As promised, the sequel to Silhouettes!

Eight chapters, spanning the last two episodes of series 3. There are, of course, a few details that you'll have to ignore - things I mentioned in Silhouettes, such as John's flirting *cough*. Also, if you're interested, there is a bridge chapter at the end of Silhouettes that will help connect the stories a little.

-XXX-

"Lilac," Sherlock insists, and John and I exchange a glance. Across the room, Mary and Sherlock share a look of their own. This wedding had been a field day for Mary and Sherlock's relationship, a wonderful experience in bonding between them. If they hadn't already both been otherwise engaged – one literally, the other, more informally.

John and I had been bonding as well. Both deemed "useless" in the business of wedding planning, we were often sidelined. Not that either of us minded in the least. Truly. The details that John cared about were minor, and easily enough dealt with. We are usually resigned to the pair of armchairs beside the fire, listening to the pair discuss the pros and cons of lilies verses sunflowers. It's would typically be mind-numbing, but somehow Mary and Sherlock make it quite thrilling.

It's a little odd, spending so much time with people that are nearly a generation above me. Mary and John welcomed me into their circle with open arms, though there is still a little awkwardness. I am painfully young. Sherlock seems to not notice, though there are clear distinctions that mark me from their group. Maybe it's because Sherlock already stays up to ungodly hours, has a severe internet addiction, horrid attachment to his phone, and abuses illegal substances like a seven-year-old pixie sticks.

The four months that have passed since our reunion have been fairly lovely ones, awkward collision of friend groups aside. We're not attached at the hip, by any means, but to go more than 3 days without one another had proved hard. Not that Sherlock would ever say as much – though, if it's been any longer than 72 hours, I have a tendency of finding him propped up somewhere in my flat (a true feat, as I've yet to make him a key). If not at my flat, he turns up, unannounced, at Pinstripes. It's usually a night when I am covering piano and vocals. He'll sit at the bar, nursing a scotch, listening. Then, after my shift, he'll walk with me home, or hail a cab (I'm nowhere near financially stable enough to take a cab unless in the most dire of circumstances, making for yet another awkwardness between us – financial differences), though not always. Some nights I find my elbow being taken up and myself guided towards 221 Baker Street. And, despite my protests of homework or essential readings for classes, I find myself curled against white sheets in the too-clean room on the second floor.

Yet another problem has been the "drop everything when I beckon" attitude that Sherlock has yet to grow out of. I receive series of texts in class, I'm often forced to step out in to the hallway, fearing someone's demise or injury. But this has never been the case – it is only Sherlock, demanding that I meet him at the docks or in some alley or in a library.

"Whatever for?" I ask, typing angrily beneath my desk.

"Case," is all he replies. "Come soon. John cannot."

Of course, I'm also second fiddle to Dr. John Watson. I do not take this fact with the least bit of bitterness. It's actually a bit of relief, I think, to both of us, as now Sherlock has two people on which he can direct his focus. It's a pingpong of sorts. When John tires he bounces Sherlock back to me. This had occurred more frequently than in their former days, I believe, as John is quite preoccupied with his upcoming nuptials. Sherlock has not quite grasped that life when on after his staged death; meaning that more often than not, the ball is in my court.

It's been weird. We know this. And we're working on it. I think.

As Sherlock analyzes the dreadful cousin's envelop, John asks over his paper, "Have you bought a dress yet, Viola?"

"Oh, not quite yet," I say distractedly, caught off guard. I'm preoccupied with a chapter from one of my history books – Latin American Climate of the 1860s – and I hardly glance up from the page to answer. "Though I've kept my eye out. I'm rather fond of purples and yellows, but I'd hate to clash with the bridesmaids, and I did find the perfect dress – in white, so that was a flat lot of help."

"Dress for what?" Sherlock doesn't look up from where he sits at the desk.

"The wedding, of course," Mary answers for us, adjusting one of the table settings on the diagrams. "She won't be able to stand with you or sit with the bridal party, but you'll be able to dance together. Sorry, Viola," she adds. "If I could've fit you on, I would've, but our budget only allowed for –"

"Viola isn't going to the wedding," Sherlock interrupts.

The room freezes. There is a palpable tension as myself, John, and Mary 'round on him.

"What do you mean she's not going?" John asks, confusedly. "She's your girlfriend. She's already RSVP'd, has a table setting and everything."

"Viola is not my plus-one," Sherlock says without looking up from the catering menu he's brought up on his laptop.

"When was that decided upon?" I lower my books to cross my arms. "Sherlock?"

