//SMUT WARNING//
Sherlock smiled, a feeling that he couldn't quite place bubbling in his chest, and held out the slip of paper that he'd written his number on just before John had led him from the hall. 'Call me, John Watson?'
John looked at the paper in disbelief. 'You wrote that in the hall. Bit pre-emptive, don't you think?'
Sherlock smirked. 'Nah. I'm irresistible.'
1
'I think it's adorable.' Jim wiped his mouth, grinning widely at the scowl that seemed permanently fixed to Sherlock's face. 'Look at them. So happy.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Mycroft has too many secrets. I, personally, cannot believe he invited Lady Smallwood.' The middle-aged woman sitting next to her husband on one of the back tables was laughing, though her eyes had been fixed on Sherlock's brother for the majority of the reception. 'Her husband would kill him, and so would Graham-'
'Greg.' Irene took her seat on Jim's other side, hair ruffled and lipstick slightly smudged. 'That Anthea is a demon, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me about her before?'
Sherlock waved an arm dismissively. 'Irrelevant. Didn't know her name.' He pulled his tie and glared uncomfortably at the top table. 'Is this nearly over? And why am I not at the top table? I'm far more important than those stupid people.'
'One,' Irene said mildly, 'Those stupid people are your brother-in-law's mother, father, sisters and daughters. Two, you refused to sit up there. You threw a whole fit about it.' She narrowed her eyes. 'Are you high?'
'No, I'm not high.' Sherlock glared at her. 'The rehabilitation programme was far too much hassle for me to go through all over again.'
'Glad to hear it.' Jim, who was carving something into an apple with a wickedly sharp knife that clearly did not belong on the table, stood up. 'Excuse me a moment.'
'He's clearly up to something,' Irene murmured, and Sherlock shrugged, still watching Lady Smallwood: his left arm was itching, just where the needle had penetrated his vein, and he felt itchy and tight and hot. 'He can do what he wants.' He groaned and put his head on the table, curly black hair splaying all over (including Irene's plate: she surreptitiously moved it, wanting to save the potatoes). 'I need a distraction-'
'Hiya.' The voice was polite, low-pitched and decidedly common. 'D'you need anymore wine?'
As Sherlock's head shot up, Irene let out a short but genuine laugh. 'Truly,' she said to the bemused waiter, 'Your timing could not have been better.' Still laughing, she stood up. 'I'll see you later, Sherlock.'
Sherlock didn't even bother rolling his eyes, fixing his gaze on the waiter and batting his eyelashes. 'Good morning.'
The waiter blinked, taken aback by Sherlock's intense look. 'It's- it's two fifty-four.'
'Semantics,' Sherlock drawled with a wave of his hand as he eagerly scanned the waiter. 'Twenty-four...training to be a surgeon...one brother...abusive father...lover of romance novels and...aspiring novelist. Quite a collection.' He watched the waiter closely, expecting a whitening of the face, or a clench of the jaw, or even a punch in the face (it had happened before- Sebastian Wilkes had almost broken his nose).
What he did not expect was an impassive blink of the eyes.
'So...no wine?' The waiter asked again, this time in a bored tone.
Sherlock blinked twice. 'What-'
'Wine.' The waiter spelt it out slowly, head tilted to the side. 'Alcoholic beverage. Often made in France. This one probably is, the groom is a tad pretentious-'
Sherlock, who had been preparing to dismiss the waiter, perked up at the insult of his brother. 'The groom?'
The waiter nodded at the top table (Sherlock noticed how blond his hair was: so light it seemed golden, even in the dimmed light of the hall) and rolled his eyes. 'God, he was pedantic about the menu. The brownies must be cooked for precisely twenty-two minutes. All steak must be cooked medium rare or above- no, I don't care what the individual's preferences are. All cutlery must be two centimetres from each other-'
Sherlock burst out laughing. 'That,' he choked, wiping away a tear, 'Was an excellent impression.'
