221c - A Sherlock Fanfiction

Allison

I tugged at the bodice of my dress, and Molly helped me flair my skirt at a flattering angle, pulling the train back, and straightening it. Mary clipped the veil into my hair, being careful not to smush the hairstyle that had taken the stylist two hours. I have a lot of hair.

"You look lovely, Allison," said Genny, as she stepped back to look at me. "I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees you."

Molly chuckled and I knew why. "Well," I said. "He's Sherlock Holmes. Chances are there won't be much of a reaction. I love him to pieces, but he's very good at masking his emotions. Talk about impossible to read and deduce!"

Genny laughed. "You idolized that blog."

I turned red under my makeup. "Don't talk about it."

"Wait, what?" asked Mary, grinning. "What's this about loving a blog?"

I glared at Genny and mouthed I hate you.

She grinned and mouthed back love you too, sis. She chuckled and said, "Before Allison moved to London, she was super obsessed with crime shows, murder mysteries, that sort of thing. I saw this guy, an ametuer detective, on telly, and found the blog that they cited in the segment. It was John's blog. So I sent her a link to the website. She got hooked, and found Sherlock's blog, the Science of Deduction. She applied her massive brain and learned how to understand everything she sees, which can get quite annoying at Christmas dinners."

I snickered. Pissing off my younger brother and older sister was possibly the most fun thing to do at the holidays. Ooh, I thought. Now they have to deal with both me and Sherlock. That'll be fun. I glared at her.

"You did tell him, right?" she asked. "'Cause, I dunno, he might think it's weird that you knew every murder he had solved before he even knew your name."

"Yes, he knows. You are aware that you suck, right?"

She cracked a sly grin and went back to fluffing the skirt of my dress. While she had been telling me this story, I had taken the liberty to deduce her.

"Carpal tunnel." I said, and she looked up, first surprised, and then annoyed. "You obviously like that coat a lot too. You're getting thin, need to eat more than twice a day. You're becoming even more of a workaholic and need to sleep. You only slept three hours last night. Your boyfriend dumped you because-"

"Please stop," she pleaded.

"-because you put more into your work than you put into him. He felt neglected. You missed the promotion you have been wanting, it was given to your office rival. Also you didn't make your bonus this quarter because-"

"I said that's enough."

"-because you were sick for a week. You keep blowing off your therapist, which frankly isn't wise, and-"

"I said THAT'S ENOUGH!" she shouted, standing upright. There were tears in her eyes. "How come you are always such an arsehole? How come you always have to make my private life public? I get it, that was rude of me, but you didn't have to expose me in front of the rest of your bridesmaids!"

I stopped, a bit taken aback by her reaction. I had gotten carried away. "I... erm... I'm sorry."

She looked at me, surprised, I didn't apologize very often. "I accept your apology."

After a few more minutes, Molly said, "Y'know, I wasn't going to say this, but that little tiff made me realize why Sherlock is marrying you."

"And why is that?" asked Mary.

"He's basically marrying himself."

I rode in the car to the church, nervous as hell. I really wanted this to go without a hitch, but Mycroft's words kept echoing in the back of my head. He'll panic and run away from you...

I desperately wanted brain-Mycroft to shut the hell up. After all, Sherlock loved me, didn't he? Why would he panic and run away from the woman he loves? Because that's what he does...

I said shut the hell up, brain-Mycroft!

Once at the church, Daniel helped me out of the car. "Ready?" he asked, and I nodded, but before we could go any farther, Greg burst out of the building and ran towards us, tie flapping over his shoulder.

"He's gone!" he exclaimed, as he reached us, putting his hands on his knees and panting to catch his breath again.

I told you so.

Is it that hard to SHUT THE HELL UP!

"What?!" Daniel exclaimed, dropping my arm in shock. I began to tip off of the kerb, but before I could fall I grabbed the open car door, steadying myself.

I felt numb. "What happened?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady for someone who just potentially got left at the altar. Greg's tie was still flipped over his shoulder, and I resisted the strong urge to reach over and adjust it.

"I met him outside at about half past three, and I went inside ahead of him with John and Mycroft, because he said he needed a moment alone. I respected that, because hell, the man's about to get married, but I never suspected that it might be a ruse so he could bolt!"

"What's all the commotion about?" a screechy voice asked, before either Dan or I could respond. Great. Mum was here. She hopped out of the car that just pulled up, and I could see my bridesmaids emerge behind her.

"Nothing, Mum. Nothing's the matter, everything's fine," I snapped quickly.

My mother gave me a shrewd look, before turning to Greg. "What's going on, Mr..."

"Lestrade." Greg replied tersely. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

My mother looked confused. "Detective Inspector? Has there been a crime?" God, she could be so thick sometimes.

"No, Mum." I said, as equally terse as Greg. "Greg is a good friend of Sherlock and I, and happens to be one of Sherlock's ushers."

"Oh," she said, simply. "What's going on?"

"Yeah," said Genevieve, walking up behind my mother. "I think we'd all like to know what's going on."

"It appears to be that I have been left at the altar." I said, eliciting a collective gasp from my bridesmaids.

My mother looked smug. "I warned you." she said, contemptuously. "I warned you not to get hitched. Bad things happen when you do."

I glared at her, but before I could say anything, John emerged from the church, walking quickly. "I think we found our runner!" he shouted, holding up his mobile phone.

We were headed down the street, in the direction of Scotland Yard, which happened to be, however inconveniently, on the other side of London.

"Y'know," said Greg, with a chuckle, as we awaited our arrival at the precinct with a certain anxiety, "I've heard of a runaway bride, but I don't think I've ever heard of a runaway groom!"

John gave him a look, but I let out a chuckle in spite of my situation. "How appropriate," I said, my comment directed at Mycroft, who was sitting in the front seat, while I was sandwiched between Greg and John in the back.

Mycroft gave me a fake, bland smile. His eyes didn't crinkle up at the corners, contrarily, they seemed to reflect some inner coldness, paralleled to hate. I smiled sarcastically.

When we arrived at Scotland Yard, anyone watching would have been properly confused, and rightly so. Any bystander would've seen three well dressed men in matching tuxedos help a woman in a fashionable wedding dress out of a very nice car.

We must've looked ridiculous.

Our little procession stormed inside, in single file. Mycroft stood behind John, who stood behind me, who stood behind Greg. Mycroft seemed to be a bit checked out, as he seemed to be reading emails on his phone. I could hear from the crunching of many tyres on pavement that my mother, Genevieve, Molly, Mary, Daniel, and Mrs. Hudson had arrived as well.

Greg threw open the doors, and we burst inside, much to the surprise of Phillip and Sally.