(By popular demand, I present… Mystrade's wedding!)
"What did I tell you at your wedding a year ago, dear?"
Sherlock blanched, John raising an eyebrow, and he barely resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. This was not how the day was supposed to go. He'd have preferred to spend an entire morning in bed making walking difficult for his partner then go to Lestrade and get a case, all the while successfully avoiding Mycroft. It would be his perfect day.
Then she had to ruin it.
He heard telltale footsteps on the stairs and he groaned, putting it on speaker phone. "I don't remember such dull and inane conversations."
Mycroft, as usual, didn't knock and instead just walked in as if he owned the place. It was one of his brother's more annoying habits. There was a case file stuck under his arm and Sherlock couldn't tell if he was excited, because despite everything Mycroft always picked the most complicated and interesting ones, and frustration and annoyance because it was Mycroft.
The elder Holmes' feet froze when their mother's voice flowed into the flat. "I told you that when Myc gets married, you would be planning his wedding."
"Who says he's getting married?" he spat at the same time as Mycroft said, "I don't really think that's necessary."
"Oh, wonderful, you're there as well, Myc! Congratulations!"
"…How did you even know? Gregory didn't ask me until this morning."
"Now does that matter, dear?"
"Yes," Mycroft said abruptly.
Yet Winifred Holmes continued without a pause, as if she didn't hear him. "What does matter is that fair is fair and Sherlock is going to plan your wedding in return."
Mycroft was turning alarmingly pale and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Interesting. In the goal of expending less effort, he merely flopped down on the sofa and rested his head in John's lap, letting his older brother take up the task of arguing with his mother.
"It really isn't necessary. Gregory and I were merely planning to go to the court house and sign the papers. There was no plan for an actual wedding."
The silence that followed was like the calm before the storm. In an instant, all three men could see that what Mycroft had said was the absolute worst thing he could have. "Now, Mycroft, dear."
"I know that tone," Sherlock said in a dull voice, the sound of his mother's calm, implacable, and very gentle voice that threatened bodily harm if one didn't follow its orders even if it was framed like a request. That meant very bad news for the both of them.
"I don't want to tell you how to run your life," Both Holmes' brothers snorted in disagreement about that, "but I think that would be a big mistake. You only get to have a wedding once and you wouldn't want to deprive yourselves of that wonderful event. Don't you remember Sherlock's wedding and how nice that was?"
Mycroft blanched worse than Sherlock had earlier. "Oh, yes, I do very much remember."
"See? Doesn't that make you want your own wedding?"
"Mycroft Holmes, sometimes you don't even know what's best for you! You'll regret it for the rest of your life!"
"A ceremony can be performed later. Much later. Later, possibly after I have passed away on my deathbed."
"It wouldn't be the same, and please don't speak of dying to me. It's very distressing, to hear your eldest son speak of that! You don't want to make me cry, do you?" There was a sniffle and Mycroft and Sherlock stiffened, each fighting the impulse to run. "Now, it's your decision, of course, but I think you should at least talk to Gregory about how he feels."
"Spoken to him? Of course, dear, I had to congratulate him as well."
The words were like a death knell and Sherlock watched as the great power of Britain crumbled. Mycroft lowered himself into John's chair, resting his eyes against his palm in a mirror of a year ago in Lestrade's office when he had announced his elder brother would plan his wedding. Both Sherlock and Mycroft knew, even if John was looking mystified, that the argument was over. She would have, of course, convinced the detective that a wedding was a good idea; in fact, she had probably convinced him that Mycroft secretly wanted it, but would never say so.
Mycroft would never refuse Lestrade.
"Boys?" Mycroft's heavy sigh alerted her that no, they hadn't hung up. She sensed she had won and Sherlock wanted to hide behind his husband as he could almost feel her turning to him. "Now, Sherlock, don't disappoint me and don't you dare make John do all the work." That was as good as ordering him to plan the wedding and he moaned in protest. "So Mycroft, just lean back and relax. Oh, Charles is calling me, dears, I have to go, but I love you both so much! Take care of them, John!"
