Rating: G Pairing: Gen Summary: All the fluff, cause I have an essay due. Sherlock has a bright idea.
John was in the shower. He had a rather amazing bruise on his lower back on from a well-hidden patch of black ice earlier that week, and he had been tracking its progress with fascination. It was a rather good shade of green today. The shower-curtain rammed open.
“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock looked down at him. John twisted back around and almost fell over.
“I was taking a shower. Alone.”
“Listen, I was thinking. We should get married.”
“What?” John blinked water out of his eyes.
“Well, a civil union. Why not? We do everything together, we live together. Legally, we can count ourselves as a de facto couple. And it would mean you wouldn’t have to bribe the nurses to get me into the intensive care ward when I want to visit. Or when you do. We’d be family,”
“Well, most people would try not to make the intensive care unit an integral part of their social calendar,” John reached for a towel. He had stopped caring that Sherlock would constantly just wander in and out of the bathroom when he was in there, sometimes leaning on the sink so he could talk about his latest case, or interesting experiment. For a while, he had wondered if there was something in it, but it had become clear that Sherlock did not care for that... Area. This was definitely a new dilemma.
“Anyway, what have I told you about bursting in on me when I’m in the shower?”
“You said only if it was important,”
“Yes. I also said don’t,” John sighed. “This bathroom is tiny, there’s not enough room for you and me, and I have to brush my teeth,” he shooed the taller man out so he could shave in peace.
In the front room, Sherlock had made tea. This wasn’t completely unknown, but still, rare enough that John was suspicious. Sherlock curled up on his chair.
“There are other advantages to being married,” he began.
“Sherlock, why would I marry you? We’re not you know, in love, and I’m not all that resigned to a life of bachelorhood yet, and if you weren’t completely insufferable, then maybe you’d be allowed in the ICU!” John said, putting down his tea, “This is completely mad,”
“The thing is though John,” Sherlock steepled his fingers, “that marriage is not what you make it out to be. Marriage is when two people who hold each other in the highest regard decide to dedicate their lives to each other, if my research is anything to go by. I’m certainly very fond of you, and you do insist on dragging yourself into dangerous situations on my behalf- usually putting your life in peril on my behalf. You play it down, but one has to wonder at the insistence at which you allow yourself to be maimed in my defence. This would also neatly solve your problem of bachelorhood, by definition. And I’m not insufferable, nurses are dim.” Sherlock looked pleased, like he did when he beat his own time in Sudoku. John wasn’t as impressed with the detective’s reasoning as he evidentially was.
“But what about... you know,”
“No, I don’t know,” Sherlock said blandly. “We’d also get a pretty nice tax break, which would probably benefit you, I think,”
“Well, yes, it would be nice- no, Sherlock, I’m not letting you drag me into this,”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s dragging, per se,” Sherlock looked at the ceiling.
“But... Part of the marriage thing is, you know, the physical side of things?” John tried again.
“I don’t know, but it certainly seems to be preying on your mind,”
“You know... Sex,” John winced. This was too awkward.
“Well, I don’t really see the point of it,” Sherlock started. John had the nagging feeling he was doing it on purpose.
“No, not you, we all know you’re above such things, but what about us lesser mortals?” he snapped.
“Lots of people have extra-marital affairs, John,” Sherlock looked straight at him, and John felt mildly unnerved. “The difference will be that I will know about them. I don’t see how it will be a problem for you; most relationships seem to be built on at least a few lies, and some women even like it- the excitement of being bad, I suppose,”
John opened his mouth, and shut it again. Unfortunately, Sherlock was making sense. The tax breaks would be useful, and it wasn’t as though he ever bought girls back to the flat anyway, since Sherlock had a habit of (accidentally, he claimed) making sure they didn’t want to stay.
“Oh no,” he groaned, “I hate it when you make sense,”
Sherlock had one of his thinking-about-smiling faces on. “So, John Watson,” he didn’t get down on one knee, that was sort of a relief, “Will you marry me?”
John closed his eyes, and smiled despite himself. “Yes, why not? It’s not as mad as some of the things you’ve asked me to do, after all,”
There was some silence after that; the room seemed to ring with the words.
“Well, that’s settled. When will be best for you?” Like they were talking about a dentist’s appointment.
“Oh, any time I suppose,” John said. “We’ll need witnesses,” It all seemed a bit far away, really. “I suppose we should ask Mrs. Hudson, we’d never hear the end of it if we didn’t. And I’m keeping my name,” Now he felt foolish.
