Archive of Our Own

"The most beautiful girl or woman in the world would be a matter of indifference to me, but tall soldiers--they are my weakness." Peter the Great.

“Strike out 'tall' in favor of 'short', and I'll agree whole-heartedly.” Sherlock Holmes

“Hmm.” John twitched his nose, and sat back from the email on his laptop.
“Hmm?” Sherlock didn't move a muscle from his repose on the couch.
“Bill Murray's stag do. It's a paintball outing.”
“Hm.”
A long moment of silence descended as they both pondered the wisdom of subjecting veterans wounded in action to a shooting party.
“Wasn't...?”
“Yeah, Bill's the one who carried me out.”
“You don't have to go.”
“I'm a groomsman, Sherlock. I have to go.”
Another long pause.
“He's a moron.”
“Yeah. Little bit.”

The day dawned bright and chilly for May. Sherlock sat suited and ready for what the morning would bring. An interesting client, he hoped. After their breakfast, John had showered and gone up to dress for the stag party.
Suddenly, Sherlock sat upright in his chair, ear cocked to a new sound from above. Thudding footfalls, first one, then another, then a series, had Sherlock's skin prickling, awash with a frisson he rarely experienced.
John's door closed, a duffel scraped against the wall as he rounded the newel post, and heavy steps clumped one after the other as John descended.
“Boots!” Sherlock hissed, as he scrambled up, sidling to the hall doorway to watch John come down. Oh, god! Fatigues! He practically vibrated in place as John revealed himself incrementally with each step down. Sherlock affected a natural stance against the jamb.
“Ah! Fatigues!” he said too brightly, the crack of his voice hardly noticeable.
John hiked the bag farther up his (broad for a man his size, broader than Sherlock's anyway) shoulder, and gave Sherlock a once-over.
“You okay?”
“Yep. Fine. I'm – I'm – I'm fine. So, fatigues?” He nodded. He never nods. He'd be winking next.
“What else would I wear on a combat course?”
“I just, I just didn't realize you still had any.”
“And you would know because you catalog all the clothes in my closet?” John let the bag drop to the floor, and smoothed the snug, tan tee shirt over his flat abdomen, tucking it deeper into the waistband of his desert combat fatigues. Which were likewise tucked and bloused at the top of his boots.
“No! Of course not.” Sherlock grinned. Where had they been hiding? He'd never seen them. And the boots would take up loads of space in a small bedroom. “Um, aren't you afraid of ruining them with paint?”
“Not really. They've seen worse, haven't they?” John set his hands on his hips, wiry triceps flexing. John rarely bared his arms. “It all comes out in the wash.” He smiled ruefully. “Eventually.”
“True.” A warm flush caressed him as he allowed the glory of a dark, fatalistic Captain Watson to flow over and around him. Sherlock's mouth dropped open slightly as John twisted and bent over his bag, rummaging for his brown woolly-pulley. Somehow, the baggier fatigues managed to show off John's thighs and bottom even better than his slim jeans. “Yes, put it on,” Sherlock encouraged softly, “It's chilly out.”
“Yeah, I know. It'll warm up later, I'm sure.” He slid the jumper over his head and down his trim torso, twitching until the padded bits at elbow and shoulder settled.
“Do you have a hat?” Sherlock asked hopefully, but John had already snatched it from the bag and tucked it in his leg pocket.
“No cover indoors.” John smiled. “Well. I'm off.” John snapped to, gave a smart nod and bent for his bag.
Sherlock grabbed his coat off the hook, swung it around his shoulders, and pounded down the stairs after John.
John skidded to a halt on the landing. “What are you doing?”
Sherlock bumped into him, his front achieving complete contact with John's back. God, he could feel the flaps of John's back pockets against his thighs. “Sorry.”
“You going out?”
“I'm coming with you.”
“What? Why? No.”
“Bored.”
“You're bored.”
“Yes. And I'm concerned.”
John's mouth opened and closed. “Why?”
“John. When your nightmares return tonight, I want to know precisely what triggered them.”
John tilted his head. “No, really. Why?”
“It'll be... fun?”
John chuckled, and shook his head. “Fun for us watching you mince around in those shoes in mud six inches deep. Not to mention your poor suit and coat. What happens when you get paint on them?”
“I won't get shot.”
“Oh, yes you will,” John laughed. He sighed. “Go change into something else. I'll wait.”

Sherlock changed into what John later described as Urban Ninja: tight black pullover, black jeans, black Doc Martens, and his coat.
“Because you aren't going to stick out like a black cat on a white couch in a sunroom. Not get shot. Ha.”
The paintball park was one of a chain, and the only one located within London proper. They made their way to the Tube, started on the Jubilee Line (morning rush allowed Sherlock to press up next to John the entire way, noting a slight mustiness to him), changed over to the Upminster District Line, east, east, always east, all the way to the end of the line in Essex (Sherlock regretfully gave John some personal space once the cars emptied out). From there it would have been a forty five minute hike to the park, except a particularly restless Sherlock splashed out on a cab.
“We can walk, Sherlock. It's fine. We're going to be early, now.”
“You can teach me how to shoot while we wait.”
John couldn't argue with that.

Murray was surprised to see the uninvited Sherlock, but amenable, especially when Sherlock paid his own fees for the day. He watched with interest to see Johnny's flatmate lean back into his chest as John reached around to position Sherlock's hands properly on the paintball rifle, adjust his sighting. Sherlock was a pretty terrible shot. Or maybe he just wanted constant lessons throughout the day.
They played a dozen different games on all the courses. The groom's party was small, only five – six with Sherlock, so they were pitted against other groups. They won consistently once John figured out Sherlock's true talent: provocateur. They had him hide in the trees far from the base, be it a bus, the chapel in the zombie graveyard, what have you, then shout out obnoxiously true facts about the other team, inevitably leading each enemy to shout out or step out to start a fight. Shot. Every one of them.
Unfortunately, Sherlock did not keep that talent aimed across the field, he also commented on his teammates, who were glad to get their own back, peppering his torso and backside with painful retorts after each round. Bill thought he knew what Sherlock was like – he'd read John's blog, after all – but, damn, John had left a lot out.

At the end of the day, Sherlock limped about the locker room a bit while the others changed. He hadn't brought any other clothes; John had. They took their time until Bill and all had finished. John, Sherlock realized, wasn't going to change in front of the others. With a last look 'round, John whipped the tee over his head. He squatted on a low wooden bench in front of the locker, rummaging in his bag for the fresh shirt, wiping his pits with the worn one. Sherlock stole a cheeky glance at the scar. He'd never been allowed before. Couldn't see it well. John's shoulders were not as broad as he'd imagined. He looked rather boyish, actually, endearingly pale, and compactly muscled. Beautifully proportioned. Squared-off. Neat.
Sherlock hissed in through his teeth as he took a step away. John's assessing gaze took him in all at once.
“Sherlock, what happened?”
“Oh, it's nothing, John. Really.” He limped once, wrapping his arm around his side. “Alright. One of them got in a good shot. I wonder if you'd mind...?”
“You're asking me to check an injury? That's a first. Come here.”
With a smirk and the 'Yes, doctor' kept to himself, Sherlock stepped next to where John sat. He tugged up his shirt on one side. Many deep bruises pocked his white skin.
“Jesus, Sherlock. Did you turn in to every shot? You could duck sometimes, you know.” He gingerly smoothed his hand down Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock hissed in another breath. “Christ, you probably bruised the interstitial muscles here. That's got to hurt.”
“Mmm. Yes. Bearable.”
“What's making you limp? I mean, I can guess. They got in a lot of shots on your bum.”
Sherlock quickly unbuttoned, unzipped, and skinned his jeans and pants down, presenting a buttock to John's face. John reared back a bit. Then he touched, lightly.
“You coming any time soon?” Murray called from the doorway. “Pints await. Not that I want to interrupt anything.”
“You idiots really hurt him, you know! Dickheads.”
Bill took one look at the glare Sherlock cast at him and retreated. John resettled his attention on Sherlock.
“They nailed your sciatic nerve, I bet. Right in the piriformis. That's an owie,” John pronounced. Sherlock didn't move. “If you're waiting for me to kiss it make it better, you'll be waiting a bit.” John slapped his arse instead. Sherlock jumped and scowled, and did himself up. “Paracetamol when we get back. That's all. Teach you to keep your observations to yourself.”
“I could have said worse. The best man has designs on the bride, you know.” Surreptitiously, he picked up John's shirt from the floor, and smoothed it between his palms, bringing it to his nose to inhale. John finished changing, Sherlock longingly wishing he'd not take off the fatigues, as he handed the shirt back to John to be stuffed in the duffel. He grabbed his coat from the locker, and they proceeded to the pub.
Later, when they returned to Baker Street, John quite pissed, Sherlock not at all, Sherlock sent John off to bed, while he collected the dirty uniform. He would tell John that he was taking all the paint-stained clothing to his excellent laundry, but not before he spread the pieces out on his bed and lay on top of them.
In the days following, Sherlock was reduced to rummaging in his school trunk for his one piece of 'porn': the military magazine he'd carried with him since he'd acquired it back at Harrow. He spent a few lonely afternoons with it while John was at the surgery, until he'd had his fill of fantasy, and a decent case had popped up to take his mind off the memory of John flicking open his military cap and fitting it on his sandy head, fatigues sweaty and splattered with red paint.

