It’s such an inauspicious beginning of her wedding day.

She wakes with a sense of foreboding and disorientation so strong that she feels physically ill. She sits, panicking, then remembers. She’s getting married today. And she and John have driven to the hotel where the reception will be the night beforehand so that they can get an early start. Sherlock will be arriving soon, and Janine, too. She breathes deeply till her heart rate stills, and she swallows her rising gorge.

John’s still sleeping. She gets up, washes her face, tries to shake off the residual nausea. She’s unused to suffering nerves -- but then, she’s unused to getting married.

Shivering, she slips on her jacket. There’s a vibration from the hidden inner pocket where she keeps the Mycroftphone. Her stomach tightens: this is it, she thinks, there’s going to be an emergency and the wedding will be canceled. But as she hides in the toilet and pulls out the phone, she finds it says, simply, Yes.

Mycroft has approved her plan. Finally. She smiles and bites her knuckle to help contain the joyful noises she wants to make. Mycroft has impeccable timing -- this, this is the right way to start the day. She grins at herself in the mirror. Hard though it is to believe, she’s beginning to think she might actually get a fairytale wedding and everything she ever wanted.

She suits up for a run. Even her wedding day is no time to go easy on the discipline of mind and body. Besides, she loves to run, and it’s meditative and focusing. She could use that right now.

She runs. The world feels more vibrant than usual today, the colors bright and the smells intense. After warming up, she does some sprints, but pushes herself too hard -- a common problem, for her -- and nearly causes herself to vomit. She backs off and runs a few miles at an easier pace, and her stomach gradually settles.

She returns to the room to find John up and showered, wrapped in a dressing gown. He breaks into a smile at the sight of her. “Oh, there you are. I was thinking I might have to do this whole ‘getting married’ thing on my own.”

She laughs and gives him a quick kiss. “I was considering running away, but then I realized that I’d miss out on seeing you in your morning suit and waistcoat. You’re going to be absolutely delicious.” She pauses, then winks at him. “So’s Sherlock, I’d imagine.”

John colors a little and laughs. “Yes, well. Have to match you. You’re always delicious.” He pulls her in for a longer snog.

“I’m going to get you all sweaty and gross,” she warns.

“I’ll just have to join you in the shower, then.”

She grins. “Isn’t there some rule about not showering with the bride before the wedding?”

“Oh yes,” he says gravely. “I’m not allowed to shower with you if you’re wearing your wedding dress at the time.” She giggles and kisses his nose.

“Are you nervous?” he asks her.

“Not too bad. You?”

“Not really. I’ll have you and Sherlock there with me the entire time. I think that should equip me for almost anything.”

“Even the dance?” she teases.

He pulls a face. “I think I’ll survive at this point. Won’t embarrass either of us.”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “That’s why you spent so many hours holding Sherlock close and practicing, right? Purely to avoid embarrassment tonight?”

He blushes. “Absolutely.”

“Well, I get the first dance, but I hope you dance with Sherlock later in the evening. I’d like to see what I missed out on at those lessons -- and the two of you will make a very pretty picture.”

John chuckles and scrubs his neck. “People will talk.”

“Let them.” She wishes, not for the first time, that her stag night machinations had been successful, but it will hardly be the last opportunity.

He smiles at her. “Yeah, all right. We’ll see. But first, we have to make it through all the rest of the day. Starting with that shower -- unless you’ll be wearing your wedding dress?”

* * *

“Thank you for choosing a flattering dress for me,” Janine says as she helps Mary into her own gown. “I'm hoping to pull someone tonight, and I'm glad not to look the least bit frumpy.”

“Still haven't forgiven Albert, then?” Mary asks.

“No, but he's wearing me down, slowly. He’ll probably sweet talk me into getting back together soon. So I have to get some good shags in now, while I can.”

“Well, you do look lovely. Not a frump in sight.”

“I'm just sad that Cath couldn't be here,” Janine pouts.

“I know,” Mary sighs. “I wish she were here, too.”

“Her mum’s all right, though, yeah?”

“Yeah. The surgery went well.”

“Thank goodness. We’ll all have to get together for drinks, after your honeymoon.”

“I’d love that,” Mary smiles.

“Me, too,” Janine says. “And if I have to be the sole bridesmaid today, well – more attention for me, then!”

“Oh, no, actually – you won't be.”

