile.
“That’s not the same as being the two of us at home, John.” Mary shook her head, smiling that ‘you’re being silly now’ smile that he couldn’t quite get used to. “I’ll stay over at yours,” she suggested in an intimate tone, scrunching up her shoulders and her nose in that cute way that had originally charmed him thoroughly. “We’ll laze about in bed scandalously late and do nothing at all useful for days... well a couple days, anyhow. Weren’t you going on about how you wanted to show me some of your Uncle’s antiques? We could do that.”
“Sure, that sounds all right,” John agreed, trying not to sound like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of course it sounded all right, why wouldn’t he want to spend some time with the woman he was going to marry? Why wouldn’t he want to linger in bed cuddling, or whatever—particularly the ‘whatever’ option—and then show Mary around his old/new home, including some of his Uncle Hamish’s old treasures? He’d been trying to get her to do that with him for a while now. “Good. Let’s do it.”
“Lovely!” She leaned against him with a delighted little smile, keeping his hand in hers and holding onto his arm the way she used to when they were dating.
He relaxed into her warm presence after a little while, quietly snorting out a little breath at himself for his doubts. Paranoia was deceptive, he reminded himself, hearing Ella’s voice saying the words in his head. Maybe they needed some ‘alone time’, after all, since it seemed his subconscious was getting a bit out of hand lately.
~~~
Mary had John drop her off at her flat, promising she’d be out to his place that evening. She was true to her word, too, showing up around seven o’clock with still-warm takeaway in a padded container from one of John’s favourite London restaurants. They ate and talked, nearly as flirty and cozy as they’d been just before they first got engaged, and the sex that night—granted after a little too much wine in front of an entirely unnecessary fire—was pretty great. Not fireworks and passing out from ecstasy, but a good time was had by all, and then some. John fell asleep curled around Mary, a bit of a smile lingering on his face, after sleepily mocking his worries from earlier, yet again.
The next morning he woke up late, legs still twined in Mary’s, her head on his chest, and eased out of the bed only long enough to use the loo and belatedly reschedule his meeting with the estate lawyers. The rest of the day was full of lazy cuddles, sex, snoozing, and raiding the fridge for something to eat before a mutual shower and a ramble through the big old mansion. As planned, John showed Mary some of the interesting things Uncle Hamish had collected over the years—some of which John was discovering at the same time as showing them to Mary.
Not for the first time, John wished he’d had the opportunity to know his great uncle better, other than brief encounters at a few random family gatherings he’d been taken to as a child; most of those having gone poorly when John’s father drank too much and got in a fight with some other family member, which inevitably led to them not going to any more family events. The last time he’d seen his great Uncle Hamish, as far as John could recall, had been around the time he’d turned about nine or ten. John still hadn’t a clue why Hamish had left him the majority of his estate, though he was certainly grateful, because just being named after the man didn’t quite seem a good enough reason, but there really was no way to know now.
Mary was sweet and charming, only rarely showing any dissatisfaction or impatience—John couldn’t argue that his fascination with Uncle Hamish’s collection of medals and military memorabilia wasn’t something just anyone could dive right into with equal enjoyment. Still, she was generally tactful about asking if they could move on, and apologised lovingly for not being more into such things. Over all, it was a nice couple of days. They hugged and nuzzled and smooched for nearly half an hour on the doorstep before Mary had to leave him, smiling and pretty well contented, waving at her from the open doorway as she drove away down the long gravel drive to the road.
~~~
To Ch 7
.
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
