much ado about muffin

“It suits you,” John said.  He was focused on his own hand, on the place where it met Sherlock’s chest.  A crease formed between his brow, and something in his expression shifted.  “Not just the tie.  The whole...look.”  He sounded strangely sad.

It was Sherlock’s turn to swallow noticeably.  “Well, don’t get used to it.”  His voice sounded odd even to his own ears.  He cleared his throat and tugged a little bit too hard on John’s tie as he was feeding the end through a loop, making John sway toward him.

Instead of pulling back, John let the momentum carry him closer, taking one step forward and curling his hand into the lapel of Sherlock’s suit to steady himself .  The movement carried the scent of his cologne, hardly ever worn, through the air, and Sherlock was bombarded with a thousand conflicting thoughts that ultimately ranged from “John is close enough to kiss me” to “John is wearing that cologne for his soon-to-be wife” in about two point five seconds.

“Almost done,” he said, if only to break the silence.  He was focused on John’s tie, not daring to look up and meet his eyes.  He feared that, if he did, John would surely see everything he was trying so hard not to feel.  He just had to get through this day.  That’s what he kept telling himself.  If he could get through this day without feeling, then tomorrow he could allow himself to fall apart.

“Would you tell me if you thought I was making a mistake?” John asked.  His hand was still caught up in Sherlock’s suit.

Sherlock’s fingers fumbled on the knot he was perfecting.  “Don’t be ridiculous.’

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t answer stupid questions.”

“You practically make a living out of answering stupid questions,” John pointed out.

“Exactly, I get enough of them at work, I don’t need them at home, too.”  He yanked a bit too hard on the knot, and John’s other foot came forward so that they were toe-to-toe and John’s forehead bumped against Sherlock’s chin.

When the fight-or-flight response kicked in, Sherlock was usually in favor of a good fight.  But right now, his body was screaming at him to flee, to get himself away from John Watson as fast as he could.  He was about to do just that, had already begun his escape by taking a step back when—

“Wait.”

It was his greatest weakness, really, that John Watson could command him with just a word.  When they were out in London, chasing a case or foraging for clues, Sherlock was in control.  Of himself, of their actions, of each and every decision.  But here, in the back room of a drafty chapel, on this day when John Watson’s happiness was the only thing that mattered, all it took was one word to make him ignore the screaming in his head, to make him abandon his own self-preservation instincts and keep his feet firmly planted.  John Watson said “Wait,” and Sherlock Holmes froze where he stood, his eyes falling briefly closed in an attempt to block out whatever came next until he forced them open again.

“Your tie is done,” he said, looking somewhere over John’s left shoulder.

“Sherlock.”

“I did it perfectly, if I do say so myself, and I do.”

“Sherlock, look at me.”

“The ceremony will be starting soon, we need to—”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock!”

“What?”

John yanked at the bit of jacket he still had a hold of, and Sherlock stumbled forward, his hands grasping for purchase.  He found it in the form of handfuls of John’s own jacket, and he gripped it in fistfuls that were surely doing absolutely nothing good for the fabric.  When he finally had a hold of himself again, he found John’s blue eyes inches from his own.

“You said ‘home,’” John said.

Sherlock was thrown.  “I—what?”

“Just a second ago.  You said you didn’t need stupid questions at home.”

“I don’t...what’s your point?”

“You’re not at home.  I’m not at home.  In fact, we’re at no one’s home right now.”

“Your priest might argue that you are, in fact, in God’s home—”

“But you still said ‘home.’  Why?”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times.  There was a strange look in John’s eyes, something feverish and questioning that Sherlock didn’t understand.  He knew the answer to John’s question the second John asked it, but it wasn’t an answer he could conceivably give.  Not when they were standing in a church, preparing for John’s wedding to someone else.

“Slip of the tongue,” he said finally.

“I don’t believe you.”