There was a dial tone hitting the silent apartment and John was the first to reach forward to end the call. "So…"
"I think it should first be stipulated that any 'stag night' that occurs, Sherlock and I should not be put together. England could not stand another with the two of us together."
"…From what I've heard, I agree," John said, running his hands through Sherlock's curls. "Sherlock can take Greg out and that'll leave you and me."
"What part of what Mummy said did you not get?" Sherlock spat out with more venom than usual because he really, really didn't want to do this. "Are you really going to defy her when she's in that mood?"
"Defy? What did she say?"
He rolled over, back facing Mycroft and burying his face in John's stomach. "He was ordered by Mummy to not have any hand in the planning."
"Of course I'm going to do it, Mycroft."
"That's what I'm afraid of. Sherlock—"
"Shut up, Mycroft. I don't want to do it, but I'll at least do it right."
There was a long moment of silence before his brother said, "I trust you will agree to being my best man?"
Sherlock rolled over onto his back again to look at his older brother, who seemed resigned and expecting him to decline. "Did you really feel the need to waste breath asking? Everyone knows that you'd pick me for that role." Mycroft managed a worn smile and stood up, taking the case file with him. "Give that here."
"No, Sherlock. You will have enough to do, trust me."
"I want a case!" he all but whined.
"You have one: planning my wedding."
"…I really hate him," Sherlock muttered as Mycroft straightened his suit and stalked out the door.
John leaned down and kissed his forehead. "No, you don't. Now, since you ignored everything that goes on in planning a wedding for ours, guess it's your turn to start googling how to plan Mycroft's. I suppose you know what he wants?"
"Of course. He'll want it to be as small as possible, to minimize all the fuss." Sherlock sat up and headed over to his desk and his laptop. "The guest list will likely include Lestrade's team and Anthea. Mycroft won't want to invite anyone else, even our parents, though I suppose they should be invited by default."
"Because he's paranoid and those he works with are not people he'd want at a ceremony that makes him happy." He looked up from the screen and what he was typing. "Unless you want him working? If colleagues from work come, he will likely work. The only one we can rely on to prevent that from happening is Anthea; she won't give him anything, and trust me, he'll be like a junkie near the end, begging for work."
His partner stood up and wandered to the kitchen and after a minute, Sherlock heard the sound of a tea kettle being warmed. "So, how small a wedding are we talking?"
"Depends on how large Lestrade's family is. We'll have his team, I'm sure they'll insist on coming; they insisted on mine, though god knows why. They'll have even more incentive now. By the way, John, tell them to make it clear that they're not invited on stag night."
John came back to the living room. "What? Why me? Why should it matter?"
"Because if I'm responsible for the stag night, I'd rather not have a lowering of the IQ more than necessary. Besides…"
As he trailed off, his husband began to grin. "Ahh."
"What deductions have you come across now?"
"You just want it to be you and Lestrade. You know, it's not like you'll never see him again after this. It's a wedding, not a goodbye party or anything."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to ignore that John was at least partially right. "All those invited will have to be vetted by Anthea and myself; wouldn't do to let an assassin in on Mycroft's 'big day', despite the fact that I'm sure it would be more interesting than anything else. Our parents are, regretfully, a must to be invited and I suppose Lestrade's family."
"Greg's father and I think he has a younger brother. His mother died a few years ago. He's got an uncle and some cousins—"
"We'll go with immediate family then."
"You've got to at least send them a card or something, Sherlock."
"Because they're his family."
He looked up from his laptop again, this time in exasperation. "If we send them a card, they'll come."
"Sherlock…" John pursed his lips, looking particularly stubborn.
Spotting John's phone on the edge of the desk, he grabbed it. "Really, John? Mycroft is speed dial two and Lestrade three?" He pressed the third number, setting it on speaker phone so he could still type.