Janine blinks. “What?” She blinks again. “Harry?”

“Nope. At least, not as a bridesmaid – I hope she'll be here.”

“Who?”

“I don't actually know their names,” Mary says, and giggles at Janine's baffled look. “Sherlock hired some folks so that our wedding photos wouldn't look so empty.”

Janine's eyes go wide, and then she starts laughing. “Oh, my God. I cannot wait to meet this man.”

* * *

She runs to the loo, feeling about to vomit, but it’s a false alarm. After, she finds Sherlock pacing the halls.

“Ah, Mary,” he says when he spots her. “I was thinking perhaps we should trade tables two and seven, because the --”

“No,” she says, patting his arm. “No more planning. Everything will be fine. You've done a marvelous job.” He eyes her skeptically, and she adds, “The flowers look especially lovely.”

“But --”

“It's fine. Really.” But he's nearly vibrating beneath her hand. She can't help but feel that Sherlock would be far less nervous, feel far less need to prove himself to John, if he and John had just shagged like they were supposed to during stag night. Still, no time for that now – it will have to wait until after the honeymoon.

“Go tend to John,” she tells him. “He needs you.”

“He was trying to call Harry.”

“Well, he's probably done now, and likely could use some cheering up.”

“Right.” Sherlock nods, then hesitates. “Is your stomach unsettled? Did you vomit? What quantity?”

“Sherlock,” she scolds mildly. “I’m fine, thank you. It’s just nerves. Go! Be with John!”

He nods and heads off down the hall. Looking stunning, as she predicted -- though also about as nervous as a bunny out in an open field, wearing fancy dress.

* * *

She's never been to a wedding before.

Her mother’s family was small – no extended family living in England, and her father’s side snubbed her father for marrying a foreigner. Her adult life never lent itself to weddings.

It's just like in all the movies, though – not tricky to get the hang of. She glances at the full church watching them, as the vicar begins to speak. So many people she doesn't recognize. It's rather touching that Sherlock brought them all here, garbed them and coached them, to make the day perfect for John.

During the preamble to their vows, the vicar asks if anyone knows of any reason why they should not marry, and Mary tenses, worrying for just a moment that Sherlock will take this opportunity to declare his love. But when she glances at him, she sees that he is glaring at the people in the pews, watching them all like a hawk. She smiles.

Despite her fears, everything goes off without a hitch. Archie is the perfect page boy; he smiles and waves cherubically at the audience, earning coos from throughout the church. She and John speak the traditional vows, and she’s overwhelmed as she looks at him. This isn’t how she expected her life to go at all. She never wanted a wedding, never wanted to settle down. But she unexpectedly loves this man with all her heart, and she can’t regret the change in plans, not in the slightest. She cries happy tears (she usually can control her tears, but not now, not on her wedding day), and then she kisses her husband.

* * *

Taking the wedding photos is odder than she expected.

There's the oddness of having strangers in the wedding party (the extra bridesmaids turn out to be named Lindsay and Alexandra, but that’s all she knows about them).

There's the oddness of not having any family step forward for either of them, when the photographer announces the family photo. “Maybe she'll come to the reception,” she says to John, as he looks around, frowning.

There's the oddness of having to send Sherlock out of the photo when it's just supposed to be the happy couple. He's been such a huge part of this wedding from the start – such a huge part of their lives, and she wants him to be even more so, in the future. But she can’t say so right now, not without awkwardness, so she lets him step away.

She makes sure, though, that they at least get several photos of her and John with both Sherlock and Janine. She's so glad to have both of them by her side today (she never expected to truly count Janine as a friend, and yet, she does). There’s the oddness of having multiple people she cares about in her life, too.

On the way to the reception hall, John scowls and mutters to her, “Was she... was Janine flirting with Sherlock back there?”

Mary laughs and kisses him. “Quite possibly. But don't fret. Even if Janine is offering, there's absolutely no chance Sherlock will take her up on it.” John looks dubious, even though it's blindingly obvious to everyone who's ever met them that Sherlock only has eyes for John. “I promise. Now, silly man, enjoy your wedding day.”

He shakes himself and smiles at her. “All right, I think I will.” He kisses her back.

