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It takes him a bit to realize that Sherlock has left early, so caught up in Mary and the surprise baby Watson that he hadn’t noticed him slip out.
So basically, Sherlock had shown up, turned his wedding into a murder mystery and then the twat had left early.
John hadn’t so much minded the murder mystery, it’s more the fact that Sherlock had played them one of the most gut-wrenching songs he’d ever heard, dropped the baby bombshell and then disappeared into the night in a flurry of flapping coat-tails and perfectly wind-rustled hair.
John’s a little hurt, but it’s bearable; it’s his wedding night damnit and Sherlock is not going to ruin that. Their friends are well on their way to being good and truly hammered, Molly and Lestrade are dancing a little too close, Mary is glowing in her dress and his bloody best friend skipped out before he’d gotten the chance to dance with him.
“Left, did he?” Mary asks bluntly at his shoulder, shouting a little over the music. She’s got a napkin full of assorted snacks and John steals one and pops it into his mouth.
He chews mulishly as he gives the dance floor one last thorough look. Mary leans on him, head on his shoulder, and throws back something she can’t even remember the name of.
“Of course he did,” He shakes his head and looks at Mary, a wry, strained smile on his face. He’s only a little hurt and his wife, God he loves the sound of that, looks damn beautiful and if Sherlock can’t be bothered to stay for his best-man dance, then that’s his fault.
Mary watches John’s brows crinkle with an amused half-smile, working her way through her napkin of goodies while John works through his man-pain. She lets him suffer for a minute or two, leaving long enough to toss her crumpled up napkin. She slaps his arse when she gets back, a light pat really, and laughs quietly when he jumps.
“Come on,” She says, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him towards the edge of the dance floor “Sherlock owes us a dance or two and I’ll be damned if he’s going to cheat us out of them.”
John collects himself quick enough to stutter out “We can’t just leave-” even though his heart feels full and warm and Mary’s looking at him with mischief in her eyes. In those few seconds, with Mary tugging him along without much resistance, John loves her with everything he is.
A soldier, a doctor, an amateur detective, a husband, a father, and damnit, Sherlock is going to dance with him and his lovely wife if they have to walk there.
“You really think they’re going to notice if we’re gone?” Mary laughs, tipping her chin at the party-goers in various states of intoxication. John grins and kisses her soundly on the mouth.
Mrs. Hudson notices the pair slipping out and tuts saucily, a knowing smile on her face as they slip from the room.
They take one of the taxis waiting out front for the drunken guests, fingers interlaced as they pull out onto the road. Mary smiles at him, a soft quirk of her lips, and John kisses the back of her hand.
Mary gives the driver the address and John rests his cheek on her temple as she slumps against him for the ride to the flat.
The sudden quiet of the cab is welcome after the crush of the after party and John lets his head thunk back against the head rest.
John doesn’t remember the ride to the flat, short or long, he doesn’t really care, and by the time they roll up in front of 221b he’s irrationally nervous. Mary pays the cabbie, grabs John’s sweaty hand and they pile out of the car in a giddy rush.
The door is unlocked like it usually is and they stumble in, Mary’s dress fluttering around her feet and whispering quiet in the dark. John hesitates at the foot of the stairs and it takes Mary hiking her dress up with one hand and dragging him after her to get him up.
Sherlock’s sitting in John’s chair curled around the Union jack pillow like a petulant child, still in his tux, watching crap television in the near dark.
Mary, almost ethereal lit by the telly’s harsh glow, flops down into Sherlock’s chair and pulls John with her. They land in a manageable heap in Sherlock’s black chair and John laughs outright at the shock and confusion on Sherlock’s face.
“You left early.” John says, like that explains everything, and Mary nods in agreement while John molds to her side so they can sit more comfortably.
Sherlock’s mouth is still hanging wide open and John placidly sticks his finger in it. Sherlock splutters, slapping at John’s hand while John leans back with a satisfied expression on his face. He wipes his finger on Sherlock’s chair just to be petty.
“So did you, and it’s your wedding.” Sherlock says with an indignant sniff, wiping at his mouth and giving John a dirty look. Mary’s lips twitch and she kicks off her heels while the boys try to out dirty-look each other.
Her feet are killing her and she wiggles her toes a little. John presses his thumb into the arch of her foot, like she likes, and absently rubs her feet while he argues their case.
“I can leave my own wedding early if I want to Sherlock, the thing is, you can’t, you’re the best man for christ’s sake! You have to stick it out ‘till the very end and. You. Didn’t.” John says this like it’s the argument to end all arguments and leans back, satisfied.
Sherlock throws his hands up, body leaning forward and says “Since when is that a thing? Nothing says the bestman has to stay through the boring parts, so I didn’t. You lot like dancing apparently, so I left you to it.”
“Bullshit, you love dancing.” John snorts mimicking Sherlock’s posture unintentionally. Mary takes her attention off the television long enough to sigh “Oh just dance with him already, it’s what we’re here for.”
They both freeze and Sherlock looks stunned while John’s hands still on her foot for a second. Curiosity sweeps over Sherlock’s face and he tilts his head to the side, suddenly very unsure of himself.
“You didn’t really come all this way to dance with me, did you?” He sounds almost shy beneath the heavy skepticism; hopeful in a way that twists something in John’s chest and makes Mary glad she’d dragged them both here.
“’Course we did, you ass.” He untangles himself from Mary and offers her his hand. She takes it with mockingly delicate fingers and unfolds casually from the chair.
“That was stupid of you, what will your guests think?” Sherlock asks snidely, trying to hide his smile and failing. He stills look uneasy, like he’s two second away from fleeing for his dignity.
“I think they’re too pissed at this point to really care.” Mary says easily and Sherlock’s lips quirk when she takes one of his hands and John takes the other.
“You might have a point.” Sherlock’s not really sure how they’re all going to dance at the same time, but he’s keen on finding out.
The earnest adoration on John’s face and the tentative smile on Mary’s is like a balm on his bruised ego, light and soothing, and in those few precious moments, staring at two of the people he loves most Sherlock knows that this is where he belongs.
“Besides,” John murmurs, swinging their arms lightly and smiling brilliantly at the both of them “I’d much rather be here.”