"Last week," he says, a little surprised. "In the morning, Thursday, I think – "

It flashes back to me. Sunlight streaming through the curtains. Curve of warmth against me, tugging back crisps sheet back to fit skin against my skin. A nuzzle against my ear –

"I was barely awake!" I squeak angrily. "And we were –" A high flush rises to my cheeks. I can see Mary grinning, while John looks equally embarrassed as me. Something like pleasure flickers across Sherlock's face.

"Does not mean I didn't say it," he adds with the slightest hint of smugness.

"Why?" I ask.

"You'll be a distraction."

I scoff loudly. "Oh yes. I, your –" I cannot bring myself to say the word "girlfriend." Swallowing, I shake my head. "That's utter silliness."

"I agree," says Mary.

"She's not my plus-one," he says with finality.

The three of us who are not high-functioning sociopath exchange a long glance. With a sigh, Mary stands to hug me, though I remain in my chair. She loops arms around my shoulders.

"Of course you can come, Vi. Don't think on it. You'll be at the seat of honor with Greg and Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Oh, and John has this lovely second cousin we can set you up with -"

"She's not going."

"My wedding," Mary snaps shortly before turning back to me. "Of course you'll come, Viola."

"Of course," John echoes. I suspect he was encouraged to say this with a heavy exchange of expressions over my head between himself and his fiancé.

"No, no, if Sherlock doesn't want me," I say icily, glancing over at the man in question. "Then I shan't go."

"We want you," Mary says firmly. "Your indispensable to us now. It's our day, we want you there. Screw Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't even flinch. "Very well."

Mary turns back to me. "You'd look lovely in blue or pink, my dear. Or perhaps a coral. That would go nicely with your coloring."

With that the subject is changed.

-XXX-

When John and Mary leave, Sherlock settles on the couch, sinking slowly with a sigh before planking himself out. When I pass to pick up my purse, intent on leaving, he reaches out both a foot and hand, simultaneously tripping and grabbing me so that I land, flipped, on his chest. Lifting my nose from his sternum, I frown.

"Tea?" he asks. "That would be lovely, thank you."

"Tea for what?" I reply. "Oh, no, I shan't be making you anything, sir. It'd be quite the distraction."

Sherlock pushes back a lock of fallen hair from my forehead, surprised. "You are upset." It's not a question.

"Why would I not be?" I cry. "You've basically told me you do not wish to be seen in public with me."

His brow furrows. "I said no such thing. I merely do not wish for you to distract me. Between my speech and other best man duties I shall have a lot on my plate."

"Then use that big brain of yours and deal," I snap. "It's only for a few hours and it isn't as though anything I might do would truly distract – if anything, I could help you act a little more human."

He shifts me so that I rest more comfortably on him, my hips flush with his, feet against his, a usual position for us. One hand plays about my waist, pushing up the hem of my shirt to make wide circles with his cool fingertips. He tucks more hair back behind my ears.

"Of course you are a distraction," he says quietly, nearing to breath against my cheek, inhaling. "I shall need all of my focus on that day, Viola. Should you be there, I don't know can maintain that focus."

"You can. I know you can." My lips move against his cheek.

"It appears I shall have to," he responds dryly. "I am sure Mary will insist that we dance. Perhaps even take photos." A sigh. "You women are determined, are you not?"

"It's her day, not mine, Sherlock."

"Mmmh."

He kisses me, leaning up from the pillow to better reach me. The drawings against my waist cease, as the hand instead curls possessive against the flesh, the other creeping towards a more northern direction. After several glorious minutes, I pull back.

"I have work," I gasp, tugging at various hems and straps in an attempt to make myself presentable. "In an hour. I have to go –"

"It shall take you approximately fifteen minutes to get there, five to prepare yourself for work. You have forty minutes to spare, Viola." Hands wrap around my wrists, pulling me back to the couch.

I swing back for one more kiss, smiling against his lips. Moving back, I let my hands slide upwards to cup sharp cheekbones. "Twenty minutes in rush hour traffic, and ten minutes to get ready when I have to warm up."

"Do I not warm you up?"

"You're not keys," I tease. "I've got to go."

"Coming back?"

I consider, slipping on my shoes. Finals are coming up, and I've got a paper due next Tuesday…."No."

He sits up from the couch. It pleases me to see the top three buttons undone – I did that. "Tomorrow?"

"Perhaps. Though, I'd loathe to be a distraction…."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock rises to stand before me. "You've got approximately two days before that gets old."

"Two days I shall use well. I must go."

With that, I slip from the apartment, out onto the street. It's drizzling. When I look back up at 221 B, I see Sherlock silhouetted in the window. He's taken up his violin, composing, I suppose. I stand there, in the rain for a moment, look up at him. He does not see me.

-XXX-

Typical rude prick!

What are your thoughts?