Sherlock estimated the cathedral was a hundred and fifty years old, practically modern by British standards. Mycroft would be horrified. Stuff a church full of flowers, invite all your friends and family, stand in front of a priest and parrot his words like an imbecile. All of this for that. Mrs. Hudson was ridiculous for thinking a wedding would change anything.

Sherlock glanced sidelong at John in his finery. The suit really was flattering, and without Sherlock wearing the greatcoat, John didn't even look all that short. John's eyes were fixed on the wooden doors of the cathedral. He didn't look over at Sherlock.

Any second now, John thought. From his peripheral vision he saw Sherlock staring at him, but John didn't turn his head. Sherlock was probably deducing the entire cathedral, all of his family and friends, and John would very much prefer not to know what Sherlock thought of them. Sherlock had given John a list of the people who hated him, too. It was just the wedding's attendance record.

Sherlock disappeared. Probably taking up his violin. John's palms began to sweat.

Focus, John thought. At any moment the cathedral doors would swing open and Mary would walk in, dressed in cream lace. Wife, John thought, testing out the word. Wife. His wife.

A single violin began to play the wedding march; a hush fell over the crowd as they stood. The cathedral's huge wooden doors creaked open. John was blinded by sunlight.

Mary smiled. All eyes on her. It was something she was still getting used to: the sensation of being seen. Archie looked back at her, somewhat uncertainly, so she turned her smile on him. The frailty him... so small. It terrified her. She pressed the bouquet against her stomach.

They began to walk down the aisle. The flower girl first, the daughter of one Janine's friends, whose name Mary didn't know; Archie, still glancing back once every two steps, and Janine behind him, her arm as bare as Mary's.

Five years since Mary became Mary and when she looked at a crowd she still saw pulse points and jugulars. People assumed that a kill shot had to be the head. They were wrong. A bullet didn't even have to pierce someone to kill them.

Mary's eyes refocused. On John. He was so good at that. When she felt herself slipping into memories, John steadied her. He saved lives. Always had. Mary took them.

The violin music swelled.

The last note of the wedding march clung to Sherlock's bow. He placed it back into the case and shut the lid firmly before taking his place at John's side. John was smiling at Mary like she lit and warmed the world.

Sherlock discreetly checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to go, assuming everyone remembered their lines. He was glad John and Mary had opted for the more modern, speedy ceremony. If they hadn't, Sherlock would've needed to make a bomb threat.

The sooner the wedding was over, the sooner John and Mary's marriage could begin. Sherlock estimated it would last eight to ten years, longer if Mary quit her nursing job at John's office. Working together, living together, being married together; it would all prove to be too much very soon. Sherlock only hoped that John wouldn't take it too harshly.

Sherlock would be there for him.

"Until death do us part," John said, closing the ceremony.

Until the very end.