* * *

They receive each of the guests, and Mary feels nervous again as she tries to keep straight who she actually knows, who she is pretending to know her because Mycroft supplied them as a fake friend of hers, and who is a member of the Homeless Network that she’s not expected to know at all. Fortunately, the interaction is basically the same in all cases -- a “Congratulations,” a “Thank you,” and a hug or a kiss -- and John’s facial expressions make it plain when he recognizes members of the Homeless Network. Still, she worries that Sherlock will notice something off. Fortunately, he seems to be preoccupied with surreptitiously glancing over his speech notes and with conveying reminders to some of the guests (she’ll have to find out later why David looked so panicky).

At last, they follow everyone into the hall. The whole ordeal has apparently taken more out of her so far than she expected. She grabs a canape gratefully at the first opportunity and lies reflexively about having lost weight to fit in her dress -- that’s the normal thing for women to do for their wedding, she’s fairly certain. John accepts the statement with a chuckle.

She looks around and sees there’s still a missing guest. She puts her hand on John’s shoulder. “So, Harry?”

“Er, no. No show.”

Dammit, Harry. She had so hoped that she’d at least call. “Darling, I’m so sorry.”

“It was a bit of a punt asking her, I suppose. Still,” he presses his lips together, “free bar – wouldn’t have been a good mix.” She rubs his arm consolingly and tries to think of something to say to cheer him up, but then -- “Oh God, wow!”

She follows his eyes to the door and sees a tall uniformed man, and she thinks she knows who it must be, but his profile is unmarred. “Is that …?”

“He came!” Sholto turns, and now the scarring is clear. John, elated, goes to greet him.

During his drunken recountings of his military days, John always spoke of Major Sholto with an admiration she’s otherwise only heard applied to Sherlock. To the point where she asked him, once, if he’d had a crush on him. John, drunk, had muttered, “What? No! No. Maybe a little.”

As she remembers, smiling, Sherlock joins her.

“So that’s him.” She looks up at him. “Major Sholto.” He stretches the name out, making a face as if it has a bad taste.

“Uh-huh.” She wonders if Sherlock has deduced something unpleasant in Sholto’s past -- something other than the obvious -- that causes him to sound so disapproving.

“If they’re such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?” Sherlock asks, eyes narrowing, as John grins at Sholto.

Because you don’t get him drunk often enough. But she can’t say that. “He mentions him all the time to me. He never shuts up about him.”

She takes a sip of her wine -- smells odd -- as Sherlock says, “About him?”

“Mm-hmm.” The taste of it hits her, and she nearly gags. What’s happened? “I chose this wine. It’s bloody awful.” Perhaps there’s been a mix-up? Sherlock repeats his question. Or maybe the wine is corked? She eyes it suspiciously.

“I’ve never even heard him say his name,” Sherlock says, sounding a bit petulant.

She feels a bit guilty, having admitted that John talks to her about Sholto. She is the one who usually instigates such conversations. “Well, he’s almost a recluse -- you know, since...”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t think he’d show up at all. John says he’s the most unsociable man he’s ever met.”

“He is?” Sherlock sounds affronted. “He’s the most unsociable?” Ahh, she sees what’s going on now. (Slow -- she’s being slow. Why does everything feel off today?) “Ah,” Sherlock continues jealously, “that’s why he’s bouncing ‘round him like a puppy.”

Poor Sherlock, watching John heap affection on others while so worried about losing John himself. No risk of that -- neither she nor John is going to let that happen. She grabs his arm. “Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know.”

Sherlock stares at her. “Stop smiling,” he says gruffly.

“It’s my wedding day,” she protests. He rolls his eyes and leaves. She lets him have his sulk and watches John. He is a bit like a puppy. She grins and takes another sip of her wine before she remembers why she’d stopped. She sets the glass down.

The next time she sees Sherlock, he’s on the phone -- she overhears just enough to know he’s trying to convince Mycroft to attend. It’s a lost cause; Mycroft won’t get anywhere near her if he can help it. It’s not only against work policies, it’s just generally a bad idea. She rather thinks, though, that Sherlock will be pleased not to have Mycroft there later, if she succeeds at getting John and Sherlock to dance together.

First, though, there’s dinner to get through, and the speech. That should be interesting.

* * *

Dinner is very good -- so good that she’s tempted to ask for seconds. She laughs with John throughout the meal -- on her other side are Lindsay and Alexandra, who appear to be happily flirting with one another and don’t require her attention at all -- and she helps John try to calm Sherlock down as he grows increasingly antsy during dessert.

