- c h a p t e r   e i g h t e e n -

Sherlock looked as if time had stopped completely for him, as if he were lost in his own mind palace. It certainly wouldn't surprise Emma, not as she watched his champagne glass tumble towards the ground, glittered all along the way.

"The Mayfly Man," he murmured, hardly audible except for the fact that nearly all were silent. "The Mayfly Man is..."

There was another pause in his thoughts before he could manage to complete them. In Emma's personal opinion, this made him seem an awful lot like someone who didn't have a clue what they were talking about. It was certainly nice to be on a different side of such a scenario, after he'd spent so many of his words to mock her.

Finally, however, he managed to spit the last few words out, right as the champagne glass made contact with the floor.

"...here today."

The glass shattered in a sudden explosion, almost like the sun had suddenly burst into a thousand shards along with golden sunshine seeping out along with it. Only at this point did Sherlock seem to snap back into reality. He glanced down to the ground, the realisation of what had occurred finally washing over him..

"Oh, sorry. I..."

It only took a few moments before the master of cermemonies rushed beside him to remedy the situation.

"Another glass, sir?" he asked, offering it to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the glass, but it was clear that his mind was far away.

"Thank you, yes. Thank you, yes. Now, where were we?"

Sherlock tried to remedy the situation as quickly as humanly possible, but the room's atmosphere shifted completely. It took Emma only a glance around the room to see anxiety written on the creases of each frown. People felt confused as they held up their glasses, wondering what the hell this best man was doing. Emma certainly had never gone through such a thing before.

Sherlock shook his head before saying, "Ah, yes. Raising glasses and standing up. Very good. Thank you."

In a perplexing gesture, he brought his hands down to make everyone sit back in their seats once more. "And down again."

To think that he'd shown so much potential during the earlier portions of the speech! Emma should've guessed it sooner - of course he would end up finding himself in such a mess. Social gatherings certainly weren't his forte...and nor was speaking mainly about anyone else but himself and a murder suspect. But his ideas seemed to be shifting as he set down his glance, starting to move forwards.

"Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech - get off early, leave 'em laughing. Wise advice I'll certainly try to bear in mind. But for now..."

Emma's gasp joined the rest of the guest's as Sherlock leaped over the table, performing the action as if it had been planned from the very beginning.

...part two," he announced, beginning to walk up the middle aisle.

His eyes flitted about, desperately seeking...something. Emma thought for a second before determining his goal - he was looking for the Mayfly Man.

"Part two is more action-based. I'm gonna...walk around, shake things up a bit," he said.

Emma decided to hide her face - it wasn't worth it to have him notice her for any particular reason, especially because she'd once dated this "Mayfly Man." She was as useless as anyone else in the room...except, however, he didn't seem to care about any females in the room. Sherlock was focused on all the males - he needed to find the Mayfly Man.

At least this much seemed clear enough to Emma - and she never really understood what Sherlock managed to get himself into.

"Who'd go to a wedding?" Sherlock asked out loud, as if someone could properly provide the answer. "That's the question. Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding?"

Everyone remained silent, watching as he eventually started turning around and clapping his hands together.

"Well, everyone," he said. "Weddings are great! Love a wedding."

Emma let out a tiny groan, not even minding if anyone heard her. Oh, God - Sherlock was losing it completely. She'd known this wasn't his thin, but she'd never expected him to be this bad at it all.

Sherlock then directed his attention towards the groom, pointing out his finger. Surely enough, about half the room made sure to follow his gaze. Emma, however, kept her eyes totally fixated on him.

"And John's great, too! Haven't said that enough. Barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his...jumpers..."

Emma could laugh if she put herself up to it - Sherlock was practically doing a dance, bouncing through the aisles. Oh, not a soul would notice her if they paid even the slightest bit of attention towards the best man! Nothing she did would matter, because he was in a complete frenzy.

"...and he can cook. Does...a...thing...thing with peas...once. Might not be peas. Might not be him. But he's got a great singing voice...or somebody does," Sherlock said. He started getting to a point where he was growling and gritting his teeth, trying to push all of his thoughts together.