It took five rings before the detective picked up and his voice was a whisper. "John? What is it?"
"Do I have to send a card to your uncle and cousins?"
There was a moment of silence before he heard shifting and a door opening and closing. By the sound of it— "I'm in court, Sherlock!"
"No, now you're in the bathroom."
"Because I'm talking to you! Can't this wait? Why are you John's phone?"
"You wouldn't pick up if I called."
"You mean it was nearest you, wasn't it?"
…It was kind of frustrating they knew him so well. "Answer the question."
"Sherlock, do we have to do this now?"
"I'm making out the guest list, so yes."
"We haven't even set a date!"
"Your wedding date. Don't want a summer wedding, it'll be too hot and Mycroft will sweat. Besides, he's always had a preference for winter weather, which is stupid to have any kind of attachment to what type of weather—"
"If I answer this question, will you shut up and hang up? I've got to be on the stand in twenty minutes."
Maybe it was the finality, or the violence in the voice, but Sherlock sensed something far beyond hatred there. John frowned. "Why? You don't have to answer if you don't want to…" So John had sensed it too.
"Because he molested my brother when he was eight years old. When Da found out, he stabbed him. Two inches to the right and it woulda been his heart. He spent fifteen years in jail and lives in the country, where I hope he rots." There was a pause as Sherlock felt an increasing dread and rage building in him. "I was the one that told Da after he did it to me because Tommy didn't say anything."
It wasn't as if Sherlock couldn't make the leap once he knew that the younger brother had been molested; it would be rare if the other sibling was left alone. He felt his fingers curl briefly into a fist as he heard John say, "…I'm sorry for bringing it up."
"It's fine. I'm not scarred or anything. Got us into counseling right after it happened and it wasn't like it was years of abuse. It's just not something I want to talk about. Nobody knows about it…so don't tell Mycroft, Sherlock."
"I won't," he promised, something he knew he could keep.
"Look, I've got to go, my turn on the stand. If you need something, make it later, preferably after work!"
He listened to the dial tone before he ended the call and bent all his attention on the laptop. John, looking a tad murderous, returned to the kitchen at the calling of the tea kettle. Sherlock waited until he was alone before he stood and stepped out of the flat. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.
"Already, Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice was calm.
"I trust you took care of it?"
There was a pause, but not as if Mycroft didn't know what he was talking about, but more as if he were deciding what he wanted to tell him. It was…almost…amazing at how well his brother knew his tone of voice to pick up on what he was talking about. "What makes you think I did anything?"
"Because you would have known about his family history and this is the man you love."
"So you assume I would have acted like you would if it had happened to John?"
Sherlock stiffened as his imagination played itself out and he felt close to clawing at something in rage. "What are you talking about?"
"Come now, Sherlock, we both know that if John had been molested, you would have exacted your own version of justice."
"You think I would have shot him?"
"Of course not. No, I think you would be more inventive. I'm not so foolish as to not know you still have friends among your drug dealers. It would be child's play for you to overdose someone else with your drug of choice."
…Fine, so Mycroft knew him better than most. "This isn't about John."
"No, it's not." He could almost hear his brother thinking. "I will admit my first impulse was the same as yours. I had to cancel three meetings because I couldn't trust that in my anger, I wouldn't lash out at someone else. I had to restrain myself, however, because Gregory would not approve. It might have jeopardized all that I had with him when he learned his uncle had been assassinated."
"I refuse to believe you remained idle."
"No, you want to know I did something to him to assuage your own feelings of anger that your friend was violated." Before he could argue, Mycroft continued. "I assure you, he was not left alone. I'm perfectly content to let Gregory think he remains as a recluse in the country."
A smile stretched Sherlock's lips. "You found convenient evidence of what in his flat? Terrorist documents?"
He could almost hear Mycroft flicking dirt from underneath his fingernails. "If the local police happened to find evidence that he was in charge of a human trafficking ring and will remain incarcerated for the rest of his life with no chance of release, it was hardly my doing."