Then it’s time for the speech.

It gets off to a very inauspicious start as Sherlock stutters through his intro and comes to a halt. She watches John staring questioningly at Sherlock and wonders how she can help, and then John mutters, “Telegrams,” and shakes his head. It seems to be the prompt Sherlock needs.

The telegrams are amusing -- watching Sherlock say “big squishy cuddles” and “poppet” nearly sends her into uncontrolled laughter.

Then he reads one from “CAM” -- “Wish your family could have seen this” -- and she goes cold. Is he referencing the falseness of her orphan story, or the fact that she didn’t invite her cousin, the MP? Either way, it’s a threat. Which is fine, she reminds herself. This is what they want. She tries to buck up as John frowns and takes her hand.

Still, it would have been nice to have just this one day without thinking about Magnussen. She steals a quick glance at Janine to see whether she picked up on her boss’s initials, but of course she didn’t. She’s staring up at Sherlock with a skeptical look on her face as Sherlock dismisses the rest of the telegrams.

Mary pulls herself back together as Sherlock launches into his prepared speech. He begins by repeating John’s name several times. From there, the speech careens all over the place.

First, Sherlock proves to be the most unreliable of narrators. Mary watches John’s face as Sherlock recounts his highly verbose and entirely fictional response to having been asked to be best man. (He does eventually admit to not having responded so articulately aloud.) Next, he insults weddings, love, John, the bridesmaids, and the vicar -- and then he somehow turns it around into an insult to himself and a compliment to John -- “the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.”

Mary smiles at that, and at her husband, who is all those things. She beams wider still as Sherlock tells her that she deserves John. She expected congratulations, but not such unreserved endorsement, and she feels a huge pulse of warmth and gratitude. Whatever Sherlock thinks he knows about her past, he thinks she’s deserving of John -- she agrees with Sherlock that there is no higher compliment.

And then, to top it all off, Sherlock says, “Today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world.” She feels herself tearing up at that, and she’s so glad that Sherlock is acknowledging it, “specious and irrational and sentimental” be damned. “And I know I speak for Mary as well,” he continues, “when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

Oh, God. She squeezes John’s arm harder. Did John hear that? Sherlock has just declared his lifetime devotion to John. She has a brief vision of all of them living together at the flat on Baker Street.

John says, “If I try to hug him, stop me,” to which she of course responds, “Certainly not.” Sherlock follows up his masterful piece of wordcraft and emotion with a complete failure to comprehend its effects on the audience, as he questions why people are crying. Then John is standing and pulling him into a hug. The audience applauds.

As far as Mary is concerned, the speech could end there. But Sherlock feels bound to include “funny stories” about John, which mostly include a string of cases -- some unsolved, some confidential, many lacking in detail or not making much sense. The audience is confused and restless in turn, but Mary enjoys watching John’s responses to the descriptions of the cases. John positively lights up -- and sometimes giggles -- at things that mean nothing to anyone else.

Toward the end of the meandering speech -- which seems like it lasts well over an hour, but she supposes is probably only twenty minutes or so -- Sherlock hits a slightly sour note about “suffocating chains of domesticity” and infidelity, then once again touchingly compliments John: “I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that – I should know. He’s saved mine so many times, and in so many ways.”

While she has enjoyed watching John’s and the audience’s responses to the speech’s swerving trajectory and frequent insults, Mary is relieved when Sherlock at last raises his champagne flute.

Then he drops the glass.

He tells everyone to sit again. He looks confused, he vaults the table, he babbles -- what on earth is he doing?

“Something is wrong,” John says. Which rapidly becomes obvious to everyone, as Sherlock becomes less coherent and finally starts shouting: “Too many, too many, too many, too many!” She doesn’t really believe he’s talking about jokes about John anymore. But what is he doing?

The tension in the room builds as everyone watches Sherlock uneasily. “Let’s talk about murder!” he says, and there’s are a few gasps from the crowd. But mostly they seem far less worried about the possibility of murder than the possibility that they may be watching a man in the process of a nervous breakdown.

Mary can tell that’s not what’s happening -- she can see Sherlock examining the crowd, signaling to Lestrade, and she knows he’s looking for something. But what? And how can she and John help? She tries to keep an amused smile to help keep the other guests calm.