“Uh, Sherlock?” John leaned back from the desk to catch his eye as he sat at an experiment in the kitchen.
“Hm?”
“Do you want to be my plus-one to the wedding?”
Sherlock pulled away from the microscope. “Bill Murray's wedding?”
“Yes. I was going to go alone, but Bill's fiancee wants symmetry at the top table, and Bill thought I might bring you, since we all had such fun at the stag.”
“If her idea of symmetry includes boy-girl, boy-girl, she'd be very disturbed by me.”
“I think it's more about having even numbers, with her. But you're pretty enough to be a girl, so...” John grinned.
“Why am I the girl?” Sherlock asked, affronted. “You could be the girl because you're short.”
“Yeah, but I'm a groomsman. So I have to be the man.”
“Why can't we both be men? I mean, of course we'll both be men. This is ridiculous.”
“However, I will be in a kilt. So of the two of us, you'll be the only one in trousers. There's that.” John looked around at Sherlock after silence fell. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock had fallen into one of his blinking reboot moments. John waited. Sherlock suddenly inhaled and locked eyes with John.
“I'll go.”

Knowing how willing Sherlock was to assist with John's own wedding, he shouldn't have been surprised when Sherlock wanted to help with this one, too.
“It's not necessary, Sherlock. I hardly have to do anything.”
“But kilts are much trickier than the morning suits we chose.”
“That's why we're getting outfitted at a hire shop. They just give you everything in a bag. Easy.”
“But what tartan has Murray chosen? What level of formality? I'm sure he's getting it all wrong. He is a moron, after all.”
“Hey. No he's not. Not much. I don't care, really. I'll just show up in whatever kit, drink all day, try not to flash my tackle, and have a good time.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, trace of a smile on his lips.
“I'm going with you to the fitting.”
“Why?” John asked patiently.
“Because it'll be fun.”
“No, it won't. It'll be a bunch of big, hairy, middle-aged men standing around getting measured for monkey suits.”
“Fine. It's because I won't have you looking like a schoolgirl in a skirt when they measure you wrong. It's all about proportion on a man your size. It could go horribly wrong.”
“Nothing wrong with my size.”
“Of course not. You're perfect.”
John preened at that. “Thank you.”
Sherlock waved off the sentiment. “For your height you are pleasingly proportional, even if your hands, feet, eyes, and nose are a bit large. That only adds to the overall appeal. So your clothes need to support that. Thinner materials, snugly tailored, no chunky jumpers.” Sherlock glared pointedly. “You need to take special care with the kilt, John. If you do, you will be stunning.”
Taken aback by the gush of frank assessment, mostly positive, John considered it all. “You actually care what I look like?”
“Of course I do.” Sherlock smiled softly. “I'll be standing right next to you all day. Can't have you making me look bad.” He smirked.
John huffed a laugh. “Sure. You can come tomorrow. Try not to be a dick, all right?”
“I'll make no promises.”
“Of course you won't.”

“Sherlock! What a surprise.” Bill shook his hand, then John's. They went around the group with greetings, Sherlock nodding to the party as he wandered off into the kilt shop, immediately inspecting the samples, feeling the weight of the wool, testing the pleats.
John cleared his throat. “He wanted to come.”
“You two attached at the hip more than usual, eh, John?” The others chuckled.
“Something about weddings with him, I don't know.” John scanned the group. “Something about the detail and planning. He likes it.” John shrugged.
“Detail. Sure. I can see that,” Bill said.
“And he needs to get out and see how the average idiot manages a life.” The boys laughed. “So, we ready? I'm not spending my whole day off with you wankers.” Sherlock had his phone out, busy researching something.
Bill looked over at Sherlock wandering, tutting about the place. “Thanks for agreeing to bring a guest, by the way. I know you were ready to come solo. Francie is kind of all feng shui about this stuff. Likes it all her way.”
John looked fondly at Sherlock. “Yeah. I get that.”
“I bet you do, Johnny!” The best man clapped him on the shoulder.
John turned around. “He's not my boyfriend, Jeremy.”
“Yeah, but does he know that?”
John squared off subtly. “He's my best friend. We're close. He does for me when he can. I do for him. He got me through – ” John dropped his gaze and tamped down anger. “I won't hear a word against him, understood?”
“He's a poncy git. Bloody nosy – ”
“Shut it, Jezz.” Bill stepped between them. “He's fine. He's good to our Johnny. Leave it.”
Jeremy smirked. “Well, at least he won't be any competition pulling at the reception.”
John grinned wickedly. “Sherlock Holmes can, and would, have anyone, man or woman, you set your sights on at that wedding, just to spite you. I suggest you don't encourage him to use his powers for evil, or you'll find yourself a lonely man that night.” Jeremy stared John down, as the rest moved to the back of the store at the call of the tailor. John grabbed Jeremy by the arm to stop him, and leaned in. “Unless you were going after Francine. Sherlock would never be so rude as to seduce a guest of honor at her own wedding.”
Jeremy blanched. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Too right.” John let him go. “Arsehole,” he muttered, as Jeremy joined the others, checking back over his shoulder every few steps.
Sherlock sidled up behind him. “Thank you.”
John turned and cupped Sherlock's elbow. “You heard all that?”
“No.”
John sighed. “Come on.” He steered Sherlock to the measuring stage with a hand pressed to the small of his back. “And you were right about Jeremy.”
“Which one is Jeremy?”
John laughed. “The best man.”
“Oh. Of course I was right.”
John shook his head.

Sherlock waited patiently until it was John's turn. One of the groomsmen broke out a large flask of whiskey, and passed it around, making the whole process more chummy. Although, if you have a flask that large, you might as well just use the bottle it came in. Sherlock abstained, but John was happy and a bit rosy as he stepped up.
The tailor inquired after shoe size, measured him quickly for the jacket and blouse, briskly for his waist and seat, then perfunctorily for length.
“Stop!” Sherlock strode up to the employee. “You're doing it wrong.”
“Sherlock. Be nice,” John bit out, the same time the young man said, “Sorry, sir?”
“John, trust me. No, no, that's far too imprecise. John, kneel.” The wedding party snorted and snickered.
“Sherlock?”
“Kneel. Right there.”
“Nah, do it right,” one of the ushers teased, “like Loki in the Avengers.”
“Yeah, come on, Public School. Dredge up the drama class training and give us a good one.” The rest were laughing, as Sherlock's eyes darted about to gauge the mocking tenor of the group. “Kneel before him, John!”
They guffawed, while John smiled wanly and shrugged. “You remember. 'Puny god'. That one.”
“Ah.” Sherlock looked around, curled his fingers into claws and bellowed, “I said... KNEEEAAAALLLL!”
The men gasped, then hooted their approval, clapping, laughing, easily pleased, all friends again.
“Awesome!”
“Just like fucking Hiddleston.”
More to the point, John knelt down before his personal god of mischief, biting the inside of his cheek. “Good one, Sherlock.”
“Thank you. Musical ear. 'Go along to get along', as my father always tried to tell me. Tape!” Sherlock held out his hand, waiting for the measuring tape to be placed into it. “Thank you.” He ran it through his fingers.
“I assure you, sir, the kilt will fit very well as I size him.”
“Doubt it. You are filling in for the actual tailor who called out due to a nervous condition. Odd, as tailoring is not that stressful, even a zen occupation for some. Going by the state of this measuring tape, he tends to worry it, rolling it over and over to the point of frayed edges. It also has a lavender scent to it, essential oil from his toiletries. Possibly used to calm himself holistically, possibly used to help him fall asleep. You are no more than a glorified shop boy, a cashier adept at filling out rental forms and swiping credit cards. You can't even bring yourself to touch another man comfortably, obviously unused to taking measurements.”
Sherlock cut the blade of his hand against John's hip, finding the top of his pelvis below the waistband of his jeans, tacked the tape with a finger, and dragged it straight down John's trim thigh to the floor beside his knee. He pinned the distal end between thumb and finger, and showed it to the tailor. “Take an inch off that for his kneecap.” That had shut up the groomsmen. Sherlock took in their surprise. “John will be the only one in a proper kilt. The rest of you will look like you're wearing dresses. Trust me.”
Bill shook his head and took a long pull off the flask, passing it on.
John got up slowly. The blushing clerk busied himself with his clipboard, carefully recording John's measurements.
“Sorry about that,” John said to the man. “You'll let me know when it's ready to pick up, yeah?”
“It doesn't matter.” Sherlock held up his phone. “I've already checked with my tailor, and he can have a custom tartan made for you in time. I assume he picked a Murray?”
“Oh, for – ” John rubbed his eyes. He grabbed Sherlock by the elbow. “Come on. Let's go. Bye, guys.”
Sherlock caught Bill's knowing grin as they marched out of the shop.

