John and Sherlock write their own vows for their wedding.
John goes first. He talks about how he and Sherlock met, how he loved him from the moment he first saw him in the morgue. He talks about their first kiss on a rainy Tuesday in September. He talks about how he’s never known anything as strong as this, how he’s never loved anyone like this and how he never really thought he would. He sighs.
Sherlock takes out a notecard, looks down at it, and puts it on the table. And he talks. Stories pour out of cases and of habits, but he doesn’t go on. He looks down. And speaks.
“And John, I want you to know that I never imagined that I would be standing here one day. Certainly not with you. So, what I mean to say is, thank you. Thank you for choosing me as your best friend and now for choosing me as so much more. I love you. That’s the whole of it. I know that people often go on when they do these things, but I can’t find anything else to say except that I love you. So.”
He bites his lip.
“Here we are.”
The room is silent. Sherlock once again looks at John.
“Did I do it wrong?”
But instead of saying anything else, John pulls his husband in for a long, slow kiss.