If Emma hadn't been frightened by Sherlock's behaviour thus far, now she most certainly was. Sherlock was manic, leaping about and trying to sort out his thoughts before they all poured out from between the cracks in his fingers and refused to be tamed. At any given moment, he could easily pop open and...well, no one knew what he might do.

"Ah!" he cried out. "Too many, too many, too many, too many!"

Sherlock grimaced, his eyes starting to bulge as things came together. This was far too much for him, trying to balance out everything in his mind and allow it to make total sense. Perhaps he would finally understand what it felt like to be Emma with so much in her head. But he managed to contain himself, allowing a moment to breathe and let everything come together.

"Sorry. Too many jokes about John! Now, er..."

Sherlock attempted to keep getting his thoughts together completely, trying to avoid drifting away completely as he also gave his speech.

Of course, he failed.

"Where was I?" he exclaimed. "Ah, yes..."

A grin started contorting his face, causing him to seem even more frightening than before. Oh, perhaps he was managing to get ahold of one part of himself, but the rest of it was not working properly.

"Speech!" he said. "Speech."

Emma bit her lip - this wasn't going to end well. He had lost the reins to his mind, or so it seemed, and she'd never wanted to witness anything like that.

"Let's talk about..." He paused for several moments, attempting to push his thoughts together.

"Sorry, did I say 'murder'?" Sherlock asked. I meant to say 'marriage' - but, you know, they're quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other, and it's over when one of them's dead."

Now Emma allowed herself to glance over towards John - his head was sinking down towards the table as if pulled down by an invisible rope. Of course he'd be regretting his decision to make Sherlock his best man, even if they were best friends.

"In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though," Sherlock said. "Janine!"

One of the bridesmaids immediately became alert, not sure if she actually wanted to be involved in whatever Sherlock was getting himself up to. He walked over to one of the male guests, gesturing over to him with somewhat of a flourish.

"What about this one? Acceptably hot?" he asked, shooting a grin over towards Janine. "More importantly, his girlfriend's wearing brand-new uncomfortable underwear and hasn't bothered to pick this thread off the top of his jacket or point out the grease smudge on the back of his neck. Currently, he's going home alone."

Emma thought she might either be sick or start laughing hysterically. When neither happened, she wasn't sure whether she should be grateful or disappointed. Now this was tragedy playing out in front of her. However, her positioning allowed her to see Sherlock texting away with a single finger - quite a feat, really.

"Also, he's a comics and sci-fi geek. They're always tremendously grateful - really put the hours in," he continued, giving a laugh.

"Geoff, the gents," he said, now casting his glance over towards Lestrade. "The loos, now, please."

"It's Greg," Lestrade corrected, looking rather disappointed.

"The loos, please," Sherlock repeated, this time with more urgency. The room became quiet enough so that everyone could hear as Lestrade's phone went off, beeping as if it had just received a text.

"Why?" he asked, pulling his mobile out of his pocket.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's your turn."

Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of the door once more as he waited for Lestrade to read through the text message, hoping that the true meaning behind it would be clear.

"Yeah, actually, now you mention it..." Lestrade replied, standing up and starting to walk away.

John, still somewhat mortified, tried to speak: "Sherlock, any chance of a...an end date for this speech? Gotta cut the cake."

"Oh!" Sherlock explained, prancing down the aisle as if nothing were wrong. "Ladies and gentlemen, can't stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once, Vatican Cameos."

Sherlock spoke the last two words casually to John, causing Emma to wonder what sort of secret code they'd formed between themselves. She couldn't decipher it herself, but she did see John started to straighten himself up. Mary started to murmur to him anxiously, but he placed his hand on hers to quiet her down.

But, of course, Sherlock still kept the most control over the hordes of wedding guests. He continued to blink and grimace, his eyes flicking between each and every person he could find in the room. Someone had to be responsible for something, he knew it. But he couldn't figure it out, Emma realised. It would break him. It was breaking him.

He began slapping himself, roaring out in a nearly inhuman sound of utter frustration.