John took Sherlock as his date to the rehearsal dinner. It seemed only natural. Sherlock was his plus-one, he'd be at the reception the next day. John wasn't going to scrounge up a female date just for the night, and he wasn't going to go alone with an empty plate beside him. Sherlock was happy to oblige. John always appreciated a like-minded misanthrope at his elbow at social functions to complain with. Sherlock was happy to oblige in that, too.
Sherlock overdressed in a charcoal suit and his raisin dress shirt. John liked that color on him, going by the longer and more frequent glances he gave when he'd worn it.
The north-London church was in convenient walking distance to the gastropub where they would be eating after the rehearsal. Watching John line up at the altar wasn't as unpleasant a sight as he imagined, after the last time he'd witnessed such a thing. It rather diluted the potent memory, having John off to the side, not front and center.
He'd managed to skip the rehearsal for John's ceremony entirely, and spent as little time in the church as possible on the day. He hadn't understood until later exactly why it made him so uncomfortable, and when he had, the realization was horrifically upsetting. He wouldn't delete it, so he'd buried it. Not nearly deep enough, it seemed.
Sherlock and John strolled at the back of the pack of friends and family as they left the church for dinner. He inhaled the scents of the June evening, and of John. Content is not a word he applied to himself with any frequency, but tonight it was apt. He looked down at John and smiled to himself.
The pub did a nice party. First, get drinks in, followed by passed courses, and many more rounds. Lots of mingling. Unaccustomed to the drinking culture, and unused to invitations to social rituals, Sherlock did his best to fit in for John's sake. That mostly required keeping his mouth closed, and smiling at whatever was said around him. John seemed pleased, tipsy as he was. It actually worked in Sherlock's favor, in that John repeatedly pulled him by the arm, closer in to the circle, the better to hear a bad joke or a war story. Only three of the party knew each other from the Fusiliers, so Sherlock paid special attention to any hint of information about that period in John's past. Any time John volunteered any tidbit, or confirmed an anecdote as true, he let John see him eat a bite of something nutritious. A shrimp, a cube of cheese, a bite of steak. He really ought to do a paper on how quickly a human can be trained with positive reinforcement, especially with alcohol involved. He gleaned lots of material from John and his cohort.
After dinner, as the ushers and maids received their token gifts from the bride and groom, Sherlock wandered off. The evening of socializing was taking its toll, and he didn't need to watch grown people oohing and aahing over generic grooming kits with the couple's initials engraved on them. He took his prop drink, and pretended to sip it by the back garden among the flower boxes and cigarette butts.
'Hey, Sherlock.” It was Bill Murray approaching, holding out a gift bag, handles looped over his index finger. “This one's for you.” Sherlock looked at the present and frowned. “It was Francie's idea.”
“Ah. Why?”
“Jesus,” Bill laughed softly. “It's nothing, really.”
“But, why? I'm a guest.”
Bill sighed, smiling. “Just open it.”
Sherlock set his drink down on a low wall. He pulled the tissue paper from the bag, and drew out a cheap metal photo frame, a folding diptych. He opened it and stopped breathing for a bit when he saw the subjects.
On the left, he and John stood posed, paintball guns on their hips, shoulder to shoulder, splattered, smiling. On the right, from behind them, someone had snapped a picture of John teaching Sherlock how to shoot, both squatting-kneeling, long rifle propped on a log, John wrapped around Sherlock's back, head tucked in next to his, sighting, gripping his hands. Sherlock breathed in and worried his lip. He nodded. “That's. That's good.” He looked at Bill. “I don't have any pictures of John, really. Thank you.”
“Fran saw that one on my phone. She said you must have it. I agreed.”
“Well, thank you.” Sherlock closed the frame and pressed it between his hands.
“No, Sherlock. Look.” Bill seemed uncomfortable suddenly. Sherlock braced for a maudlin display of drunken sentimentality. “Look. There's the war with bullets, right? Then there's the one after. Johnny almost died in the one after. The one where you come back here, and sit, and feel like shit because you don't matter anymore, and there's no one for you. No one looking out for you. Not like back in Khandahar where we all knew what to do, and we each had a purpose.”
“But you saved his life.”
“And so did you. John told me about that first night with forgetting his cane.” Bill smiled bitterly. “There was another Army mate of mine who should be here at my wedding. He's not. Without you, there'd be two missing. Johnny means a lot. Thanks.” He held out his hand. Sherlock took it. Bill gripped hard and looked him in the eye. “You should tell him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Say something. Life's too short, mate. God knows you deserve each other.” With a final squeeze, Bill let go and returned to the party.
Sherlock watched him go, spotted John laughing near the bar, swallowed down the ache in his chest. He gently rewrapped the frame and slid it back in the bag. He picked up his scotch. He sipped, which turned into a slurp, which turned into downing the whole thing.

