Okay so gaytectives was talking here about how Sherlock would have reacted to seeing John in his wedding tux for the first time and I was thinking best man usually goes to the tux fitting so…I did a ficlet.
Image of penicillin mold can be found here, if you’re curious.
“Okay then,” John says from behind him, stepping out of the dressing room. “What do you think?”
Sherlock tugs at a cuff, still grumbling under his breath at the poor, put-upon tailor at his heel as he whirls about to face John.
“I think I’ve had just about enough of this place. Honestly, I don’t know why you wouldn’t just use Mycroft’s…”
Sherlock’s syllables fumble to an uncoordinated halt, his sneer sliding sideways on his face, dangling at the edge of his slightly parted lips before falling away completely. Dimly, Sherlock thinks he hears it shatter on the floor. At any rate, something is breaking, sharp shards of it lodged between his ribs, behind his sternum.
John brushes past him to inspect himself in the mirror. “Well? How does it look?” he asks, flicking at imagined lint on his shoulder, the tips of his socked feet peeking out from too-long trouser legs.
Sherlock’s mind is racing. He’s expected to say something. What does one say? What does one say when he looks like…when he looks like that? He has never quite looked that way before. In silks and tails and waistcoat, still ill-fitting, but cutting pleasing lines across and around his compact frame.
“John.” The name gets caught in his throat, scrapes out dry and creaking. John is smiling uncertainly at him in the mirror. Sherlock’s mouth is still open. How does it look?
Like Penicillin chrysogenum at a hundred times magnification. The way you’d never know what it was, just looking at the surface. The way it spreads like roots, like tiny flowers reaching for the sun, this ordinary thing that is not ordinary, not at all. This unassuming thing whose whole structure is beautiful, this thing that someone thought was worthless, this thing that will save you, in the end.
“You look like penicillin mold,” he manages at last.
John’s half-smile flickers, then hardens into his more customary irritated smirk. “Ta,” he says, and resumes fussing with the shoulders of his jacket. “Hope you’re saving some of that poetry for the best man’s speech.”
Sherlock isn’t listening. He watches John’s reflection in the mirror, and he is thinking about beautiful things that grow in secret places, about the shattered glass that fills the space around his heart.