Sherlock didn't need to ask if it was true; of course it wasn't. The man was just a petty, sick man that had turned against his family. Mycroft had just assured that the man was returned back to where he belonged: behind bars. "Do you believe him?" he asked curiously. "That he has no mental scars?"
"…I do. Gregory is a very strong man and he would never have let such things hold him back."
"Your sentiment is showing."
"As is yours, brother dear. Now I'm quite busy. Was there anything else?"
"I'm thinking about a vegan meal—"
"Goodbye, Sherlock," his brother responded at his teasing and hung up.
"Sherlock? What are you doing out here?"
He looked over his shoulder at John poking his head outside the flat. He seemed calmer now, as if he had dealt with his emotions quite sufficiently. Sherlock couldn't help it; he leaned in and kissed his partner deeply, fully, wrapping him in his embrace. The world seemed to right itself from where it had tilted after finding out about Lestrade's past. Mycroft had taken care of the problem and John was here, safe, and untouched by anyone except himself.
"Get your coat."
"Why? Where are we going?"
"To find our venue. We only have four months to complete all the preparations."
"Sherlock, are you sure you wouldn't rather just hire a caterer or a wedding planner?"
Sherlock gave him an affronted look. "Absolutely not, John. Now, are you coming or not?"
John sighed, but there was that smile he loved and pulled on his jacket. "So much for my tea."
"So how are the plans going?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock leaned over the body on the beach and ignored the sloshing of water up to his shoes from the Thames.
It was now July and Sherlock was finally delighted to have a case worth pursuing to at least distract him from the wedding plans. He would never actually say it, but now he was feeling sorry for Mycroft. Wedding planning was tedious, boring, and stressful. Despite throwing out half of the things needing to be done like dress fittings, there was still more than enough work to be done to take up the next four months. Once others had learned that Lestrade and Mycroft were engaged, people had started calling him and showing up asking him about it. All of those from Mycroft's side were clearly merely attempting to weasel their way in to the celebration for a badge of status, because after all, Mycroft invited them to his wedding, such a prestigious event.
Those that approached from the detective inspector's side were harder to quantify. Some honestly seemed to just want to be invited, old acquaintances and even an ex or two that Greg seemed to be friendly with. They were the most frustrating because it meant he had to call every single time to Lestrade to ask whether or not they should be invited. Normally he would have just said no, but John had threatened to withhold sex if he made a unilateral decision over the guest list without consulting Lestrade. John seemed to trust him on those from Mycroft's side, but not from the inspector's. Frustrating double standard.
"Fine," he muttered in distraction, peering at the fingernails of the woman. Worn, edges ragged. She was a biter then, not just as a nervous affliction, but as a habit in general. No obvious signs of trauma. So she either drowned in the Thames, or the body was placed there.
"Got the guest list sorted then?"
"So far. I'm sure there will be more stupid people coming out of the woodwork to be invited for some reason. It's just a wedding and not even your first."
Lestrade just grinned. He'd been in an insanely good mood for the past month, ever since Sherlock had been forced to take over planning for the wedding. His 'friend' hadn't even bothered or tried to hide that it was because he was taking pleasure in the consulting detective's pain at having to organize everything.
"Got the cake all picked out?"
"God, Lestrade, yes, so shut up!"
If anything, the man's grin got bigger and the only reason he didn't try to strangle the smug bastard was because John showed up with two coffees, handing one to his partner. John had been invaluable, as usual. Most people, for some reason, seemed inclined to argue when Sherlock told them that they would be using the space for the wedding or that this or that would be made. John was able to smooth it over, though, always. John said it was because he asked instead of ordered, but wasn't that what he had done?
"Doubtful she drowned in the Thames. Definitely murder. I need to do a toxicology—"
"Molly will be doing a toxicology. Oh, and I want Molly at the wedding."
"Of course she is," he said annoyed, straightening up from his crouched position. "I asked her when I asked your team."
