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As it turns out, they all want to see them get married. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, possibly – secretly – even Anderson. But Sherlock and John decided long ago that the moment they tell each other it’s forever needs to be private, just for them; and so there they stand, in front of the registrar in the small, unassuming local town hall, facing each other in their wedding suits; John in grey, Sherlock in dark blue, matching white neckties, and a silk turquoise boutonnière pinned and sparkling; eyes burning into eyes.
The officiant reads out the words reverently, then they each promise – I love you, I want to spend my life with you - and the rings are brought out; white gold, Sherlock bought them, because he wanted John to have his ring, too.
Their witnesses – the only two other people in attendance: Mycroft and, of course, of course, Mike Stamford (Mrs Hudson would have loved to, but as it turns out, she couldn't stop crying) look polished and serious; but as the brief, simple ceremony ends, and John and Sherlock kiss – slow, loving, later, soon – Mycroft looks down, but he's pleased, and Mike beams, and he's happy.
As it turns out, Sherlock needn’t have worried about having to spend the whole day with a crowd of people. He's whisked away to a gorgeous suite at a nearby, gorgeous hotel; just because they're married now it doesn't mean John will stop courting him, wooing him; seducing him.
It's not a let’s rush-quickie kind of thing: they take their time, undress and curl up on the soft bed, kiss, touch, everywhere. “I wish we could stay naked until tomorrow,” John murmurs on Sherlock’s mouth. “I want your smell on me all day,” Sherlock murmurs back.
He pushes his face into John’s armpit, rubs his nose there, his plump, swollen mouth; scents him, fills his lungs with John, his John, his husband. His curls are all messy, chestnut locks clinging to the warm and sweaty skin of John’s chest.
“We’ll need to have a shower, after”, John murmurs in his hair, smiles when Sherlock grumbles, he's protesting but he would never show up looking less than perfectly respectable, he knows.
John had thoughts of urgent, ardent, hard-and-hot sex, the kind they have after a fight, or when they haven't been together in a while, the kind they have when they know they shouldn't - the kind where teeth replace lips, bites replace kisses, lube's never enough but that's okay, that's okay, I can take you, I'll be fine, just fuck me, just fuck me ; instead it's warm, too warm, and too soft. Sherlock's eyes are huge, and he pushes John down on his back and kisses him like they have all the time in the world, which they don't, but John is surely not going to protest; when they make love, it's slow, deep and intense. They look at each other - "Don't close your eyes, love. Don't close your eyes - keep them on me. Fixed on me..." - and Sherlock moves on John until it all becomes too much.
As it turns out, John doesn't feel as sheepish as he thought he would, once they come down to see the others. They've not been there for long, but he knows they're all aware of where they were, what they were doing - oh, God ; but Sherlock looks so beautiful, so happy, beside him - all in black now, no tie, body all smooth lines and perfect curves, tight muscles caressed by silk and linen - that all John can feel is pride.
Their reception, downstairs at the hotel, is only small, and only intended for a few people - the ones they will remember in years to come: Molly, Greg, Mycroft (with Anthea waiting nearby, his pretence of being busy), Mrs Hudson (she's still crying), Mike, Sherlock's parents.
As it turns out they have time for more kisses because nobody really minds, because finally; John thinks he must have turned into one of those people who flaunt their love to anyone who will listen (and look), and, well, why not. It's their wedding day: finally, finally .
“We’ll always have sex every day, won't we, John?”, Sherlock murmurs on John's lips when the lights are dimmed and they're pleasantly warm from the wine.
“I think I got myself a very demanding husband,” John laughs.
Sherlock laughs too, then looks up, looks into John's eyes again.
“You'll always be my conductor of light,” he says, with his eyes red.
As it turns out, Sherlock Holmes always finds the words to make John Watson cry; even though he's said ‘I love you’ so many times already, he always finds a new way – since the very first time he said it, since he promised he’d always be there, he always makes John cry.
“You git”, John says with shiny eyes; and kisses his mouth, hugs him like they did on the day of the first I love you except this time, they're each other’s, and nothing stands in the way.