For the wedding, Sherlock chose crisp black and white, the shirt a duplicate of the one he'd worn to surprise John upon his return. He liked the covered placket. Very neat. He'd been unable to get the blood stains out of the original after John jumped him, cracking open the scabs on his back and shoulders. He'd asked Anthea to get him another. John's dress today would be Prince Charlie formal, and he would complement him nicely.
John had refused assistance in dressing: not unreasonable. Sherlock planned to give him a thorough tweaking before they walked out the door, though.
He sprang up from his chair, pacing. He itched. Itched. He zig-zagged around the sitting room touching everything. He considered a nicotine patch, just because. He picked up the Persian slipper from the hearth, tipping it out, aching for a cigarette, finding nothing but dust. He didn't want nicotine anyway.
He stopped at the mantel, before the diptych he'd set out beside the skull the night before. A stillness washed over him, feeling the moments from the pictures. He'd been so happy.
Sherlock turned as he heard John come down from his room. He was partially dressed, carrying the waistcoat, jacket, and ghillie brogues on his fingers, but he was a mess. Sherlock rushed to take the extra pieces from him, hang them on the hook, and get him stood in the center of the sitting room.
“I thought you said you knew what you were doing?” Sherlock said.
“Well, apparently, we can't all learn skills from watching YouTube videos. I'd have had better luck trying to fold napkins.” John held out his arms in surrender. “Help. Please.”
“Of course.” Sherlock appraised his progress. Dress shirt with cufflinks and bow tie done up. Kilt on – badly. Hose drooping. “My pleasure.”
Sherlock fell to the task with gusto, unfastening the right two buckles and reaching for the left.
“Uh, hey, easy there. I'm going traditional, so don't drop it.”
Sherlock froze for a moment, stared at the floor for a second, then carefully rebuckled the left hip snugly, then the right, making the two layers of the apron hang perfectly flat. He hooked his thumbs in, sweeping them around to John's abdomen, finding it holding up well. “Alright?” The length was perfect. Plenty of knee showing.
“Yes.” John breathed in deeply. “Very comfortable.”
“Sit on the coffee table,” he directed, pushing John backward. At his awkward attempt at seating himself, Sherlock instructed, “ Smooth the pleats in back with one hand, while poking the front with the other. To maintain... your... modesty... there.” Sherlock flapped his fingers in the direction of John's gaping knees. He looked about. “Flashes, flashes. Ah.” He fetched the garters from the hanger. He tugged up John's cream hose, smoothing his hands up and up each leg, straightening the knit, and adoring the feel of John's calves. Shapely. He rarely got to see John's legs, either. He threaded the garters through the small tartan pennants, fixing them about the tops of his calves, hanging to the side of John's calf (not the front, as some misguided Scottish sartorialists might maintain), and folded the hose down over. He fiddled until the hose sat perfectly under John's (lovely, chiseled) kneecaps, both sides even. He tugged the toe seam straight (he wanted to kiss the tops of those bare feet, worship every little joint, John's beautiful feet), ran his thumb up the arch. John jumped and squirmed.
“Tickles!”
Sherlock looked up. “Sorry. Want the pattern straight.”
“Easy does it, there, Sherlock.” He pressed the apron of the kilt down further.
“Okay. Put your shoes on.”
John grabbed the ghillie brogues, a black, tongueless dress shoe with long laces. He slipped his long feet into each, then pushed them out toward Sherlock.
With extreme competence, he knotted, twisted and wrapped the laces thrice up John's leg, knotting the tassled ends in front, leaving them to dangle nicely.
“I've never seen you in a kilt. How do you know so much about them?”
“I read a lot. Stand.”
John stood. Sherlock came at him with the sporran on its chain. He spun John, looping his arms around his waist, pulling the leather ends through the nearly invisible belt loops in back, buckling, smoothing, hiking the chain over the hip buckles of the kilt. He turned John again, adjusting the hang of the sporran over John's groin, Perfect.
Next, he fetched the waistcoat and short jacket. With the waistcoat buttoned, he embraced John again, reaching to snug the buckle in the small of his back. Done, he smoothed his palms down John's torso a couple of times, ostensibly checking that shirt and waistcoat were in place. He chanced a look at John's face and found the man staring up, expression mild and fond.
“Almost there. Perfect, so far.”
“Yes,” John agreed.
Sherlock helped him on with his dark coat, letting it hang unbuttoned as it was designed to do. Still, it clung snugly, and showed off how fit John was for a man of any age, his trim torso displayed to best effect, the A-line of the kilt hinting at the shapely thighs beneath.
Sherlock grabbed the sgian dubh, holding the knife out. “Left hand or right for your knife?”
“I stab with my left, and shoot with my right. Two-fisted fighter.” They both chuckled as Sherlock tucked the dagger inside John's left hose, just above the flashes.
“I have to admit, Murray did a fine job outfitting you all. Nice choices.”
“Yes, he did.” John admired the matching dagger and sporran, twisting in place a bit to make the kilt move.
“John.”
“Yes?” John looked up to see Sherlock with a small box. “What's that?”
“Just a token.” He opened the box, revealing a long pin. He went down on a knee to John's hem.
“Heh. You're not about to propose are you?”
A sickening silence fell between them.
Sherlock pressed his mouth tightly, and smiled wanly. “No. It's a kilt pin. The Watson crest. I thought you should stand out a little. Not that anyone will notice such a detail.” He lifted the outer layer of cloth, slipping the pin into the proportionately perfect location, a couple of inches above and in from the bottom corner. “It's mostly useless, but may help weigh down the flap, in the case of strong winds. Again, to protect your... modesty.”
John picked up the apron to bring the pin closer for inspection. The silver dagger shape set off a cabochon of jasper in the center, a swirl of blue and grey, with flecks of brown. It went well with both the Watson and Murray tartans in their muted greens and blues. John's mouth dropped open. “Sherlock, you shouldn't have. Really. Just for the one day?”
“After you see yourself, I'm hoping you'll take me up on my offer of getting you one of your own. Go! Walk to my room, use the mirror. Feel how it moves.”
Sherlock's heart leapt to see John perk up and jauntily stride down the hall, arms held akimbo, hips swaying a bit, waddling slightly in his duck-footed gait, until he reached the mirror in the wardrobe. He spun around, checking himself. Sherlock approached behind, smiling broadly, hands clapped together before his mouth.
“John Watson, you are the man kilts were made for. Wonderful.”
“Well, I am Scottish. A bit.” John smiled and met Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. “Thank you for your help. And the pin is very nice.” John adjusted his bow tie, which didn't need adjusting. He turned to face Sherlock, and reached up to adjust his open collar. That didn't need adjusting, either. He tugged gently, making the collar stand up straight. His palms slid firmly down Sherlock's chest, until he got to his lapels, which he likewise tidied, running fingertips underneath. “We should have ordered you a buttonhole. Something in blue and green. Sweet William, maybe.”
Sherlock quirked a smile. “It's fine. I'm minimalist today.”
“Well. We should get to the church.”
“Let's go.”