"Sherlock, you didn't ask my team, you walked into the room, said everyone would be there, and that was it. They didn't even know I was engaged then, and Molly wasn't even in the building to hear, so you've got to send her an invitation. An official one."
Sherlock frowned, but John just put his hand on his arm. "It's taken care of, Greg. I've done all the official invitations for everyone on the guest list."
"Thought it was supposed to be all Sherlock?"
"Like I could get him to sit down and write out invitations. Besides, you helped Mycroft; I'm helping Sherlock."
Lestrade held up his hands. "Hey, not complaining, just commenting. I'm happy you're helping. Really happy."
The two shared a smile and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "When you two are finished, you can find me at Bart's, examining the dead body."
He heard their chuckles as he stalked away.
Having learned from previous experience, Sherlock had scheduled the stag night at least two days before the actual wedding. Deciding to get back at his brother, he insisted that Lestrade stay at 221B after the event. As he headed down the stairs and out the building, he noted the man in question was looking just a little concerned and trying not to at the thought of Sherlock and what he had planned.
"In the cab, Lestrade."
"What are we doing tonight, Sherlock?"
He waited until the door was closed and the cab moving before he said, "I plan to take you to every bar that was near a crime scene that we worked at."
"What—Sherlock, do you know just how many bars that is?!"
"Yes. Thirty-two to be precise. I've measured the correct intake so by the time we've reached the last one—"
"…God, I hope John has a better plan for Mycroft…"
John smiled at Mycroft as the man's car eased up next to him as we waited on the steps from the hospital. There was a knowing look from the driver as he slid in and somehow, even though he didn't see them, he was sure that there were plenty of Mycroft's people in the wings to make sure what happened the last time he'd gone out on a stag night didn't happen again.
"So what exactly are you planning tonight, John?"
"Well if you're worried I'm deliberately going to get you drunk, relax. There's drinking, yeah, but I'm not planning on getting you plastered."
It was by virtue of having known Sherlock and Mycroft for so long that he could see the relief flash over the older man's features. He was clearly not keen on repeating the events of a year ago. "Then what shall we be doing?"
"Going to a pub and talking, I guess. I don't think you'd appreciate going to a strip club."
"…No, in fact, I wouldn't. What, by chance, is Sherlock doing with Gregory?"
"Bar hopping, far as I know."
"Sherlock, this is a strip club!"
"It has a bar!" Sherlock looked around with a faint frown. "…It wasn't a strip club before."
"The last time we were here was seven years ago! Things change!"
This was bar three, and he really hoped this wouldn't signal a problem for later in the evening. He hadn't counted on the changes to the bars themselves. Seven years was not an overly long time. Instead, Sherlock shoved Lestrade into a seat at a small table and headed to the bar and placed the beakers on the counter. "Two beers, four hundred and forty seven milliliters."
The barman glanced at him, but otherwise seemed unsurprised. A good bartender then. As soon as they were filled, he returned to the tablet. Lestrade was staring at the table, the floor, the other patrons before looking at the stage with the mostly naked women.
"Sherlock, if you tell anyone about being in a strip club…"
"I think you should have said if I tell Mycroft about you being in a strip club."
Lestrade choked a bit on his beer. "Sherlock!"
"Drink up," he encouraged with a smile.
"So you're not nervous at all?" John asked with a tilt of his head, sipping at his pint of beer. They had settled in an out of the way corner table in the fairly quiet pub. He had deliberately ordered a bottle of scotch for Mycroft, seeing the way he'd looked disinterestedly at the beer.
"Getting married. I was nervous, I'll admit."
"Why? Surely you are aware that Sherlock adores you."
John laughed a bit. 'Adore'? Not a word he would have chosen to apply to his husband, but it made him happy nonetheless. "I know he loves me, and I love him; doesn't mean I can't be nervous about tying the knot. It changes things, well for most people. Not much has changed for us, unless you count Sherlock keeping me up almost every night now."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and John blushed as he realized he'd just disclosed the sexual habits of his husband to said husband's brother. He cleared his throat. This night was not about him, it was about Mycroft and at the very least, he was more sensitive than Sherlock would be about what Mycroft would prefer the evening to be.