It wasn’t his most convincing lie, truth be told.  He tried a different tactic.  “John, we don’t have time for this.”  He tried to pry John’s hand from his jacket so he could flee.

John only tightened his grip.  “Tell me why you said home.”

“I told you.”

“No, you didn’t.  Stop fighting me.”

“Then let me go!”

“Not until you tell me why.”

“John—”

“Why did you say home, Sherlock?”

“This is a waste of time, your bride is waiting!”

“That’s why I need you to tell me!”

Sherlock threw his hands in the air.  “Because you ’re my home!” he practically shouted.

And then the world went very still.  Sherlock, breathing hard, cut his eyes away from John’s face, his hands falling to his sides and his face flushing hot.  He couldn’t think past the words he’d just put into the air between them, and his heart kicked against his ribs like an angry bird.

“Christ,” he whispered, and he tried, again, to back away.  “I—I’ve got to go, I’m not...this isn’t how today was…”

But John still had him, and he wasn’t letting go.  In fact, he was pulling Sherlock closer, his other hand coming up to curve around the back of his neck.  And Sherlock’s world shrank to the color of John’s eyes as he was pulled in until they were all he could see, until John’s lips against his own were all he could feel.  He very nearly let himself fall into it, very nearly let John steal his breath and stop his heart.  John’s lips had just parted, seeking more, when the church bells began to ring somewhere high above them, and Sherlock jerked back, stumbling until his back hit the wall.

“You’re getting married,” he said, and his voice trembled traitorously.

Part of him was angry, furious with John for putting him in this position at this moment, when all was already lost.  But most of him was just exhausted and aching, longing for this day to be over so he could return to the sanctity of Baker Street and flush these godforsaken feelings out of himself.

John hadn’t moved, had let Sherlock flee this time, but his expression was soft, and his eyes were too bright.  “Now who’s being stupid?” he asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and shook his head hard, probably ruining his perfectly crafted hair.  “What are you talking about?”

“Sherlock…”  John’s voice held his name like it was something precious.  He heard the soft sounds of John’s footsteps, felt John’s hands slide beneath his jacket, onto his waist, and when John spoke again, his lips tingled against Sherlock’s ear.  “You’re my home, too.”

He pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s breath shuddered out of him.

“John, it’s your wedding day,” he said hoarsely.  “I’m...you can’t tell me this on your wedding day.”

“Would you rather I waited until after my honeymoon?”

A strange sound, half-sob, half-laugh, got caught in Sherlock’s throat, and he gripped John’s arms tightly, pushing him back enough that he could see him properly.  “This isn’t funny,” he said in as serious a voice as he could.

“You’re right, it’s a fucking travesty,” John said.  “How did we let it get this far?  I was about to walk down that aisle and marry someone else, and you were just going to stand there and watch it happen?  What the hell is the matter with us?”

“I thought it was what you wanted.”

“Well, it’s not.”

Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall and let out a long, low breath.  “What do you want then?”

John reached up and brushed a loose curl back from Sherlock’s forehead.  “I want to go home.  All I’ve wanted since you came back was to go home.  With you.”

“That’s not true, you also wanted to punch me when I came back.”

John’s breath of laughter was enough to make Sherlock smile.

“God, we must have the worst timing of anyone in the world,” John said softly, his fingers lingering against Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips.  “I don’t care, kiss me again.”

John didn’t hesitate.  He pushed up onto his toes and pulled Sherlock down to meet him all at once, and this time, when he parted his lips, Sherlock didn’t pull away, didn’t try to flee.  He let John’s body press him against the wall, let John’s hands slip around to the small of his back where they dipped dangerously low, and he let John’s breath become his own, let his heart match its rhythm to John’s until he felt like it might actually burst out of him in an attempt to be as close to John as possible.

There was so much they needed to do.  They’d have to tell the guests.  John needed to talk to Mary.  Sherlock would have to punch Mycroft in his smug ‘told-you-so’ face later.