The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 26

The next debacle of the day (there would be many, so keep in mind that this is only the second and they hadn't even left for the magistrate's office yet) was when Sherlock adamantly refused to ride with Lord Sherrinford in his carriage.

"It's ridiculous that tradition states I cannot arrive in the same carriage as John."

"Propriety, Sherlock.  You have already flouted convention by dragging Captain Watson all over London at all times of the day and night."

"Mycroft, what difference does it make?  He and I will be married in an hour.  What makes it more proper after signing papers than before?  Really?"

"Taking vows, Sherlock.  Promising your life to someone."

"As far as I am concerned, I made those vows already when I agreed to marry John in the first place!"

"You are being petty and ridiculous, Sherlock."

"So are you!"

"I don't have a problem with riding in the carriage with Sherlock, Lord Sherrinford," John interrupted, a bit flattered that Sherlock was fighting so hard to ride in the carriage with him.  Of course, it could be that he was simply fighting to not ride in a carriage with his brother.  It doesn't really matter his reasons, John told himself.  "I agree with him.  It is a tradition that means very little to either of us.  And it is our wedding day."

Both men turned to John, shocked he'd opened his mouth, much less agreed with Sherlock.  Sherlock recovered first, gloating openly at his brother.

"Fine," Lord Sherrinford finally gritted out.  "I suppose a little unconventional behavior is expected from Sherlock anyway."  He quickly reorganized the occupants of the parade of carriages that would take everyone from the house to the magistrate's office.  Several of the more venerable Holmes relatives were accompanying them to the small ceremony; others would remain at the house until they returned for the celebrations.

A few efficient moments later and Sherlock and John had a carriage to themselves and were riding to the magistrate's office.  Arranged marriages like theirs, and other marriages involving such a large exchange of money , took place in more legal settings.  They could have a religious ceremony at a church if they wished, but Lord Sherrinford had quite correctly interpreted that his brother would only become much more difficult as the day dragged on and tried to make the formalities as concise as possible.

"So where precisely did Lestrade find you this morning?"  John's question drew Sherlock's attention away from the window.  He'd been more subdued since his (second) argument (of the day) with his brother.

John was glad that whatever smell the wretched clothing had been imbued with had not permanently stuck to Sherlock.  That would have made this carriage ride, not to mention life in general, very unpleasant indeed.  His clothing now was very fine: black trousers, bottle green jacket which turned his grey eyes into the color of the ocean, starched whites so bright that they brought color to Sherlock's pale skin.  His curly hair had been trimmed but still fell over his forehead and along his high collar. 

John was very expensively done up for the occasion, but compared to Sherlock, he felt dowdy, very country.  The man was simply stunning.  His slim grace was only enhanced by the well-tailored clothing.  John had to tear away his gaze before he started picturing Sherlock out of the well-tailored clothing.  It wouldn’t do to deliberately frustrate himself.

"I was down by Blackfriars Bridge interviewing the mudlarks who spotted the bag of feet."

"And this required the smelly rags you were wearing?"

"If I wanted them to actually speak to me, not run or rob me, yes.  They had to believe I lived rough as they do."

"I see.  But I thought they'd already talked to Lestrade's men or the River Police."

Sherlock snorted.

"The boys Lestrade's men talked to were not the boys who found the bag.  It was passed through several hands before the River Police were summoned, and once more before the Runners got there."

"But why would they do that?"

"They're practically feral, John.  They do what they must to survive, though most don't.  They certainly wouldn't survive very long if they were known to talk to the police."

"But some of them did talk to the police."

"Obviously.  But only the ones who weren't actually there.  Do keep up, John."

John paused to process the idea.

"So did you find the ones who were actually there?"

Sherlock nodded.  "Gave me a good tip, too.  Two little beggars tried to lift the man's purse and got up close and personal when the man tossed them into the gutter."

"Goodness!  Would they be able to identify him?"

"Could, but won't if they know what's good for them.  However, I'm quite keen to do what is bad for me, so they passed along the description."

"Well?"

"Tall as me, dark hair, scruff, but most telling of all was the fact that someone had apparently tried to slit his throat recently enough that the wound had been stitched but had not begun to heal."

John didn't know what to say about that, but they pulled up to the magistrate's office and all John was required to say for the next half hour was, "I will."