Weddings really were not Sherlock's area. John in a kilt was the only thing making the day bearable. Sherlock got to stare at John uninterrupted for forty five minutes as he stood as groomsman flanking Murray. He got to watch as John took photo after photo with the wedding party. He was pleased to be pulled into group shots with John, and a few portraits of just the two of them.
You could bet your sweet arse that Sherlock paid close attention to all the hired help this time around, discovering nothing but the usual petty dramas surrounding a wedding. He was less distracted than at John and Mary's, and he had nothing better to fill the downtime than deduce the staff. Not a single homicidal photographer among them. What a relief.
A highlight of the day occurred on the steps of the church, of all places, before the ceremony. The kilted men lined up, faced the doors and mooned the crowd, slapping themselves and wriggling rudely. Sherlock immediately installed the scene in its own closet in his mind palace, determined to order stills and video on the sly. He only had eyes for John's bottom, and it went back into hiding all too soon, the men laughing, flushed with embarrassment. Male bonding experience, Sherlock deemed it (once he regained his senses).
The reception was held in a boutique hotel, north of the church. It used to be a large, brick B&B but had rebranded itself. Put the word 'wedding' on anything and the pricetag jumps. Lucrative. Not dissimilar to the Watson's venue (but not as nice), there was a garden in back (that looked like it was trying too hard) for the cocktails and nibbles, and a large dining room for eating, later. Also for dancing.
Sherlock parked himself against the ivied wall at the back of the building, under the high, central balcony accessed by a set of French doors. He wished for a cigarette, but sipped his drink instead. It was all eating and drinking at these things. Dull.
Sherlock got the impression that he was perceived as a minor celebrity, guests making a point of meeting him, some women making a point of hitting on him. And one man. He sloughed it all off politely.
John finally joined him, sliding into place beside him.
“Give me some of that, will you?” Sherlock handed him his drink, and John took a large, cold swallow of bourbon. He handed it back as he grimaced at the strength. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
“How're you holding up?”
“Only for you, John. Only for you.”
John chuckled. “It's not that bad, is it? Make some chit-chat, eat something? Nice day.”
“John.” Sherlock pinned him with a glare. “This has to be the most boring wedding of all time. Nothing is happening. There isn't even any good thievery going on back of the house. You can usually count on some kind of skimming or back-door dealings in a small operation like this, but no! Nothing like your wedding.”
“Don't go by my wedding, Sherlock. That sets the bar far too high, trust me.”
They stood in companionable silence for a time.
“Are you planning on having sex?”
John sputtered. “What? What brought that up?”
“Oh, Janine told me that sex at a wedding is traditional, particularly among the bridal party. I thought I could help you like I helped her.”
“Oh, like you 'helped her' when you fake-dated her for a month?”
“She didn't mind much, in the end. We're good.”
“You really are too much sometimes. You shag her, propose to her, and dump her. And you think she didn't mind.”
Sherlock frowned. “She didn't mind. Really. She got a house out of it, for god's sake. And I never had sex with her.”
John's brows shot up his forehead. “So, what? The papers were all lies? I mean, they were tabloids, I never believed the 'Seven Times a Night in Baker Street' bollocks, but... really? She joined you in the bath! I heard her!”
“Yes. She was very handsy. Liked to grab me. And the kissing was all right. But, no. I never did.”
John shook his head in disbelief. “Why ever not? She was beautiful. And willing.”
It was Sherlock's turn for disbelief. “Why do you think, John?” He swallowed some bourbon, cleared his throat. “To answer your question, I helped Janine by evaluating potential mates for the evening among your wedding guests. She'd found a nice nerd to dance with by the time I left. I'm offering to do the same for you, although the pickings are slimmer at this party. Only one of the bridesmaids is suitably unattached and open, but she's not really your type. Most of the other women are paired up already, or too young. But I'll do my best, if you like. You look very fit in that kilt; it should be no problem.”
“Sherlock.” John rolled off the wall to face him better. He sighed. “No. Thank you. I'm having a nice time. With you. I'm not going to leave you alone at a wedding to get off with some stranger in a corner. No.”
“It wouldn't have to be so tawdry. I stole a room key from the concierge when she tried to chat me up.”
John laughed. “You think of everything. No. Thanks. I'm good with you.” He favored Sherlock with one of his warmest, fondest smiles, and Sherlock's heart just about broke with wanting.
They settled back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder, comfortably quiet, until John asked, “What are you doing over here, anyway? Acting the wallflower? Why not join me with the crowd?”
“Oh, I'm waiting for the excitement.”
“What excitement?”
“I'm expecting the best man to come out that window any moment now.”
John craned his neck up, stepped off to get a better view of the balcony. “Why?”
“Either he will climb out or get chucked out, depending on how fast Murray hears the gossip going around the garden.”
“But how?”
“Francine has her things in a dressing room up this end of the hotel. You know, change of outfit for later, and what not, probably plans to toss her bouquet from the balcony. I would. Quite picturesque. And, Jeremy, is it? Jeremy had planned to go up and pester her there. He's an idiot. So I'm waiting for the fireworks, as it were. By far the most interesting thing that will happen tonight, I'm sure.”
“But – ” John gestured up to the windows.
“Such a rude best man. At least make your speech before getting removed from the grounds.” Raised voices emanated from a window to the left. “Ah. It begins. I hope he lands on the paving and not the shrubbery. Those are mature rhododendron, wonderfully shaped. Be a shame to break off any branches.”
The murmuring crowd began to turn toward the source of the commotion.
Two male and one female voices argued stridently, increasing in volume, modulating as the bride tried to defuse the situation. No such luck.
The volume rose quickly as Bill and Jeremy burst into the hall and then through the doorway onto the balcony, grappling, fists bunched in each other's jackets, Murray shaking the bejeezus out of Jezz. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Who the hell do you think you are, talking to her like that?” He pushed Jeremy out over the iron railing. Sherlock and John stepped backward.
“I didn't mean anything by it, Bill! I swear!”
“Today of all days! What the fuck is wrong with you? ” He shook him again, Jeremy getting in a good shove, but he pitched backward, going arse over teakettle over the railing. The crowd gasped and screamed, but, with a mighty rending sound, Jezz hung upside down, kilt caught in a scroll of the rail, the tear ripping wider with each thrash, Jeremy's bare thighs and privates flopping in the breeze. Men surged forward to catch him, but he remained stuck ten feet in the air, yelling. Murray reached over but didn't dare disturb the precarious situation, a distressed Francine pulling at his shoulder.
“Get me down! Help! Arghhh!”
Sherlock stared up impassively, arms crossed, gesturing casually with his tumbler. “If you stop struggling, you'll be fine. I wrote a blog on the tensile strengths of various natural fibers, and that wool will hold your mass.”
“Fuck you, Holmes!”
John wheezed out the start of a deep laugh, as the guests tried to form a human net beneath the hanging man.
“I'll just go find someone with a ladder, shall I? Come, John.” Sherlock strode off to the front desk to find his friend the concierge.
Dogging Sherlock's heels, John asked, laughing, “Did you really write that, or were you just taking the piss?”
Sherlock looked down at him, withdrawing a folded note from his breast pocket. “Of course, I wrote it. Here.” He handed John the paper. “I originally went to reception to get something to write on when I realized Jezza, there, might not be about for his speech. Murray will undoubtedly ask you to fill in after he ejects him. I took the liberty of jotting down a basic speech outline for you. I do have experience in this area. Just fill in with an anecdote where appropriate, the soppier the better.”
John's captivated expression preceded a soft, “Fantastic.” It was like the early days.
With a smile, Sherlock dinged the bell on the reception desk. “Front!”

