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The wedding was beautiful. The three hundred guests were joyful, and not at all rude or distasteful. The expensive champagne was served by the well-dressed waiters, who knew how to supply the glasses at the correct time. The bridesmaids looked pretty with their coral-colored dresses, and the groomsmen looked attractive in their tuxes. The parents of the two engaged were in a catching conversation of how perfect the wedding ceremony was and how much they adored the two, who were to be married. Even Mycroft was sporting a cheerful smile with a drunk induced blush on his cheeks.
The harpist began to strum the harp as the bride-to-be walked in, beaming as she walked behind her niece; the flower girl, who threw petals of Mary’s favorite flowers; violets. Everyone turned to watch her, hypnotized by her beauty, by her elegance. She stopped fully, her radiating smile fading into hell-bending frown.
Where was her soon-to-be husband?
John fucking Watson.
*^*^*
“I love you.”
John Hamish Watson stopped pacing. He couldn’t breathe at the confession from his bestest friend. His only friend. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. What a fucking arsehole.
“What?”
“I love you, John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock said earnestly, his eyes pleading for a similar confession back.
“Sherlock,” John began slowly, his eyes flickering to the closed door that awaited for his arrival. “Don’t.”
Sherlock stiffened, stepping closer. “I have to say this. Even if it’s just once.”
“Please, don’t,” John pleaded softly, not realizing the the short distance between their bodies.
“I need to know. Do you love me?”
“Sherlock, I am to be married.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“Sherlock-”
“Do you love me?”
John closed his eyes, refusing to meet Sherlock's hopeful eyes. “No.”
Silence suffocated the room, until John could hear Sherlock’s dress shoes walk swiftly from the room. John opened his eyes, wiping the stray tear that cascaded down his cheek.
“Of course I do,” John whispered to the empty room.
*^*^*
Mary was furious. She was beyond furious. She was ready to kill him.
She ripped open the door to John’s dressing room, the hem of her white, beautiful dress skimming the dirty floor as she found her arse of her fiance, John fucking Watson. He sat there, his hands covering his eyes, like a child.
“Where the hell were you?” she screamed, her rageful eyes throwing daggers at the silent man. “You missed my entrance!”
He remained silent.
“Why are you in here? You’re dressed, your hair is combed. I see no reason for you to be dilly-dallying in this room.”
“Mary, I’m not in the mood.”
“It’s our wedding day! I could care less if you aren’t in the mood.”
“Mary, please.”
“If you do not leave this room in the next five seconds, I’ll consider your role in our child life!”
John looked up, the tears in his eyes disappearing as an unseen rage took a hold of him. “How dare you threaten me! You can’t keep our unborn baby away from me, Mary.”
“I can if I prove you’re unstable to raise our child. You serving in Afghanistan will cause some doubt if I mention it as a concern of mine.”
“I was a doctor, not a soldier.”
“You were shot. That right there could make it traumatic, even for a doctor.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said, but he knew she would.
“Don’t doubt me, sweetheart. Now, get your arse out there.”