John, also watching Sherlock carefully, puts out a cautious feeler. “Any chance of an end date for this speech?” He tries to keep it light, adding a joke about cake, but there’s strain in his voice.

Sherlock turns and half-dances toward them. “Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once, Vatican Cameos.” Someday she may have to congratulate him on the clumsiest deployment of a code phrase in history.

“What did he say?” She asks John. “What’s that mean?”

“Battle stations. Someone’s going to die.”

“What?!” That’s worse than she’d hoped. She desperately wants her gun, and she curses the stupidity of wedding dresses for lacking pockets or places to conceal weapons.

Sherlock starts slapping himself and shouting (and oh, that’s no good at all -- more mental scars incurred during his time away?). She catches the eye of one of Mycroft’s other agents in the audience. He looks coiled and ready to spring into action -- probably to take Sherlock down, from the looks of him. She shakes her head at him imperceptibly, and tugs on her ear in the signal for “stand down,” hoping the other agents catch it. The last thing they need right now is someone tackling Sherlock -- or doing worse.

Sherlock reins himself in a bit and walks back toward John. “You. It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.”

John stands, asks, “What do I do?”

“Well. You’ve already done it. Don’t solve the murder. Save the life.” Sherlock is talking to John, but clearly meaning it more for himself. He turns and paces back down the aisle, talking about murder. He babbles, and she’s not even paying attention anymore -- she’s just watching the crowd for anything. Anyone with a weapon or a glint in their eye. Anything off.

There’s nothing, though -- nothing but confusion. Sherlock stutters and pauses. Archie pipes up about an invisible man. Sholto stands to leave -- what did Sherlock’s note say? Sherlock abruptly makes a toast, with the audience barely keeping up. then turns to her and John. “Major Sholto’s going to be murdered,” he tells them. “ I don’t know how or by whom, but it’s going to happen.”

As Sherlock dashes off, John kisses her. “Stay here,” he tells her, as she begs him to be careful. Then he’s off, following Sherlock.

Mary considers for half a moment whether it’s wise to risk blowing her cover at her own wedding by trying to intervene in a murder. Then she’s running after them and trying not to grin. She never in her wildest dreams imagined her wedding day would be this exciting.

It’s a good thing she follows them, because she remembers Sholto’s room number when Sherlock doesn’t. And then they’re all sprinting at once -- curse this dress.

They need her there, too -- the two romantics, frantic and fighting and too frightened to think straight. They need her, the pragmatist, to focus them. “Solve it,” she orders Sherlock. To be fair, Sholto said it first -- but John listens to her, and Sherlock listens to John.

“Solve it, and he’ll open the door, like he said.”

Sherlock balks. “If I couldn’t solve it before, how can I solve it now?”

“Because it matters now.”

And then John sees she’s right, and repeats it (attaching the epithet of “drama queen”), and so Sherlock does solve it. (After saying, “Get your wife under control,” about which they’ll be having words -- but not right now.)

She sees the epiphany happen, and then Sherlock grabs her face and kisses her forehead. “Though, in fairness, he’s a drama queen, too.”

She smiles. “Yeah, I know.”

She feels elation -- it’s solved! their first case all together! -- but it’s premature. Sholto has to be talked down from the ledge. Sherlock, surprisingly, is the one to do it. Sherlock has learned the hard way what will destroy John Watson, and he’s not going to let anyone else do so.

She sags with relief when Sholto opens the door. And then she and John rush in to treat him until the ambulance Sherlock has summoned arrives. It wouldn’t be necessary, except that Sholto has shifted his belt, fiddled with the buckle, and the wound has been disturbed. She and John stanch the bleeding, check his vitals, and keep him still until emergency services can take over. At that point, John wants to accompany him, but Sholto makes him promise to remain.

After the stretcher is carried out (and after Sherlock applies an unknown chemical compound to remove a spot of blood from her wedding dress), but before they return downstairs, the three of them take a moment and grin at each other giddily, high on adrenaline.

“Best wedding ever?” she jokes, without it really being a joke.

“Yeah -- nobody dead, and not the least bit boring.” John grins back.

Sherlock beams. “Excellent. Well, I suppose we owe the wedding guests a dance, then.”

“And an explanation,” Mary adds. Sherlock shrugs.

“It’ll make a good blog entry.” John smiles.