John and Sherlock got shifted down the top table to sit beside the bride and groom, in deference to John's new status as speech-giver. Murray didn't want to think about best men at the moment, so they avoided the term.
Sherlock would have preferred to be seated off to the side, not the center of attention, all the better to slip out to the garden after nibbling at his dinner. However, it was a true pleasure to watch John stand, charmingly, humorously, and adroitly dodging around uncomfortable recent events, and speak from the heart about Bill Murray, the medic who had saved his life. It wasn't hard for John to sing the man's praises, and Sherlock begrudged him not a word of it.
Until he did.
The moment the speeches were done, the cake cut, and he was full-up with other people's happiness, Sherlock exited the banquet room and climbed the stairway from the lobby up to the balcony. He leaned on the rail, then leaned on the door frame, hand on his breast, curling further and further over. Sentiment! Ridiculous, distracting sentiment and pain, and he was lonely, and becoming irrational because he found himself blaming Murray for his heartache. Because if John had died in Afghanistan, Sherlock could have gone on alone, never knowing any better.
But that is not what happened. Instead, it was this. And here he was. Pathetic and powerless and an idiot.
He reached out for the railing and breathed.
John appeared beneath him, looking about. He swung his gaze up, and spotted him. Concerned, he broke into a trot, headed back inside. Sherlock had approximately thirty seconds to pull himself together, and made a Herculean effort. He inhaled, straightened, sniffed, smoothed his suit, fumbled for his phone, pulled it out.
“Sherlock? Hey. You okay?” John grasped his arm until Sherlock flinched, and he let go.
“Fine.” He gestured with his phone, then pocketed it. “Just had to take a call. My mum.”
“Is she all right? Your dad?”
“No, no, they're fine. I just – I'll need to go away for a few days. Visit them. There's a bit of paperwork they want me to sign. Been putting it off.”
“Imagine you putting off paperwork.”
Sherlock huffed softly. “Yes. So I'll be gone for a while.”
“You want company? I like your parents. If you want a buffer....”
“You've got work. I'll go alone.”
John nodded. He adjusted his jacket, and reached down for the kilt pin, examining it. “I've gotten a few compliments on this, you know. Sandy took a fancy to it.”
“Who's he?”
“She's the bride's sister. Do you know what she told me? She said that it was lovely. 'Is it platinum?' she said. 'I don't know, it was a gift', I said, 'surely it must be silver.' 'Oh, I think it's platinum. Look, the metal's the same as my engagement ring', she said. 'That must have cost a pretty penny, platinum. And, oh! The stone exactly matches your eyes. Isn't that lovely?' she said.” John waited until Sherlock looked at him. “Then she asked who gave it to me, so I told her you did.”
“You told her.”
“Of course I did. Then you know what happened? She said 'Oh, bless' in the most knowing, pitying tone I've ever heard, and walked off. Sherlock, please tell me I'm not wearing a thousand pounds worth of platinum. Why would you give me such a thing?” John dropped the apron and smoothed the kilt back down, breath heavy.
Sherlock's stomach dropped to his feet. “I'm sorry. I'll go for a few days, and then things'll be back to normal.”
John moved in and slid his arms low around Sherlock's waist, pulling them flush. Sherlock froze. “Hug me back, you inscrutable bastard.”
Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms about John's shoulders.
John slid his splayed hand up Sherlock's back. It was almost like dancing, almost like when he'd taught him to waltz, but so much closer.
John pulled away. He cradled Sherlock's head and neck in one hand, shaking him the slightest bit. Shaking sense into him.
“You know I love you.”
“So you've said.”
“You never let me know. Why did you never tell me?” Sherlock stood silent. “I'm an idiot, seeing only what you showed me. I was never going to figure it out.” John slid his hand to caress Sherlock's cheek with his thumb. “If you could see your face. So much... just, so much.”
John stretched up, urging Sherlock down, and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's. He pulled off softly, going in again and again, getting no response. “Sherlock?”
“I figured you out,” Sherlock rumbled. “Too late, but I deduced it. You like both.”
“So why didn't you say anything?”
“John, I....” He pressed into John's touch. “I can control this. It'll be fine, soon. I've got you back at Baker Street. I get to see you every day. That's more than I deserve.”
“What you deserve?” John frowned. “You deserve a feast, not scraps, not whatever you can get.” John softly butted their foreheads together. 'If you'd just shown me....”
“What? Everything would have been fixed and over? Mary and the baby? All that horror, forgotten? John, I was thankful that you'd speak to me, never mind anything else.”
“Ah, Sherlock.” John stepped back, shaking his head. Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself now that John's arms were gone. “Where's that room key? We're about to need some privacy.”
Sherlock led him into the hallway, then to the room opposite the bride's, hands shaking as he fumbled for the key card in his pocket.
They slipped through the door into a pleasant bedroom with a poster bed. About what you'd expect.
John paced a few steps, scrubbing his face with his palms. Sherlock wanted to run.
“John, whatever you're going to say, please – let's just go on as we were.”
“I can't do that. I don't want that.”
“I'm so sorry. I'm only human, John. First, you in the fatigues, then the kilt? I thought I could control my reactions – ”
“Sherlock. Stop.” John seized him by the arms. Sherlock froze. “What part of me kissing you just now did you misinterpret? I'm not so sure you are human if you failed to register that bit.”
“You were being kind. You're very kind.” Sherlock averted his gaze, hardly daring to look, to hope. He couldn't stand to hope. He felt John's hand cup his jaw, and turn him gently.
“Sherlock, love. Hey. It's all fine, remember?”
Yes, he remembered. He couldn't recall a moment when he wasn't in love with John, didn't want him in every way. Their time together flashed in milestones of novel emotion, each a quantum stronger than the last: instant fascination upon meeting; John as the shooter of Jefferson Hope; John offering his life for Sherlock's at the pool; the rush of witnessing Captain Watson at Baskerville, John's words at Sherlock's grave; John's stag night, drunk by the fire; John as healer, John as soldier; a hundred fond glances; a thousand quiet moments –
Sherlock sprang forward, seizing John's head in both hands like a crystal ball, staring deeply into his eyes, suddenly able to see a way forward. With a shuddering, moaning exhale, he kissed John deeply, forcefully, until John had to pull back with a gasp. Sherlock plunged in, devouring John kiss by kiss, roaming his face, throat, ears, even his hands, until John had to respond, surging into the fray, kissing, sucking, nibbling at Sherlock's mouth.
As they kissed, Sherlock finally got to touch. He petted John's soft hair, felt the texture of his face, his lean body, his muscles. He inhaled and stilled, letting John continue, but he... he intently, and with great deliberation, stroked both palms down John's sides, inward to his back, down, down, over rough wool and pleats until he was cupping John's bottom. He squeezed, clenching fingers firmly through the folds. He rubbed up and smoothed down, down to John's thighs, and pulled up, ballooning the kilt, scooping up flesh and fabric, rubbing the coarse wool against John's skin until he moaned and arched against him, their mouths still locked.
John tipped his head back. “Oh, fuck me,” he uttered. “Yes. That. Fuck.”
Sherlock did it again – smooth down, pull up, rub, clench fingers, tug John's cheeks apart. That had John humping against his hip. John cursed the thick sporran, and swung it to the side. Sherlock looked down and could have cried – the apron was tented, John's poor cock trapped by the weight and bent to the side.
“John,” Sherlock looked from John's front to his face, “ may I?”
“God, yes. Whatever you want, love. Yes....”
Sherlock herded John back to the bedside. John started to remove his jacket. “No, leave it on.”
John leaned back against the high bed, bracing on his palms. Sherlock dragged his face down John's front as he knelt, taking in every texture and scent, the heat of John's belly, the metal of the buttons. He pressed his face to John's groin and breathed him in, pulling him forward with palms clutching his hips. John threaded his fingers through his curls, caressing the back of his skull. Sherlock purred, and rolled his forehead, happy to stay in the moment for a bit. His mouth caught against John's erection; he began teasing him through the apron, rolling against John's bare skin underneath. Sherlock could smell his musk, now; he began to salivate.
He looked up at John through his lashes, lifting the hem of the kilt.
“Jesus, god,” John whispered. “Look at you.”
Sherlock raised the kilt, receiving a warm wash of heat, breathing in again. He draped the kilt over his head as he made first contact with John's skin, there. He laid his cheek against John's thigh and belly, nuzzling in the dark against John's hair, the root of his cock, exploring with the tip of his nose. John shuddered.
He dragged his lax mouth over John's scrotum, testing with his tongue, sucking in some skin, moving to taste the other side. John's fingers clutched in his hair. Sherlock's head spun with the sensations. He came out from underneath.
“First,” Sherlock said softly, running his tongue around his tingling lips, “I'm going to put my mouth on your cock.”
“Yeah. Hm, yes,” John croaked.
“Then I'm going to tease you, and suck you. You are going to yell, because I want to hear your pleasure.”
“Yes, yesyesyes.” Sherlock had his hand wrapped around John's fat prick, keeping him very hard.
“Then, I'm going to lay you on your back, with your knees over my shoulders, and I'm going to make you climax. Then I'm going to swallow it all.”
“Oh, god, yes. You'll take it all.”
“Yes, I will, John.” He slid his hand up and down slowly.
“Ahh. Yes. Yes you will.” John bit his lip, and looked down at Sherlock's large hand gripping his shaft. “Oh, fuck. I'm never going to last.”
Sherlock smirked. “Come at once, if convenient.”
John began to giggle. “Could be dangerous!” His mirth turned to moans as Sherlock folded up the kilt, and slid his mouth over John's cock. Down and up, down further and up again, down and up, stopping to worship the head. Torturous. John braced himself, and watched Sherlock's face, but his knees kept giving out at the most exquisite pulses of pleasure. Sherlock pulled off and stood, taking a wet kiss from John as he helped him onto the bed, sliding backward a ways, enough room for Sherlock to kneel between John's thighs.
Settled, Sherlock wrapped his arms under John's legs and slung them up, hooking his hands under and around his thighs, John pinned in place and slightly spread. John pulled up his kilt fully, baring himself, sporran chain clinking as he shoved it aside again.
“Nnng... I love kilts!” John choked out, as Sherlock went down again, setting to a rhythm that meant business.
Sherlock stroked John's thighs and bottom as he worked, sent a hand up to John's belly, traced fingertips in John's cleft. John almost levitated off the bed at that. Sherlock gathered some slickness from his mouth, and went back to find John's entrance, teasing with wet fingers until John clenched and shuddered, barely holding on. Sherlock hummed and moaned, hugging John's legs tightly as he bucked. John's hands went back to Sherlock's hair. The more John tugged, the more Sherlock moaned, the louder John got, the deeper Sherlock took him, until he swallowed around him, moaning vibration to the man's core.
John came shouting Sherlock's name and every profanity and deity he knew.
He went boneless, splayed out like a spatchcocked chicken, Sherlock hovering over him, palming himself desperately through his trousers.
“Come here, love. Come here.” John beckoned weakly, plucking at his sleeve with two fingers – the only movement he could manage.
Sherlock crawled up, John tugged him down for a deep kiss.
“What do you want, Sherlock? I'm getting you off now. What do you want?”
“Let me – may I – ” Sherlock fumbled at his flies, hands shaking, pulling himself out, pushing pants and trousers out of the way. “Kiss me, and let me rub on you?”
“God yes. Come here.” John took his weight, let him find his place snugged in the satiny hollow of John's hip. He dug a heel into Sherlock's buttock, clamping them tighter.
Sherlock was already dripping and slick, velvet over steel. His first thrusts were blessed relief. He arched up at first, pressing down hard, eyes closing with bliss at the feel of John under him, until he sought John's kiss, settling his whole body over him, only his hips moving, grinding, pistoning. It was a matter of minutes until he came, moaning, sharing air, John's hands in his hair again.
He collapsed, catching his breath, utterly melting over John's frame. He tucked his face into the man's neck and went still.