“Mycroft can be the other witness,” Sherlock said, surprisingly. “I suppose I should return the favour. And I’m keeping my name. Sherlock Watson sounds even more ludicrous than Sherlock Holmes,”
“Mycroft’s married?” John hadn’t really thought about it, but he supposed Mycroft had his own version of Baker Street somewhere; it seemed unlikely that the man slept at the office, or (John’s personal theory up to this point) was simply put on standby in a cupboard.
“Well, you wouldn’t be able to find the marriage certificate,” Sherlock had got up and retrieved his laptop. “It’s dangerous to have dependants in Mycroft’s line, there’s too much risk for the dependant. But the heart wants what it wants, I suppose,” he folded onto the couch with his laptop balanced on his knees. “Mummy would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t ask him, anyway,”
“What about her?” John had never met the infamous Mummy, and he felt he should get something good out of this weirdness.
“She’s in Europe for the season. She won’t come back till summer,” Sherlock didn’t look up. “Though I expect you’ll be required to visit at some point, when she gets back. Does tomorrow suit you?”
“What, for the- the thing?” there was a part of him that rebelled against the word ‘wedding’. As though saying it would make the world implode, or something.
“No time like the present,” Sherlock stood in a fluid movement. “I have some things to sort out. I’ll be home for dinner I would imagine,” he pulled on his coat and gloves and left.
John tried not to think about what had just happened, because the more he did the more he felt he was in the twilight zone. He wondered if Sherlock was going to come back and tell him that it was all a joke, or a test. The thing was, if he was completely honest with himself, it didn’t actually bother him that much. It wasn’t what he thought marriage would be,that’s true, but if he thought about love- not being able to imagine not being with someone, wanting to make sure they’re okay, enjoying silence as much as talk in their company. Dying for them. He sighed. No matter how he looked at it, for all intents and purposes, he loved Sherlock Holmes. When he went into the hospital (which was frequently enough that the nurses knew him by sight, at any rate) there was a little knot he never admitted was there. It wouldn’t be until he could hear Sherlock arguing with nurses, or the police, or (on one memorable occasion) with a heart monitor, and could see him sitting upright in an uncomfortable chair or stubbornly refusing to lie down in bed, that the little knot, sitting under his chest, would ease enough for him to relax. John remembered meeting one of Sherlock’s old flatmates, who had told him numerous scare-stories about a finger in a fish-tank, cultures festering on the window-sill and a whole skeleton grinning at you whilst you were taking a shower. John had listened politely, but his only comment back had been “He could get the shopping in a little more often,”
John made tea and caught the skull’s eye-socket. It smirked knowingly.
“Ugh, not you too,” he spun it to the wall. “And stop that grinning, what do you know, you’re a skull!”
He could leave. Leave the madness and never come back. No bizarre proposals, no more talking to the skull, no more running round London after men much bigger and angrier than him. But... He thought of Sherlock, lying on the couch, playing violin at three in the morning, shouting at the telly. How had he done it? Invaded John’s life till he couldn’t imagine him not being there? One of life’s great mysteries. His phone went beeped politely, breaking the silence and his thoughts.
Text from MH: I hear congratulations are in order.
Text from JW: Not sure about that.
Text from MH: I think you should ask yourself how many people my brother is likely to even consider for this sort of thing.
Text from JW: Don’t worry, I have. Is this the bit where you tell me you’ll kill me if I hurt him?
Text from MH:Why tell you? You already appear to know.
Text from SH: Stop brooding, it’ll be fine. Have you told Mrs. Hudson?
Text from JW: I’m not brooding. I will go and see Mrs. Hudson, but only because I’m talking to the skull. This is what you’ve reduced me to.
Text from SH: Don’t be so dramatic. The skull is a good listener.
Mrs. Hudson was predictably pleased.
“Oh, how lovely for you both,” she scrutinised John. “Was that the right response?”
“Er. Well, yes, I suppose,” John said.
“You’re bound to be nervous dear, it’s normal. I remember before my wedding... I threw a vase at the wall,” She patted his knee. “You’ve been ever so good for each other, you know,”
John smiled, despite himself. “I guess,”
“You know, I wish you’d given me more time, I would have bought a new hat...”
The next day dawned chilly, but it was dry. At eleven, John put on his best suit, although Sherlock had said there wasn’t going to be much in the way of a ceremony, because it was unnecessary. They would just go to the registry, everyone would sign, someone would tell them they’d done it right, and that was it. But still, how many times does one get married?