The waiter stuck out his chest, clearly proud, though still looking at Sherlock a bit suspiciously. 'Ta,' he smiled. 'Do you know him?'
Sherlock looked down, smiling to himself. 'You could say that.' And then, in a fluid movement, he stood and grabbed the waiter's hand. 'Come with me?'
The waiter smiled out of one corner of his mouth and bit his lip. 'I'm on duty, and you're a dick.'
Sherlock mocked hurt, staring at the waiter with wide eyes. 'You injure me...'
'Hamish,' The waiter supplied. Sherlock shook his head. 'Liar.'
The waiter looked up innocently. 'What? My name is Hamish.'
Sherlock knew he was lying, but didn't care enough to push it. The waiter was proving a pretty good distraction, and when he felt like this, he needed a distraction. 'Fine. Hamish. Come with me. I'll speak up for you, if you get in trouble.' He didn't say how he would do it, but he didn't need to- the waiter, Hamish, clearly believed him.
'You're still a cock,' Hamish supplied, and Sherlock shook his head. 'I might be a cock, but am I as much of a cock as him?' He nodded at Mycroft, who was now sneering at a potato speared on the end of his fork.
Hamish grinned. 'Point taken.' He seized the wine, looked around quickly, and then nodded at the door. 'Come with me.'
Sherlock quickly took out a piece of paper, jotted something down on it with the pen Irene had left on the table, and pocketed it. Ignoring Hamish's curious looks and Mycroft's querying gaze, he followed him out of the room, up two flights of stairs and into a small room that overlooked the hall: he could see Irene talking to Anthea, Jim sitting next to a huge blonde boy with stupid eyes. 'Why did you take me here?' He hissed, ducking down. 'They can't see me, I'll be called down-'
'Relax,' Hamish said, amusement clear in his voice. 'One-way mirror. We can see them; they can't see us.'
Sherlock stood up, trying not to look embarrassed. 'Ah. Should have noticed that.'
Hamish flopped down onto the one sofa that overlooked the hall, watching the people. 'God, they make me sick.'
Sherlock sat down next to him, sprawling back and trying not to think about the sweet relief of heroin filling his veins, filling him with that sleepy fulfilment, blocking life and thoughts and everything. 'I concur.'
Hamish laughed, a harsh, dark laugh that made Sherlock raise an eyebrow at him. 'What about my statement do you find so humorous?'
'You're one of them,' Hamish replied. 'I've been doing this job for years, ever since I started at Barts, and usually I enjoy it: weddings are nice, you know? But occasionally, we get a family like this. Most of the people in that room are aristocrats or loaded – they look down on us like we're fucking criminals.'
Sherlock nodded. 'They do.'
Hamish looked at him. 'So you're accepting that they're all huge dicks?'
'You don't know the people down there,' Sherlock said quietly, leaning forward. 'She,' he pointed at Molly Hooper on table 4, 'Suffers from crippling anxiety: being in a room full of people like this takes more effort than you could possibly imagine. He,' he pointed at Victor Trevor on table 7, 'Nearly died when he was a child, and as a result cannot bear to be near or in a large expanse of water or an enclosed space.' His gaze drifted to the top table. 'The groom's two daughters, Rosie and Becky, are constantly told by their mother that their father is a degenerate: the other groom's parents lost their daughter when she was young, and nearly lost their second son a decade later. Even that groom,' he pointed at Mycroft, 'Would and has done anything he could to protect his younger brother, despite the anger and thanklessness he receives in return.' He paused, and looked at Hamish, angrier than he'd been in a very (very) long time. 'Everyone has stories, Hamish. Don't judge-'
'A book by its cover.' Hamish looked at him evenly, and Sherlock noticed his eyes were the colour of the sky. 'Maybe you aren't a giant cock.'
The anger leaked out of Sherlock as quickly as it had come. 'Maybe.'