Sherlock woke from his doze some minutes later, John still happily acting as mattress, still petting his curls, stroking his back. He'd been out long enough for the dances to have finished and the disco to begin, going by the pounding beat.
“Hi. You back?” John circled his fingertips in his hair.
Sherlock hummed happily, shifting a bit. The slick, warm friction felt marvelous. “I don't want to get up.”
“Then don't. In fact, the next time we watch a movie, we're watching it like this. You are a comfy weight. Not as pokey as you'd think.”
“Mmmm.” They both sighed and lay in silence, soaking in the sounds of the party.
Eventually, Sherlock pushed up, peeling them apart, laughing to himself at the disgusting mess he'd made.
“Sherlock, your hair... is a wreck.” John snickered, as Sherlock felt out the damage.
“No one but me ever touches it. It usually stays as I put it. If this is going to continue, I may have to cut it.”
“Don't you bloody dare! If I had to shave for Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes can keep curls for me! And of course this is going to continue.”
Sherlock smiled, then carefully made his way to the en suite, washing up with a flannel, checking his trousers for any spots. He brought a fresh flannel to the bed. He crawled to John, who lay as he'd left him: hips and thighs exposed, spent cock lying to the side. He carefully wiped him clean, pressing a kiss to the drying spot. He straightened the kilt, reordered John's hose a bit, then lay beside him.
“No. You aren't wearing a thousand pounds worth of platinum.”
“Thank god.”
“It's more like four thousand pounds worth of platinum.”
“Jesus.”
“The price per ounce has only increased, so it's worth more now than when I had it made.”
John rolled over and kissed him thoroughly. “What can I give you, in return?”
Such a loaded question.
“If you would, I'd like to dance at a bloody wedding for once. Let me lead you around the floor, like I did at Baker Street.”
John lit up. “Yes.” He kissed him again. “But first, fix your hair.”

Decorum restored to their persons, Sherlock's hair still damp from taming, they walked into the hall together toward the DJ. The looks they got from so many guests told them that, yes, John was exactly as loud as they thought he'd been. The smirks and pleased smiles from the wedding party itself said the cat was out of the bag. Sherlock didn't care, and John seemed relieved. One less thing on a busy day.
Sherlock left John amid the tables, and made his way to the music booth.
“Yeah, mate? Wotcha want?” the DJ asked over the loud music.
“I need something modern with a ¾ tempo. A waltz. Moderato.”
The DJ nodded, asked for one sec with a finger, and turned to his laptop. After typing in a search, he swung the screen around.
“See anything you like?”
Sherlock scanned the list, “I don't know any of these. It's my first dance. With him.” He pointed out John. “We know each other very well, I haven't just pulled him. Pick something to reflect that, would you?”
The DJ gave him another finger. Sherlock waited as the guy adjusted his headphones, loaded up the next track, started it going, returned his attention to Sherlock.
“I got just the thing.” He winked. “Coming up after this. Go get 'im.”
“Thank you.”
Sherlock hurried to find the videographer. After a quick request to her, he found John with Bill and Fran. He pulled John out of the conversation.
“I hear Three Continents Watson has struck again!” Bill called.
“Yes, yes, yes, we've just had sex, and we're together now.” He tugged John behind him through the crowd. “Blah, blah blah, boring. Do people never stop talking?”
“You weren't bored an hour ago, and you couldn't hear me say enough.”
They fetched up on the edge of the dance floor.
“I'm going to dip you.”
“No you're not. And I only know how to waltz.”
“I got us a waltz.”
“Oh.”
As the current song wound down, the DJ changed the lighting to moody blues and toned down the swirling spots to a gentle mirror-ball effect. The serious dancers prepared for some serious moves, while the mere bounce-in-place people fled. John led Sherlock out onto the floor. There was plenty of room for them.
"The song began," bare piano, soft drum, followed by swelling strings set the tempo. They took position, clasped hands lifted, John's right on Sherlock's shoulder, moving to caress his nape, Sherlock holding him close, hand covering John's shoulder blade. John stepped back as Sherlock moved forward; they fell into a well-practiced pattern with ease. One-two-three, one-two-three, they relaxed into it, eyes locked, smiling, traveling the length of the floor. As in all things, John let Sherlock take them where he would, trusting they'd not run into trouble. Much. They maneuvered smoothly around the wanna-be waltzers who rocked back and forth in place.
The lyrics began, the male singer a bit nasal and melancholy, sounding rather like Aimee Mann: emo, yet optimistic.

You've gotta hope that there's someone for you
As strange as you are
Who can cope with the things that you do
Without trying too hard

They listened to the lyrics, and smiled harder.
They danced the way they moved on the street chasing a suspect – perfectly in sync, anticipating the thoughts of the other.

As we move along
With our blinders on
Each one of us feels a little stranded
And you can't explain or understand it
Each one of us on a different planet
And admist all the to and fro
Someone can say "Hello,
Here we go"

“You picked this?” John asked, impressed.
“Nope.”
“I am going to tip the shit out of that DJ.” John exclaimed.
“It is good, isn't it.” He smiled and pecked John on the mouth, then led them into the turns at the end of the floor, guiding them up the other side.
The song wound down.

The feeling that someone really gets you
It's something that no one should object to
It could happen today so I suggest you
Skip your habit of laying low
It's the end of the things you know
Here we go
Because someone can say "Hello,
You old so and so, here we go"

John braced for the inevitable. Sherlock turned him once, reset, then cradled John's torso, and bent him back, and up again, flawlessly, to hoots and whistles.
“You bastard,” John laughed amid scattered applause. The DJ continued with another waltz, INXS's 'Never Tear Us Apart.' “I lead now.” They found the rhythm, John trying to sex it up a bit with hip and shoulder action, Sherlock maintaining a prim, yet fluid frame. “Nice. Fairly butch for a waltz.”
Sherlock chuckled and relaxed a little. He let John keep leading as 'A Thousand Years' kicked in.
“Hmm. Soppy.”
“We'll live.” John gave him a soppy kiss.
When that ended, and “Night Fever” began, Sherlock asked, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes?”
Sherlock swapped to lead, and thrust them into a sexy, tango-y hustle. John hardly stepped on his feet at all.
They danced for another half hour. Whatever music came up, Sherlock knew the ballroom for it, murmuring instructions of upcoming moves in John's ear. Finally, John had to call a time-out.
“You are a brilliant dancer. I've never told you that. Brilliant, fantastic, amazing.”
“Thank you, John.”
John's face showed plainly that he understood it was not just thanks for the compliment.
“You want to get out of here?”
Sherlock found himself blushing. “Yes.”
“Personally, I can't wait to get back to the flat and your bed.” He fumbled in his sporran, pulling out some notes. “Be right back.” True to his word, Sherlock watched him thank the DJ and slip him the money. He rejoined Sherlock, casually sliding his arm about his waist.
Sherlock dipped his head and sighed. “I've always wanted you to do that. Like you do with all your girlfriends.”
John held him with both arms. “Let's go home.”
On the way through the lobby, Sherlock slid the illicit key card and twenty pounds across the desk toward the concierge. “So sorry, but that room will need a pick-up. Good evening.” They scarpered, sniggering like teens, grabbing the mini-cab haunting the drive of the hotel.