Downstairs, Sherlock helps Lestrade make the arrest (the photographer, brilliant -- she wouldn’t have thought of that), while Mary reassures the guests and gives Mycroft’s agents the “all clear” signal. Then, after, there is the dance.

Neither she nor John have heard the piece ahead of time; Sherlock has saved it as a surprise. And it’s gorgeous -- so gorgeous it makes her ache. Sherlock plays beautifully, and she dances with her perfect husband, and everything fades away until it’s just the three of them. She can’t stop smiling. John dips her at the end, and they laugh, and the crowd returns in a roar of applause.

The whole world is right as Sherlock steps to the microphone. He apologizes for the earlier drama, and she smiles at him and at John in turn.

“More importantly, however, today we saw two people make vows,” Sherlock continues. She and John exchange quizzical glances. “I’ve never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow.”

She feels nervous -- a surprise vow -- but tries to smile encouragingly. “Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you.”

But surely he means “All three of us?” More and more, that’s how it looks to be -- the three of them, a team. Surely he misspoke. “Er, I’m sorry, I mean, I mean two of you. All two of you. Both of you, in fact. I’ve just miscounted.” She exchanges glances with John again.

Sherlock babbles once more, asking the DJ for music and ordering the guests to dance. He makes his way over to her and John. “Sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting.”

“‘Deduction’?” she asks.

“Increased appetite, change of taste perception, and you were sick this morning. You assumed it was just wedding nerves. You got angry when I mentioned it to you. All the signs are there.”

She experiences a sinking feeling in her stomach. “The signs?” No. She refuses to follow the line of thought. No.

“The signs of three,” Sherlock explains, glancing down at her belly.

“What?!” No!

“Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test.”

John doubles over, and she tries to grin through her terror. Scenes flash through her mind -- the missed birth control pill while she was on the case with Sherlock, sex with John the next day -- no no no.

Sherlock babbles about statistics in the first trimester, and John tells him to shut up. “How did he notice before me?” John asks, turning to her. “I’m a bloody doctor.”

She’s paralyzed, can’t answer. It’s Sherlock who responds, “It’s your day off.”

“It’s your day off!” John shouts back nonsensically.

“Stop -- stop panicking,” Sherlock says.

“I’m not panicking,” John replies.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, finally. “I’m panicking.” Fuck.

“Don’t panic,” Sherlock orders, and John snipes at him a bit. “You’re already the best parents in the world,” Sherlock points out. “Look at all the practice you’ve had!”

“What practice?” John demands.

“Well, you’re hardly going to need me around now that you’ve got a real baby on the way.“ John laughs, and he and Sherlock grin at each other, John grabbing the back of his neck. As John turns toward her, she puts on her best smile and tells him she’s all right.

Sherlock smiles at her. They stare at each other for a long moment, thinly veiled panic behind both their grins. Only John is genuinely happy.

Sherlock sobers and tells them to go dance. “We can’t just stand here. People will wonder what we’re talking about.”

As always, John responds quickly to what people will talk about. But she’s nearly crying now, because this is all wrong. It’s supposed to be John and Sherlock dancing now, and oh, God, what are they going to do with a baby?

“What about you?” she asks Sherlock weakly, choking up.

“Well, we can’t all three dance,” John says. “There are limits!”

“Yes, there are,” Sherlock dutifully agrees.

Mary is still too overwhelmed to protest. Fine, if this is how they want to play it. (John is obviously overwhelmed, too -- begins babbling again about Sherlock’s dance lessons, as if she doesn’t know.) She and John will dance once more, and she’ll compose herself. Everything will be fine.

But she doesn’t, and it’s not. The rest of the night is a sickening carnival; she feels half dazed and half ill as she whirls through the crowd. She forces herself to smile at John, at Janine, at everyone -- but she can’t tell the difference anymore between the real and the fake guests. It takes her ages to realize Sherlock’s left -- it’s too late to chase him, once they realize. (John frets a bit, but promises to find him tomorrow before they leave -- “He’s really not a people person; I’m surprised he lasted so long.”) And her perfect day, her perfect vision of the future, is gone.

That night, John is very understanding when she says she’s too exhausted for sex. “Happens to most couples on their wedding night, from what I’ve been told,” he says. Then he grins. “Besides, you need your rest -- you’re going to have a baby!”

He falls asleep nearly immediately, while she pretends to sleep at his side. She doesn’t fall asleep in truth for many hours.