Hamish didn't say anything else about the party after that. Instead, they talked about other things: university (Hamish was appalled by the fact Sherlock had gone to Cambridge and then graduated two years early), their families (Sherlock couldn't say anything without giving away that he was, in fact, the groom's brother) and their pets (Redbeard). Sherlock didn't know how long they talked, only that when he finally turned away from Hamish to glance at the hall the tables were gone, and everyone was dancing.
'So,' Hamish was saying, and Sherlock shifted his attention back to him. 'Sherlock. Why Sherlock.'
Sherlock grinned. 'Do you want to hear a secret I've never told anyone before in my life?'
Hamish leaned forwards. 'Go on.'
He lowered his voice to a whisper. 'Sherlock isn't my real name.'
Hamish gasped theatrically. 'No.'
'I was named for my great-grandfather, Sherlock Thomas,' Sherlock continued to whisper. 'But shortly before my birth, my mother's brother, William, died, and so they named him after me.'
'William Sherlock?' Hamish laughed. 'So...why do you go by Sherlock?'
Sherlock shrugged. 'I suit it better, and it was always what I was called. And it's actually William Sherlock Scott. Scott is my father's middle name.'
Hamish raised his hands in mock surrender. 'Sorry, sorry, won't get your name wrong again.'
Sherlock laughed and shifted his weight, leaning into Hamish. 'You'd better not.'
'How do you do the deducing thing?' Hamish asked, making no effort to move backwards. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'You called it deducing.'
'That's what it is, isn't it?' Hamish said, examining his fingernails. 'Or, technically, inducing, though the former term is much more common.'
'You're rather smart,' Sherlock teased, and Hamish smiled, a smile so breath-taking that it temporarily blinded the younger man. 'And you're rather stupid.'
Sherlock could feel himself leaning towards Hamish, but for some reason, for the first time in his life, he didn't (couldn't?) stop. 'I think you're probably the first person that's ever called me stupid,' Sherlock whispered, his voice hoarse, and Hamish cupped his cheek, fingers tangling in the too-long inky curls. 'Well, someone had to say it.'
And then they were kissing, lips fitting perfectly, though Sherlock had no idea how that was possible, his hands on Hamish's waist, Hamish's on his face and his shoulder, gripping him, pulling him so closely to him that they almost became the same person, Sherlock trying to hold Hamish to him just as much as Hamish was trying to hold Sherlock-
'Fuck this,' Hamish gasped, and he flipped Sherlock around so he was on top of the younger man, hands frantically working at Sherlock's tie. 'These do nothing for you, never wear them again.'
'Ok,' Sherlock gasped, nodding as he ripped of the tie. 'Right, ok.'
'Good,' Hamish mumbled, returning to kissing his lips and his neck and his jawline, sucking against a spot that Sherlock had never even realised was there before now. 'Sherlock-'
Sherlock just nodded, head thrown back, eyes tightly shut as Hamish continued working against his jawline, and fuck if his dick wasn't already rock hard from Hamish's movements, even through four layers of clothing, and as if he was reading his thoughts Hamish was unbuttoning his dress trousers, reaching into his boxers and gripping his throbbing cock, moving it against his own (when had he had time to get it out?) and Sherlock was almost crying, bucking into the older man's hand, gasping as he chased what he expected to be the most powerful orgasm of his life-
'Fuck me, you're hot,' Hamish rasped, and bit down hard on Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock came with incredible ferocity, closely followed by Hamish, who groaned and collapsed onto him, breathing heavily into his neck. They were both spent, both sweaty, and both fully clothed (save for Sherlock's tie, which was crumpled in a heap in the corner of the room).
Sherlock spoke first. 'I'm the groom's brother. Mycroft's brother.'
'I know,' Hamish replied, voice hoarse. 'Your names are too pretentious for you not to be related.' He paused. 'My name isn't Hamish.'
'I know,' Sherlock acknowledged. 'You exhibited all the regular signs of lying when you said it-'
'It's John,' Hamish continued, ignoring Sherlock. 'John Watson. I lied because- I don't know.'
'Sherlock,' Sherlock said, looking up at the older man. 'Sherlock Holmes.'