"So you're not?"
"…I will admit to…a few nerves. There is still time for Gregory to change his mind."
"You think he will?"
"Perhaps more worried he will. He cannot help but think of his last marriage and its ending, undoubtedly."
"I don't think he is," John attempted to reassure him. "John is absolutely in love with you and he's not going into this wedding thinking about if it's going to fail. That's a self-fulfilling prophecy if he does."
Another scotch was brought over and there was a soft smile on his lips. "You are truly wasted on my brother, John."
"Bar…fifteen!" Sherlock announced, stumbling and having to hang on the doorknob to keep himself steady. Lestrade wasn't moving any better, but he had a grin on his face.
"Le's go!" He hadn't realized how thick Lestrade's accent would get when he was drunk. The man threw open the door and, clutching his beaker in his hand, headed right for the bar. "Fill this!"
"To the top!"
"Noooo," he whined, following and latching onto the detective's back like a limpet. "Four hu-hundred and…and…forty…five? Milli…Milliliters!"
"I said top! My stag night!"
He wasn't sure if it was because his voice carried or if he was yelling, but Lestrade's announcement lifted heads and suddenly the whole bar was interested. "Stag night, boys!" the bartender yelled with a grin. "Let's drink up!"
Sherlock frowned. He had a bad feeling about this…
Both John and Mycroft were more than a bit tipsy at two in the morning, but not quite plastered when they settled in the car. John struggled to remain up, but ended tilting over and allowing himself to rest against Mycroft's chest. Surprisingly the statesman didn't push him away and instead rested an arm around his brother-in-law, closing his eyes. "Sherlock is a very lucky man."
"So is Greg."
There was a drunken grin sent his way. "Jealous?"
"Seen you look at his rear."
John laughed so hard he ended up falling more and landing with his head in Mycroft's lap. "Seen you look at mine!"
They both laughed helplessly and the chauffer had to help them out of the car when they arrived at Mycroft's house. By then, John was exhausted and too drunk and they collapsed together on the nearest bed.
"Going to have a bruiiise," Sherlock whined as all but dropped Lestrade onto the floor of 221B. "Jooooooohn!"
"Your fault," Lestrade groaned, dragging himself onto the sofa. "Didn't make it to bar…bar…what number were we at?"
"Think…twenty-seven?" Sherlock flopped into his partner's chair, long legs thrown out before him.
"'Course you got us into a bar fight."
"And you got a bar fight."
Sherlock snorted and then began to laugh. How did it always happen that whenever he did a stag night, it always ended in a bar fight? At least it was a much better bar fight than last time because they'd been fighting the entire bar and Lestrade had been chipping in too.
"Dunno. Gonna sleep now."
There was a rumble of agreement from Lestrade.
Sherlock would later deny that he was happy for Mycroft at his wedding, or that it was honestly the happiest he'd ever seen his brother in his life. The wedding had less than thirty people and when Mycroft had seen what Sherlock had done, tastefully decorating the place in a simple but elegant style of white and gold, and a bit of red, he had seemed genuinely pleased.
The only part that he remained dreading was the best man speech. He had put it off to the last minute, thrown himself into cases and planning, to avoid thinking about it. It wasn't until the day before the wedding itself that John forced him into a seat and made him write something.
It seemed as if everyone had forgotten about it, but of course it was all Donovan's fault. She grinned from a nearby table and said, "Isn't it about time for the best man speech?"
He met his husband's eyes from around the two grooms, and John just smiled reassuringly. Lestrade smiled. "Yeah, bout time. You did write something, didn't you, Sherlock?"
