Our love-lines grew hopelessly tangled

[acclimatized]

WHO: John Watson, Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes, April Ludgate and Grey
WHERE: The Watson household, Heropa
WHEN: April 12th
WHAT: Fed up with organising a wedding, John and Mary decide to get the whole thing over and done with in their backyard. Yes, really. How white trash can you get?
WARNINGS: None predicted!

In a quiet cul-de-sac in one of Heropa's residential areas, there is a flurry of activity in one of the backyards. Curtains in nearby houses twitch curiously and people happening across the property at the time stop to see what is happening, as chairs are dragged out of the house and the garden is set-up to look at least a bit more presentable. People begin arriving – well, two people, unless others decide to drop in unexpectedly on its occupants and attend a spontaneous wedding ceremony.

Ordaining the service (and looking incredibly bored) is a man in tailored black suit and piercing eyes. He intones the vows that the couple in turn recite, the two of them looking each other in the eye and suppressing the urge to giggle, because this is all mad. Utterly mad. The ceremony ends abruptly when they exchange rings and Sherlock Holmes waves his hand in the air, declaring they can now kiss and get this whole ridiculous affair over and done with.

Leaning in, the couple shares their first kiss. It's a simple brush of the lips and then another firmer one, brimming with affection and love. John Watson and Mary Morstan are finally married.

Comments

[could_be_dangerous]

[John Watson and Mary Morstan are finally married again and it's all a bit pointless, isn't it? All a bit terrifying, too, given the role Sherlock had been invited to play. Best man had been quite enough, thank you, but he still hadn't been able to say no, and so he'd found himself there, in a position of relative authority, officiating a wedding. Bloody ridiculous, in truth. The whole thing a farce. But they'd chosen him, and they must have known that. Perhaps it's half the point: the expected has been done, and they've none of them ever been particularly good at it anyway.

Either way, he's left pondering the peculiarity of it all after the ceremony is completed, after the happy couple are no longer under his care. That they ever allowed themselves to be is a greater honour than he cares to contemplate at the moment -- and so he settles for contemplating the setting instead, the guests, the odd little gathering of people. There he stands, hands in pockets, watching. To the side. Alone. Fundamentally and necessarily. He has to be. Alone keeps him safe, true, but it keeps him sane too -- and everybody else besides.]

[aggressiveapathy]

She's pregnant, isn't she.

[ There wasn't exactly a wedding cake, but there was still something sweet that April had settled on eating with her fingers alone. Plates were for more formal weddings, or at least ones she hadn't been dragged out of sleeping on top of her personal human puppy to attend, having heard nothing about the event until the day of. Not that she disapproved. It was the perfect way to do it, no big plans or registering or selling your soul to Satan beforehand. She was totally taking mental notes.

Still. John was kind of an...old person. Which usually meant a little more when it came to marriage, or so movies and books had told her. It had to be pregnancy. ]

Or she's holding the antidote and he only has 24 hours left to live without it.

[ Either way, the guy in charge of the whole vow business might just know. ]

[could_be_dangerous]

[Sherlock frowns faintly, giving Mary a once-over as though considering the question. The odds that this woman — this stranger, and isn't that odd; he knew so much before, but here things are thoroughly out of balance — knows about the last time he'd set as roughly even. It would require Mary knowing, but she knows plenty of things she oughtn't. The possibility can't be discounted. Still, there's no reason to assume that this is the truth of the scenario.]

Not this time.

[His gaze turns back to the interloper, coolly assessing. What manner of person is this? A friend of Mary's, obviously, and important enough to be invited to the wedding... not, he supposes, that that necessarily implies importance given the guest list of the last one. Under the circumstances, more likely. So: important, at least marginally so, which with Mary implies interest, and generally speaking he trusts Mary's assessment in that regard. Generally. This could be baking or it could be murder, could be utterly mundane or thoroughly engaging. If nothing else she's imaginative.]

Oddly enough he really is rather quite fond of her. Couldn't tell you why.

[He spares Mary another glance, eyebrow rising.]

I doubt she'd ever forgive me.

[aggressiveapathy]

Stockholm syndrome.

[ April had nothing against John. April barely knew John. But John's dislike of one Will Graham was enough to keep him on the Fun to Taunt list, regardless of April's appreciation of Mary and her worldly advice. There's a pause before she continues talking as she has to suck some of the dessert-stuff off her fingers. How ever close she and Mary may kinda be now, April would very likely not have made the list of people invited to a white table cloth and decoratively folded napkin involving wedding.]

For either one of them. Or both.

[could_be_dangerous]

[That receives another moment of consideration.]

Close enough.

[Closer than she likely realises, and though tact isn't Sherlock's area he does recognise that it's probably best he doesn't let on, either in terms of degrees or of circumstances. If nothing else, he doesn't particularly care for the idea of being shot again. He'd be an idiot, however, to assume that doesn't inform the relationship in the slightest.]

Given the circumstances I would suggest that an examination of the guest list would tell you everything you need to know about what she appreciates, and he didn't invite anyone but me which is rather more than telling, I should think; he always was remarkably transparent.

[kinesia]

[ Grey has never been to a wedding before. He's not sure what to make of this one. His clothes feel very formal, although to anyone else, they'd look incredibly casual. His shirt is buttoned up and there's a jacket over it, which hides most of his tattoos from sight. His hair has been brushed. His shoes are new. This is strange.

He watches the ceremony, watches them seal it with a kiss, and he finds that part hard to watch. He looks away, feeling a familiar ache inside, and not knowing what to do with it. At the end, he gravitates towards the man who had officiated, if only because he stands alone. The others are being sociable, and Grey isn't sure how to be. These are April's friends, not his, and he can't exactly make small talk.

Instead, he curiously - and without any shame - watches the officiator, watches how straight his back is and how clear and blue his eyes are. After a while, he moves closer, and peels back a sleeve to find one tattoo, just about visible on his wrist. All it says is 'Hello'. One word might be better than none. ]

[could_be_dangerous]

[Sherlock takes the proffered word and mulls it over. The word itself is pointless, as close to semantically useless as it's possible to come but the pragmatics are, in this particular situation, telling. Flesh as a medium is quite often used to convey meaning, but that meaning is rarely 'hello', which suggests that the word matters more than to most. People throw words away; they're rarely economical, and Sherlock is as guilty as anyone, but he can speak, which is the some of it. A voice to the voiceless. Only voiceless; the set of the head doesn't indicate deafness.

After a moment's pause, he reaches inside the breast of his jacket and extracts a small notebook and pen, the former of which he opens to a blank page before offering both out to the stranger. It's a test as much as it is convenience: most people would default to this method, rather than going through the pain and difficulty of etching something as simple as a hello into their flesh. There is, of course, a reason, and he's curious to find out what that is.]

Hello.

[kinesia]

[ It's a simple reason, even if Grey doesn't think to explain. Paper is a disposable thing. It had been a precious commodity where he'd come from. He'd never have come by enough to make conversations out of it.

He'll do that now, though. He lifts his eyebrows and then takes the notebook, cradling it in his left hand and writing with his right. His print is careful, and clear enough, but nothing close to the ornate script of his tattoos. ]

thank you .

i am grey . i came with april .

[ He thinks he should probably explain that, first off. He doesn't know the couple that today was actually about. Presumably, this man does - though Grey isn't really sure on that point either. ]

who are you ?