The music had stopped at some point: when Sherlock looked down, he saw that the hall was almost clear. 'It appears that my party has left.'
Hamish (John) groaned. 'Right.' He untangled himself from the other man, doing up his trousers, frowning at the sticky white ejaculate all over them, and sighed. 'You're going to get me fired.'
'You could do better,' Sherlock replied, hauling himself up. 'You do know that?'
'Of course I do,' John scoffed, and he threw the tie at Sherlock. 'I enjoy it, though. You meet the most...interesting people.'
Sherlock smirked, nimble fingers doing up the tie. 'Right. Well. I need to go-'
His awkward goodbye was immediately interrupted by a snide, posh shout from the other end of the corridor. 'SHERLOCK!!!'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'It seems my newly married older brother needs me.' He crossed quickly to the door, poked his head out and shouted, 'I'M HERE!'
Mycroft, who was pacing towards him, frowned heavily. 'Where have you been, little brother?'
Sherlock tensed at the nickname. 'I- I got bored. I wandered.'
'You lost the little waiter, then?' Mycroft was smiling, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. 'I see. We're waiting for you downstairs, Sherlock. Please be quick.' With that, he turned and trotted quickly down the stairs, leaving Sherlock in the doorway.
With a sigh, he turned back to the room, only to find John had moved so they were standing close together, merely a foot apart. The older man was a lot smaller than he'd previously thought, standing at maybe five foot six inches. 'You seemed taller before,' Sherlock said, before he could think what he was saying.
John's smile widened. 'You seemed smaller.' His fingers reached up to Sherlock's tie, settling on the knot at his throat. 'And I meant what I said.' He yanked the tie, pulling Sherlock down with it, and kissed him once, gently, on the lips as he whipped it off. 'You look better without a tie.'
Sherlock smiled, a feeling that he couldn't quite place bubbling in his chest, and held out the slip of paper that he'd written his number on just before John had led him from the hall. 'Call me, John Watson?'
John looked at the paper in disbelief. 'You wrote that in the hall. Bit pre-emptive, don't you think?'
Sherlock smirked. 'Nah. I'm irresistible.'
John laughed (Sherlock quickly decided it was his new favourite sound) and kissed him once more, chastely, on the lips, before opening the door and striding out. 'I'll think about it,' he called, and Sherlock, leaning against the door, smiled so widely it felt like his face was about to break apart.
I may have miscalculated, he thought as he lay in bed that night, which one of us was irresistible.
2
'I think it's adorable.' Greg wiped his mouth, grinning widely at the scowl that seemed permanently fixed to Mycroft's face. 'Look at them. So happy.'
Mycroft's mouth lifted into a sort of snarl, glaring at the top table. 'Gregory. Not. Now.'
'Why is father so upset?' Alec whispered to his twin sister. Izzy rolled her eyes. 'Father thinks Uncle Sherlock is too young, for starters, and is also angry that he is not allowed to sit on the top table.' With all the tact of a four-year-old girl, she patted her father's hand. 'There there.'
'Alexander. Isabelle. I am not upset.' Mycroft took a deep breath before looking at his husband with puppy-like eyes. 'Am I?'
Greg's bottom lip twitched. 'Darling, he's a year younger than I was when we married-'
'He's twenty-six, and immature. Also, he didn't put us on the top table.'
'He says it pay back,' Alec noted, and Mycroft turned his withering glare to his son. 'Not helping, Alexander-'
At that moment a heavy hand was placed on his shoulder: Mycroft jerked backwards, and scowled at his brother. 'This, brother mine, is Armani.'
'Everything looks like shit on you, brother dearest,' Sherlock shot back, before fixing a more genuine smile on his niece and nephew. 'Alexander William. Isabelle Sherlock. How are we finding the reception?'
'Fair to middling,' Izzy replied, and Sherlock kissed her forehead. 'I just wanted to check in before my speech- I'm about to do it.' He shook hands with Greg. 'Gabriel. Delighted.'