They rushed out of the cab, the anticipation of sex heightening the closer they got to home. They clambered into the foyer, crowded each other getting inside and upstairs. Sherlock moved to have John against their door, but found himself there, instead. John was a beast. Sherlock liked it.
John tugged at this suit. “Off. These off. Now.” He kissed Sherlock's long neck up and down, gnawing on the muscles, sucking on his clavicle. Sherlock did his best to peel his suit away, and didn't object when John managed the same.
“Leave the kilt on?” Sherlock asked.
“Oh, yes.”
With a pool of tailored finery left at their feet, they moved to Sherlock's room, yanking off the odd sock, until the only scrap of anything left between them was the kilt.
“Ohh. John,” Sherlock moaned, flat on his back, John straddling him, mouthing his face, neck, torso, biting at his nipples. “Yeh – yes!”
“Like that, do you?”
“Yes. Do it softly again. Oh, god!”
It became apparent that John's tongue was greatly responsible for his sexual success across the decades.
“My turn to worship you,” John husked out. “Lie back, and try not to disturb Mrs. H when you come, yes?”
Sherlock reached for John's bottom under the pleats, cupping it in both hands. “Yes, sir.” He smiled broadly, then closed his eyes. One hand slipped around front and lightly stroked John's groin. John bucked and hummed.
“Don't distract me.”
“Can't help it.”
John took his mouth, which shut him up and gave him something to think about. John pulled off after a minute. “I'm going to suck you. All right?”
Sherlock opened his eyes wide and nodded.
John hesitated a moment, registering his awed expression, but began his slow descent, taking his time about it, attending to every mound and valley along the way.
Sherlock looked down his body to see John kiss and mouth the head of his cock, growling with pleasure as he worked the foreskin with his tongue, flicking the ridge, running the tip right around. John played with the texture of the head, nipping at the crown repeatedly, rasping the sensitive area below it with the flat of his tongue. Sherlock writhed, making unearthly sounds, resonant moans.
John moved up to his mouth, grasping Sherlock's prick, fucking the head in the circle of finger and thumb, as he mimicked the movements on Sherlock's lips. He softly nipped and sucked at his bottom lip, flicking with his tongue, caressing his springy top lip between his own.
“Your mouth is pornographic, you know that, don't you?” John suckled at his mouth again, softly, intently. “The curves of it, the color, the texture... For years I've looked at your mouth and thought of nothing but sex, every time I saw it.” John kissed him and hummed. “Like looking at an orchid or a rosebud. So suggestive.”
Sherlock shuddered. “John,” he whispered. “Please. Use your mouth again. Please.”
“Anything.”
As John fellated him, Sherlock arched back, hands reaching down to thread through John's hair. A tingle started in his toes. He clenched his hands rhythmically to direct John's pace, holding a deep breath as arousal quickly built, a full-body hum, lest he ruin what promised to be the best orgasm he'd ever experienced. He held still until he had to buck up, fucking John's mouth. John took every thrust, moaning and sucking, pulling, swallowing – God! “Haaa! John! Hnnnggh!” he bellowed. He came down vocally, too, with hums and panted exclamations, John sucking him clean as he went boneless and senseless.
John knelt over him. “Your hand, love.” He urged Sherlock's palm around himself, wrapping his own hand around it all, pumping into the tightness, slick with secretions. “Say something. Anything. Something sexy.”
Sherlock panted softly, rolling his head. He started with his name, sloppy, soft, “Tchonnn....”
“Yes.”
“Mine.”
“Yes, love, yours.” John thrust harder.
“Mine, now.”
“Yes, oh, yes.”
There was a pause. John looked up.
“Really mine, now?”
The uncertainty on Sherlock's face just about broke John, he hitched forward and came on their fists. “Yes! Yours! God, yours!” he strained out.
John braced on an arm, panting, while he wiped his hand on the pillowcase.
“This is coming off.” He undid the buckles at his waist, peeled away the abused kilt, and dropped it over the side of the bed. Finally skin to skin, he settled beside Sherlock, an arm and a leg draped over. Sherlock managed an arm about John's shoulders as they pulled up the sheet.
“My John, now.”
“Well, you did pin me. So, we're at least going steady.”
Sherlock dredged up the strength for a deep chuckle.
John grinned against his skin, and fell off to sleep.

“John?” Sherlock sat up in bed, nude, feeling a bit sticky and confused. Morning light and the smell of coffee and frying things urged him awake fully. “John?” Suddenly, he was unsure if yesterday was a dream or not.
Quick footsteps came down the hall, and John burst into the room. “What?” Sherlock was struck dumb. John stood there, holding the doorknob, in an apron and his fatigues. “You okay?”
“Um, yes. Good morning.”
John cracked a warm smile. “Morning. Barely. You slept the night through, and most of the morning. I couldn't lie there and wait for you any longer, so I got up and started breakfast. You hungry?”
“Very.”
John pursed his mouth coyly. “For food?”
“Yes.”
“Well, get that gorgeous arse of yours out of bed, then.” He retreated to the kitchen.
Sherlock mused on the sudden, bewildering state of his life for a moment, then scrambled out of bed, ripping the top sheet off the mattress, draping it about himself. He padded to the kitchen doorway, and paused, watching John poke at the tomatoes in the pan. He stood there, just looking. John's tee shirt showed him off so well, the cargo fatigues with their unruly pocket flaps sticking out from his bottom, his thighs flexing subtly as his shifted his weight back and forth in bare feet – it was all too affecting. So, Sherlock stood there, in awe, in love, and forgot for a moment that today he was allowed to have.
He took slow steps toward the stove, hem dragging, stopping just behind John. He adjusted the sheet on his shoulder, and reached out a hand. He rested it on John's hip, caressing with his thumb, then slid it forward, wrapping around John's belly, the other hand snaking around, as well. He tucked his fingers inside the apron tie.
John leaned back into him. Sherlock rested his chin on John's head, breathing in. He squeezed John tightly, pressing his lips to John's neck. John tipped to the side to accommodate the kiss, as he rolled the sausages in the pan.
“Do you really have to go visit your parents, or was that subterfuge?”
“Not really. No real plans.”
John swayed side to side, rubbing his bottom against Sherlock's front. “I was hoping we could get out of here for a few days. Get away from interruptions, you know?”
“A sex holiday?”
“Absolutely.”
“Janine still has her cottage in Sussex. I'm sure she wouldn't mind lending it. Hm. I could muck around with the hives.”
“Sold.”
Sherlock tucked John's head under his chin again. He sighed deeply. He frowned. He sniffed. He sniffed lower. Lower, to the shirt, lower toward the fatigues. “You don't smell.”
“Yeah, you really need to up your romance game, some.”
“No, your fatigues don't smell of mold, now.”
“Your cleaner is very good. Got out all the paint and everything. Thanks for that.”
“You're welcome. But, you've been keeping them in your room since they came back, and they don't smell of mold.... Oh!” John jumped as Sherlock exclaimed directly in his ear. “221C! You stored them in the basement!” Sherlock grinned the smug grin of the very clever.
“Yes, next to the washer and dryer. In a large storage rack. Which you would have known if you'd done the laundry. Ever.”
“Solved it without leaving the flat.”
“Or dressing in more than a sheet. Fantastic.”
Sherlock hugged John tighter, kissing up his neck to his jaw, pressing lips to his ear. “So you liked the kilt?” he asked hopefully.
“I did. Yes.”
“Want one?”
“Definitely.”
“Good. Today, we'll go to my tailor, get you measured up. I'm getting you a red one for Mondays, at least. Stewart Mondays. And Black Watch Tuesdays. And Watson Wednesdays. And a cotton duck one for summer, and for stakeouts in grubby alleys. And a camouflage one with cargo pockets for paintball. I liked paintball – we have to go back again. And you'll need appropriate socks, and more tight tee shirts.”
“And a more utilitarian kilt pin, please. I'm not wearing that beautiful thing out running about London.”
“One simple kilt pin. Done.” Sherlock stilled around John. He wanted to put something else on John made of precious metal, to keep all others away.
John caught on to Sherlock's deepening mood. He squeezed the arm around his chest with his free hand. “Go pour the coffee, love, while I do the eggs.”
With a final nuzzle, he let go, and fetched the mugs. He put two sugars in his, left John's black.
John cracked eggs into the sizzling fat in the pan. “Thanks to you, I may never wear underpants again. What'll I do if I get cold?” he asked innocently.
Sherlock set the coffees on the kitchen table, turned to the drawer to collect utensils and lay the table, all the while thinking of potential solutions to John's problem. John looked at him over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in challenge. “I suppose I'd have to use my mouth to warm your bits back up again. Let's hope things never get that dire.”
“God forbid,” John chuckled. “Right. Note to self: book winter holiday to Iceland; pack summer kilt. Check.”
Sherlock laughed into his coffee.
John scraped up the components of breakfast from the pan, distributing them evenly on plates, wiped his hands on the apron, and took it off. He tossed it on the counter, and set the food out. He grabbed toast slices from the Dualit, plopped them on top of the plates, dragged out his chair, hitched up his fatigues, and sat down to their feast.
“Eat up. We're both depleted of protein. I think we'll need to supplement for a while.” John smiled as he dug in, awkwardly cutting with the fork in his left hand. Sherlock could watch him eat all day. Could watch him for the rest of their lives. He'd never get tired of John.
He murmured, “Two people who currently live together, attended church, went to a party, are going on a short holiday, and will carry on living together.”
“What's that?”
“Nothing.” Sherlock smiled to himself, and sipped his sweet coffee.