Mycroft wasn't looking at him and Sherlock frowned as he realized his brother assumed that he didn't, or if he did, it wouldn't be good. Well, damn him! He stood up, pulling out a few note cards, and tried to ignore everyone's eyes on him. His mother's seemed to be burning a hole in his head and he really, really hoped… Well, it was the first time that he had ever felt the feeling of hoping he didn't do something wrong.
"I suppose it's required of me, but I'm not sure what to say. What do you say about Mycroft besides he's a pretentious, posh git who has a omniscient fetish about running the lives of others, breaking all my toys, and otherwise annoying me? He's been meddlesome ever since I was born, and he always grew strangely upset when I would tell Mummy who he was shagging when we were younger. It was always terribly easy to tell."
He glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye, but his face was studiously blank. Sherlock felt an urge to shatter that, to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible as he had at his own wedding. He was not used to feeling happy, fuzzy, or warm when his brother spoke and to know, to hear for the first time, that he was a source of pride for Mycroft had left him wanting to do things that he would never, ever want to do before, like…hug him. Lestrade was looking at him warily and no one seemed particularly happy, except for John and his parents.
His fingers clenched on his cards before slowly putting them on the table and making sure they were perfectly aligned. He was not looking forward to saying the rest of this; it was going to make things as awkward between them for awhile as it had Sherlock had gotten married. They'd avoided each other for a good month after that because if there was one thing the Holmes' brothers didn't do was publically or verbally acknowledge their feelings for each other…even when they were alone.
"Despite this, Mycroft has been with me my whole life. I can take risks, do the things I need to do, because I know that there's a hand there to help me if I need it. Whether I want it or not is another matter." There were a few chuckles at that. "Having been around him my whole life, as frustrating and hair-pullingly annoying as he is, it has given me an unique look into my brother's life. I have seen the people he spent the night with, those he worked with, and I'm probably the only one that has the best insight into what goes in that exceedingly too large head of his."
John was openly grinning at him now, the same way that he had when he'd read the speech over Sherlock's shoulders. "So believe me when I say that I saw the instant effect that Greg Lestrade had in his life. I've heard my entire life from those around me, even from Mycroft himself in one manner or another, that he's wanted me to be happy. I never said the words, but I felt the same for him. He had narrowed his world to me and me alone. I wanted him happy in a way that I knew I could never make him."
He saw those in Lestrade's team exchange glances, but Sherlock didn't say it with conceit. It was the truth and Lestrade knew it. He turned to the two grooms, Mycroft watching him with dark, shuttered eyes that were impossible to read and pride in Greg's. "I was safe. He knew very well that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all around obnoxious asshole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet and knew what to expect of me. He suffered with me through my darkest times and took whatever I said to him no matter how hurtful.
"I am not a man who has a talent for making anyone happy, much less him, and anyone who knows me for the past seven years knows why. So when Greg Lestrade entered my brother's life, I could see the difference. At first he was resistant, which if you know my brother is hardly surprising as there is no one more stubborn alive. He would have to be to persistently remain at my side. Yet even stubbornness could not remain in the face of tenaciousness and I had the unique pleasure of watching my brother fall. Happiness was thrust on him, and I am pleased that he was smart enough to take it." A faint quirk of his lips happened without his control.
"So understand this, Mycroft: I'm happy that you took a risk and that it has brought you to this day. If there is anyone that deserves it, you do."
He picked up his glass, but stopped when Mycroft's voice interrupted. That wasn't how it was supposed to work. The man shifted in his seat as he said, "As usual, your deductions are impressive, but you always get one thing wrong."
"What did I miss then?"
Mycroft's eyes met his. "You do make me happy, little brother."
Now why did he have to go and do that? It was already going to be awkward enough after this between them, did he have to make it worse? He frowned, ignoring the pleasant buzz that went through him. "You do realize that this is supposed to be about you and you're not supposed to talk, right? I realize how difficult that is for you, but could you put in a bit of effort please to not spoiling my speech?"