Sherlock was waiting downstairs, also dressed for the occasion in a dark-grey suit with an actual waistcoat. He reached out and adjusted John’s tie. He smiled, and John thought that maybe the world’s greatest detective was actually nervous. But he smiled back, and said:
“Right, let’s do this,”
Mrs. Hudson met them in an amazing confection of a hat (“I do hate wearing the same one twice, you boys are so impetuous”), and Mycroft’s car drove them to the registry office. Mycroft met them there, and shook John’s hand warmly. Mrs. Hudson hugged and kissed them both, dabbing at her eyes with a hanky.
In a little room, John and Sherlock, standing in front of a registrar, signed the marriage certificate. Sherlock reached into a pocket and bought out two plain gold bands. John was surprised, but allowed Sherlock to slip the ring on his finger. Of course, it fitted perfectly, and John tried not to think about how, well, right the ring felt on his hand. Once Mrs. Hudson had signed, there was an awkward moment.
“I’m not kissing you, Sherlock,” John muttered.
“Oh really,” Sherlock sighed, and before John could say anything, kissed him chastely on the cheek. And that was it, they were married. Mycroft cleared his throat.
“I have, in fact, booked us a table at a little place I know. Think of it as a wedding present, if you like,”
The ‘little place’ turned out to be an expensive restaurant in Soho, but the food was good. Mycroft ordered champagne, and made a toast to ‘the happy couple’. Sherlock glowered, but John grinned, drunk on the adrenaline of what they had done and champagne bubbles, and even, just a little bit, on the feel of gold on his skin.
“Are you going to go away somewhere?” Mrs. Hudson asked, as they lingered over coffee.
“Um,” said John, “You mean like, a honey-moon?”
“Hadn’t really given the matter any thought,” Sherlock said. “But I don’t think so, too much to do here, really,”
“Oh, well, that’s a shame,”
Mycroft stood up. “I have to get back now. Don’t worry; the bill is taken care of. Mrs. Hudson, do you need a ride?”
That left Sherlock, who was finishing his coffee, and John, who tapped his wedding band against the side of his cup.
“I don’t believe we did that,” he said softly.
“Do you regret it?” Sherlock asked. Was that a brittle note to his voice?
John grinned at the mad, brilliant, infuriating man he happened to love. “Nope, not for an instant,”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Let's Get Married
Oct. 26th, 2010 01:26 amPairing: Gen
Summary: All the fluff, cause I have an essay due. Sherlock has a bright idea.
John was in the shower. He had a rather amazing bruise on his lower back on from a well-hidden patch of black ice earlier that week, and he had been tracking its progress with fascination. It was a rather good shade of green today. The shower-curtain rammed open.
“John, what are you doing?” Sherlock looked down at him. John twisted back around and almost fell over.
“I was taking a shower. Alone.”
“Listen, I was thinking. We should get married.”
“What?” John blinked water out of his eyes.
“Well, a civil union. Why not? We do everything together, we live together. Legally, we can count ourselves as a de facto couple. And it would mean you wouldn’t have to bribe the nurses to get me into the intensive care ward when I want to visit. Or when you do. We’d be family,”
“Well, most people would try not to make the intensive care unit an integral part of their social calendar,” John reached for a towel. He had stopped caring that Sherlock would constantly just wander in and out of the bathroom when he was in there, sometimes leaning on the sink so he could talk about his latest case, or interesting experiment. For a while, he had wondered if there was something in it, but it had become clear that Sherlock did not care for that... Area. This was definitely a new dilemma.
“Anyway, what have I told you about bursting in on me when I’m in the shower?”
“You said only if it was important,”
“Yes. I also said don’t,” John sighed. “This bathroom is tiny, there’s not enough room for you and me, and I have to brush my teeth,” he shooed the taller man out so he could shave in peace.
In the front room, Sherlock had made tea. This wasn’t completely unknown, but still, rare enough that John was suspicious. Sherlock curled up on his chair.
“There are other advantages to being married,” he began.
“Sherlock, why would I marry you? We’re not you know, in love, and I’m not all that resigned to a life of bachelorhood yet, and if you weren’t completely insufferable, then maybe you’d be allowed in the ICU!” John said, putting down his tea, “This is completely mad,”
“The thing is though John,” Sherlock steepled his fingers, “that marriage is not what you make it out to be. Marriage is when two people who hold each other in the highest regard decide to dedicate their lives to each other, if my research is anything to go by. I’m certainly very fond of you, and you do insist on dragging yourself into dangerous situations on my behalf- usually putting your life in peril on my behalf. You play it down, but one has to wonder at the insistence at which you allow yourself to be maimed in my defence. This would also neatly solve your problem of bachelorhood, by definition. And I’m not insufferable, nurses are dim.” Sherlock looked pleased, like he did when he beat his own time in Sudoku. John wasn’t as impressed with the detective’s reasoning as he evidentially was.