"No!" he screeched out before giving himself another slap across the face. "No!"

He seemed to have almost lost touch with the room - he didn't see people at a wedding, he saw people simply as their labels. But he couldn't figure it out. He couldn't deduce it all.

"Not you! Not you!"

Finally, however, he started to calm himself down. He allowed himself to breathe for several moments. He allowed himself to stop slapping himself. He just needed to breathe...Emma certainly knew about all of that.

Finally, he let out a single word as he turned his gaze towards John.

"You."

He started moving over towards John, keeping one finger pointed directly towards the groom himself. At least everyone felt confident that he wasn't the murderer - no one thought that John Watson would end up going completely insane.

"It's always you. John Watson, you keep me right."

John stood up and then asked, "What do I do?"

"Well, you've already done it. Don't solve the murder. Save the life."

He took a moment to suck in another breath, bringing himself back to the faux happy, perfect state. He grinned, trying to help everyone relax...but, of course, it only ended up making everyone feel even less at ease.

"Sorry. Off-piste a bit. Back now. Phew!" he exclaimed, bringing his hands together in yet another clap. "Let's play a game. Let's play...murder."

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, a warning tone creeping into her voice.

He pressed his hands against his chin, moving himself directly into his signature thinming pose. "Imagine someone's going to get murdered at a wedding. Who exactly would you pick?"

"I think you're a popular choice at the moment, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, a grimace curling across her face. Sherlock gestured behind himself, over in Mrs. Hudson's direction.

"If someone could move Mrs. Hudson's glass just slightly out of reach, that would be lovely. More importantly, who could you only kill at a wedding?"

His eyes began flicking over each and every person at the wedding, and Emma believed he was searching for whoever was the target. The only thing she could hope for was that she wasn't marked for death...but, then again, how could she know?

"Most people you can kill any old place. As a mental exercise, I've often planned the murder of friends and colleagues," Sherlock began to sing.

To Emma, he was an evil mastermind straight out of a melodramatic film. Nothing else could explain the way that he rubbed his hands together and allowed his lips to curl upwards. He was talking about killing people that he knew - no wonder people considered him insane!

"Now John I'd poison," he explained. A barely audible murmur rose up among the entire audience, everyone confused and somewhat terrified over what this man was up to.

"Sloppy eater - dead easy. I've given him chemicals and compounds - that way, he's never even noticed. He missed a whole Wednesday once, didn't have a clue."

"Lestrade's so easy to kill, it's a miracle no one's succumbed to the temptation," he continued. I've got a pair of keys to my brother's house - I could easily break in there and asphyxiate him," he said, physically pretending to choke the air before him."

"Then, of course, Emma would be the easiest - easier than Lestrade, even. And there wouldn't be any evidence. All it would take was the right combination of words and she'd end up taking her own life and no one would have a clue that I was to blame for any of it. Ludicrously easy. Too easy, you'd be shocked to hear it hasn't actually happened yet."

Up to this point, Emma had been almost amused with Sherlock's ramblings. She certainly didn't murder was funny (especially not if Sherlock was killing his friends and family), but how casual he was about it seemed entertaining. Interesting. She might've even laughed, if not in utter terror she'd be destroyed by those around her.

But now her face drained of all its blood, leaving her as pale as a blank canvas. Of course - she was an easy target, she'd been as easy target since the day she'd met Sherlock Holmes. Except, of course, it wasn't just Sherlock and a select few others who knew about her rocky path, her desire for her own death that sometimes came across.

Every last person at the Watson wedding now knew.

It didn't matter if she was wearing a jaw dropping dress. It didn't matter if she looked stunning enough to make people speechless. Now all that mattered was the fact that people knew about her, they knew what she'd done and what she'd tried to do and what she might try to do again.

And it was all Sherlock's fault. Didn't he understand that he'd gone too far?

Apparently he did.

"... if," he said. "If the whim arose."

"If the whim arose, I might kill him myself," Emma murmured to herself, shaking her head. Oh, she deserved a better neighbor than this not-actually-a-sociopath. Perhaps he was a great friend to John, but not to Emma.