There was a ripple of laughter and Sherlock sat down in a huff. He felt Mycroft's hand reach out and squeeze his knee briefly before letting go as John stood up. In some ways, he resented both best man speeches because all it was doing was forcing them to speak about what they'd already known and Sherlock hadn't thought necessary to actually say…but seeing how happy Mycroft seemed to be, maybe, just maybe, it was worth it.
"So, this probably isn't going to be the tear-jerker that Sherlock's just was." John's hand clapped on Lestrade's shoulder. "I can't think of a better man that Mycroft picked. Greg has been one of the truest friends I've ever had and nothing makes me happier to see him find someone as special as Mycroft. Maybe Greg and I are insane," Here Lestrade's team laughed and Donovan even nodded twice to that, "but I guess we're the two people in the world that find that being with the Holmes' brothers make us happy. So here's to happiness, and to future meet-ups in the pubs to drink when inevitably our Holmes' piss us off!"
"Cheers, mate!" Greg said with a huge grin and the two clinked their wine glasses together.
As the reception moved to dancing and Sherlock played the violin piece he'd secretly created for his brother and friend, he kept his eyes on the two leads. Mycroft at least seemed to know it had been composed for them, but he said nothing. At least he wasn't going to drag the knowledge out and make it three times as more awkward as it was already. Sherlock did not like having his feelings for his brother spoken of and knew the feeling was mutual. There had always been an understanding, if a silent one, between them that they knew the truth no matter what they said, and he damned weddings that forced them to make it so public.
"So was it worth it?"
He blinked as John came up to him as he stepped off the stage. "What?"
"Planning the wedding, being here at Mycroft's wedding."
His eyes traveled to his brother that was holding Greg close, dancing to a waltz. Really, smiling like that just didn't suit Mycroft's face at all. He really hoped he hadn't looked so stupidly saccharine at his own wedding. He watched as Mycroft rested his forehead against his new husband's and closed his eyes, and it seemed as if the tension had just drained out of him, leaving him relaxed, floating in a pool of contentment.
It was the way he felt around John.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and one arm automatically wrapped around his partner's shoulders. "…Yes."
"Would you do it again?"
(Since I know what people will ask, here's a little follow up the morning after with Mycroft and John after stag night ;)
John felt movement next to him from a larger body and with his head pounding, he rolled over toward the mass, burying his face in the nearby chest. An arm wrapped around his shoulders and head, trapping him close and cutting out the light as the body moved to curl around him protectively. He sighed, breathing in deeply, only for some synapses to fire in his throbbing brain. This was not Sherlock.
It seemed as if the other occupant realized that at the same moment. "You are not Gregory."
"…You're not Sherlock."
There was a heavy gulp above him. "I'm missing my shirt."
"So am I."
His eyes met Mycroft's and as one they frantically yanked up the sheets. Their pants were still very firmly on. At some point they'd kicked off their shoes, because they were only in their socks. A sense of relief so strong it weakened his limbs flooded him and he fell on his back. "Oh thank god, we didn't get drunk and sleep together. Not that you're not, you know…"
"I understand completely what you're saying," Mycroft muttered, also rolling onto his back and throwing his arm over his eyes. "Believe me, I am thanking every deity known to man for that. Not only would Sherlock kill me, you are…"
"Not your type."
"For once I'm going to be glad that Sherlock can deduce everything about who I've slept with before because he'll at least know we didn't sleep together." There was a moment of silence and he turned his head suspiciously. "He will know, won't he?"
"…I believe that tradition should be overruled about my seeing Gregory so that we might explain to them the situation."
"…You're not serious." John sat up slowly. "Please tell me you're joking. Sherlock would tell, would be able to see…"
"And of course Sherlock has never once gotten upset or overreacted about you because of a misunderstanding."
The dry words made John's stomach plummet to his feet. "Get dressed. Now. Before he blows up the apartment or starts contemplating your murder."
"I heartily agree." Despite their hangovers, they were both bolting out of bed.
"Perfect. Now…where's my shirt?"
Enjoyed? Hope this is what everyone wanted and it lives up to expectations.)