“But what about... you know,”
“No, I don’t know,” Sherlock said blandly. “We’d also get a pretty nice tax break, which would probably benefit you, I think,”
“Well, yes, it would be nice- no, Sherlock, I’m not letting you drag me into this,”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s dragging, per se,” Sherlock looked at the ceiling.
“But... Part of the marriage thing is, you know, the physical side of things?” John tried again.
“I don’t know, but it certainly seems to be preying on your mind,”
“You know... Sex,” John winced. This was too awkward.
“Well, I don’t really see the point of it,” Sherlock started. John had the nagging feeling he was doing it on purpose.
“No, not you, we all know you’re above such things, but what about us lesser mortals?” he snapped.
“Lots of people have extra-marital affairs, John,” Sherlock looked straight at him, and John felt mildly unnerved. “The difference will be that I will know about them. I don’t see how it will be a problem for you; most relationships seem to be built on at least a few lies, and some women even like it- the excitement of being bad, I suppose,”
John opened his mouth, and shut it again. Unfortunately, Sherlock was making sense. The tax breaks would be useful, and it wasn’t as though he ever bought girls back to the flat anyway, since Sherlock had a habit of (accidentally, he claimed) making sure they didn’t want to stay.
“Oh no,” he groaned, “I hate it when you make sense,”
Sherlock had one of his thinking-about-smiling faces on. “So, John Watson,” he didn’t get down on one knee, that was sort of a relief, “Will you marry me?”
John closed his eyes, and smiled despite himself. “Yes, why not? It’s not as mad as some of the things you’ve asked me to do, after all,”
There was some silence after that; the room seemed to ring with the words.
“Well, that’s settled. When will be best for you?” Like they were talking about a dentist’s appointment.
“Oh, any time I suppose,” John said. “We’ll need witnesses,” It all seemed a bit far away, really. “I suppose we should ask Mrs. Hudson, we’d never hear the end of it if we didn’t. And I’m keeping my name,” Now he felt foolish.
“Mycroft can be the other witness,” Sherlock said, surprisingly. “I suppose I should return the favour. And I’m keeping my name. Sherlock Watson sounds even more ludicrous than Sherlock Holmes,”
“Mycroft’s married?” John hadn’t really thought about it, but he supposed Mycroft had his own version of Baker Street somewhere; it seemed unlikely that the man slept at the office, or (John’s personal theory up to this point) was simply put on standby in a cupboard.
“Well, you wouldn’t be able to find the marriage certificate,” Sherlock had got up and retrieved his laptop. “It’s dangerous to have dependants in Mycroft’s line, there’s too much risk for the dependant. But the heart wants what it wants, I suppose,” he folded onto the couch with his laptop balanced on his knees. “Mummy would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t ask him, anyway,”
“What about her?” John had never met the infamous Mummy, and he felt he should get something good out of this weirdness.
“She’s in Europe for the season. She won’t come back till summer,” Sherlock didn’t look up. “Though I expect you’ll be required to visit at some point, when she gets back. Does tomorrow suit you?”
“What, for the- the thing?” there was a part of him that rebelled against the word ‘wedding’. As though saying it would make the world implode, or something.
“No time like the present,” Sherlock stood in a fluid movement. “I have some things to sort out. I’ll be home for dinner I would imagine,” he pulled on his coat and gloves and left.
John tried not to think about what had just happened, because the more he did the more he felt he was in the twilight zone. He wondered if Sherlock was going to come back and tell him that it was all a joke, or a test. The thing was, if he was completely honest with himself, it didn’t actually bother him that much. It wasn’t what he thought marriage would be, that’s true, but if he thought about love- not being able to imagine not being with someone, wanting to make sure they’re okay, enjoying silence as much as talk in their company. Dying for them. He sighed. No matter how he looked at it, for all intents and purposes, he loved Sherlock Holmes. When he went into the hospital (which was frequently enough that the nurses knew him by sight, at any rate) there was a little knot he never admitted was there. It wouldn’t be until he could hear Sherlock arguing with nurses, or the police, or (on one memorable occasion) with a heart monitor, and could see him sitting upright in an uncomfortable chair or stubbornly refusing to lie down in bed, that the little knot, sitting under his chest, would ease enough for him to relax. John remembered meeting one of Sherlock’s old flatmates, who had told him numerous scare-stories about a finger in a fish-tank, cultures festering on the window-sill and a whole skeleton grinning at you whilst you were taking a shower. John had listened politely, but his only comment back had been “He could get the shopping in a little more often,”
John made tea and caught the skull’s eye-socket. It smirked knowingly.