Greg didn't even bother to correct him, smiling up at him. 'Congrats, Sherlock.'
'Daddy,' Alec said, scandalised. 'Don't abbreviate!'
Sherlock smiled back. 'Thank you. I'm happy. I'm so, so happy.'
Mycroft sniffed, but he couldn't help the small smile that spread across his face. 'I'm pleased.'
Sherlock's jaw shifted, but he nodded at his brother. 'Thank you, Mycroft.' And then, with a small bow at his niece and nephew, he was gone.
'Are you alright, father?' Izzy said worriedly, seeing the look on Mycroft's face. 'Yes, quite,' he replied, staring after his brother. 'It's just- he's never thanked me before.'
Sherlock took his seat next to John, smiling out at the hall. 'Nearly time,' he whispered, and John took his hand. 'I know. And you'll be great.'
'Of course,' Sherlock said, trying to sound sure. 'Of course I will-'
The tap of a champagne glass broke into their conversation, and Sherlock winced as his father stood and raised a glass. 'All rise for the groom,' he said happily, and Sherlock swallowed, glanced at his boyfriend- fiancé- husband. 'Into battle,' he whispered, and John smiled back. 'As long as you're by my side, we can overcome anything.'
Sherlock stood up and cleared his throat. His friends and family (and John's friends) stared back at him.
Imagine them naked, he thought to himself, and immediately shuddered at the mental image. Maybe not.
'I met John,' he began, 'Six years ago. Well. Six years, two months ago.' The crowd laughed, and Sherlock relaxed a little. 'We met in this hall, at that table,' he pointed at Mycroft's table: Mycroft scowled even harder, 'and I have never looked back. I hope to never look back again, because I love him, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I suppose I already made that clear by marrying him, though, so I'll move on to an anecdote that most of you do not know.'
The audience laughed again, and Sherlock straightened up.
'Anyone who has ever spoken to me will know that I deduce people. Usually at first encounter, I will tell them their life story, their family, their job, secrets-' he paused. 'Sorry about that. When I met John, it was no exception. I deduced him, after he asked me if I wanted more wine, but instead of gasping or punching me or just walking away, as most of you did, he ignored me.' On seeing the quizzical looks, he chucked slightly. 'I know. Most of you would assume I would just move on, seek out the next victim.' He smiled at John, who had tears in his eyes as he remembered their first encounter. 'But I didn't. Maybe that's what I was looking for all along- someone who would see past my, um, dickness-' they laughed and looked at John, 'and find the real me.'
The laughter stopped, and all eyes turned back to Sherlock.
'And that's what John did. That is, found the real me. He saw past me, he found me, and he brought me out, into the real world, and kept- keeps, rather, he keeps me here, with him. And I love him for that.' He turned to John, making eye contact. 'I love him for his kindness, his intelligence, his general brilliance, his above-average deductive skills-' there was a smattering of laughter- 'but, above all, I love him because he made me see the good in myself. And I'm sure many of you know how hard that must have been for him. John, we've accomplished so much together, and I cannot wait to accomplish everything else with you as we spend the rest of our lives together. When I'm with you, I am not only great, I am good.'
People were openly crying now, and John had tears streaming down his face. Sherlock, heart aching with love, smiled at him, as John let out a choking laugh, before standing up and throwing his arms around Sherlock and kissing him, hard, on the lips. 'I love you,' he whispered, and Sherlock winked down at him. 'Can't blame you. I'm irresistible.'
'Cock,' John whispered back, and hugged him tighter: Sherlock nuzzled his neck, breathing in John, everything about John, feeling John. 'But you love me.'
'And you love me,' John murmured, and Sherlock kissed his forehead as they sat back down. 'Of course I do. You're just as irresistible as me. That's why I love you.'
And as they sat there, waiting for John's best man, Mike Stamford, to start his speech, Sherlock wondered how he had come so far to be able to say that and mean it.
Because, God help him, he meant it.
He loved him more than anything, and he always would.