“Ugh, not you too,” he spun it to the wall. “And stop that grinning, what do you know, you’re a skull!”
He could leave. Leave the madness and never come back. No bizarre proposals, no more talking to the skull, no more running round London after men much bigger and angrier than him. But... He thought of Sherlock, lying on the couch, playing violin at three in the morning, shouting at the telly. How had he done it? Invaded John’s life till he couldn’t imagine him not being there? One of life’s great mysteries. His phone went beeped politely, breaking the silence and his thoughts.
Text from MH: I hear congratulations are in order.
Text from JW: Not sure about that.
Text from MH: I think you should ask yourself how many people my brother is likely to even consider for this sort of thing.
Text from JW: Don’t worry, I have. Is this the bit where you tell me you’ll kill me if I hurt him?
Text from MH: Why tell you? You already appear to know.
Text from SH: Stop brooding, it’ll be fine. Have you told Mrs. Hudson?
Text from JW: I’m not brooding. I will go and see Mrs. Hudson, but only because I’m talking to the skull. This is what you’ve reduced me to.
Text from SH: Don’t be so dramatic. The skull is a good listener.
Mrs. Hudson was predictably pleased.
“Oh, how lovely for you both,” she scrutinised John. “Was that the right response?”
“Er. Well, yes, I suppose,” John said.
“You’re bound to be nervous dear, it’s normal. I remember before my wedding... I threw a vase at the wall,” She patted his knee. “You’ve been ever so good for each other, you know,”
John smiled, despite himself. “I guess,”
“You know, I wish you’d given me more time, I would have bought a new hat...”
The next day dawned chilly, but it was dry. At eleven, John put on his best suit, although Sherlock had said there wasn’t going to be much in the way of a ceremony, because it was unnecessary. They would just go to the registry, everyone would sign, someone would tell them they’d done it right, and that was it. But still, how many times does one get married?
Sherlock was waiting downstairs, also dressed for the occasion in a dark-grey suit with an actual waistcoat. He reached out and adjusted John’s tie. He smiled, and John thought that maybe the world’s greatest detective was actually nervous. But he smiled back, and said:
“Right, let’s do this,”
Mrs. Hudson met them in an amazing confection of a hat (“I do hate wearing the same one twice, you boys are so impetuous”), and Mycroft’s car drove them to the registry office. Mycroft met them there, and shook John’s hand warmly. Mrs. Hudson hugged and kissed them both, dabbing at her eyes with a hanky.
In a little room, John and Sherlock, standing in front of a registrar, signed the marriage certificate. Sherlock reached into a pocket and bought out two plain gold bands. John was surprised, but allowed Sherlock to slip the ring on his finger. Of course, it fitted perfectly, and John tried not to think about how, well, right the ring felt on his hand. Once Mrs. Hudson had signed, there was an awkward moment.
“I’m not kissing you, Sherlock,” John muttered.
“Oh really,” Sherlock sighed, and before John could say anything, kissed him chastely on the cheek. And that was it, they were married. Mycroft cleared his throat.
“I have, in fact, booked us a table at a little place I know. Think of it as a wedding present, if you like,”
The ‘little place’ turned out to be an expensive restaurant in Soho, but the food was good. Mycroft ordered champagne, and made a toast to ‘the happy couple’. Sherlock glowered, but John grinned, drunk on the adrenaline of what they had done and champagne bubbles, and even, just a little bit, on the feel of gold on his skin.
“Are you going to go away somewhere?” Mrs. Hudson asked, as they lingered over coffee.
“Um,” said John, “You mean like, a honey-moon?”
“Hadn’t really given the matter any thought,” Sherlock said. “But I don’t think so, too much to do here, really,”
“Oh, well, that’s a shame,”
Mycroft stood up. “I have to get back now. Don’t worry; the bill is taken care of. Mrs. Hudson, do you need a ride?”
That left Sherlock, who was finishing his coffee, and John, who tapped his wedding band against the side of his cup.
“I don’t believe we did that,” he said softly.
“Do you regret it?” Sherlock asked. Was that a brittle note to his voice?
John grinned at the mad, brilliant, infuriating man he happened to love. “Nope, not for an instant,”