The heavy metal door slid open with a whoosh. Sherlock stepped inside the room, bag in hand, and walked silently towards the glass. His eyes never left her as he placed his bag on the ground, watching as she sat still with her back to him, her long dark hair cascading down her back in frizzy waves. He stood quietly, making fists with his hands and stretching out his fingers in a slow, nervous rhythm.

After a few moments, he saw a twitch; a turn of the head, so slight, most people would have missed it. She was curious, he knew, wondering why he hadn't unzipped the bag, why he hadn't taken out his violin and began to play.

He took a breath. "I'm getting married, Eurus," he said, his voice echoing against the stony walls. "In two weeks."

She stayed sitting with her back to him. Silent and unmoving.

"I debated not telling you, but you're my sister... I want you to know. I want you to know that you were wrong; you said love made me weak. But it doesn't. Marrying Margaux does not make me weak. In fact, I feel this may be the bravest thing I've ever done." He stepped closer towards thick glass that separated them. "You may find it silly, but I feel an overwhelming need to thank you... You almost killed her. I know you don't care – I know you can't help the fact that you don't care. But if you hadn't brought me face-to-face with the prospect of losing her, I'm not sure I ever would have admitted to myself that I was in love."

She turned sharply, so quick it startled him. Her eyes were round and vacant, like she was looking straight through him. He thought she might speak, but she never did.

"You have your own place setting," he said. "At the wedding breakfast. We're keeping a seat empty for you, between Mother and Vaughan. Though you can't attend, I wanted you to know we thought of you in our plans."

She cocked her head. He sighed and sat down on the floor with his knees up, resting his arms on them.

They remained silent for a while. Her glare was terrifying, forcing him to look away for moments at a time. But when he spoke again, he was sure to look straight at her.

"You were wrong, Eurus. Love is not a disadvantage." He cleared his throat. "I hope in these visits I've made to you, you are able to see that now."

She blinked slowly, before standing up and lifting her violin. Sherlock watched as she began to play. The melody was sad yet romantic – a song he didn't recognise. He sighed and clambered to his feet, unzipping his bag and raising the violin to his chin.

*

Molly stood with her arms outstretched, holding her breath as a measuring tape wrapped tight around her waist.

"You've lost weight since the last fitting," said the seamstress.

"Really? Oh, lovely," she replied with a giggle.

"Not lovely when I have a fortnight to make alterations."

"Oh, sorry."

"You haven't been dieting have you," said Mrs Hudson as she sat on the small couch. "It's bad for you. I've read things."

"No, no. Arthur and I have been going on morning walks." She smiled, her cheeks blushing. "I suppose the weight's come off naturally."

"Well that's good," Margaux added. "I'm sure it won't be any trouble to take the dress in a bit..." her eyes darted to the woman as she knelt at Molly's feet.

The seamstress stood up, forcing a smile. "Of course not. Shall we go and try on your dress?"

Margaux nodded, placing her champagne glass on the table and following her into the small fitting room at the back of the boutique.

Mrs Hudson leaned in to Mrs Holmes, speaking quietly. "This woman's been nothing but rude, I don't know why she chose her."

Rose tapped her on the shoulder. "That's why," she said, nodding towards the curtain as it slid open.

Margaux stepped out in her wedding dress, greeted by a simultaneous gasp from the other women.

Delicate white lace decorated her chest, grazing below her collarbones and falling from her shoulders into long, sheer sleeves. The dress clung to her waist as if it were painted onto her skin in small, intricate brushstrokes, and cascaded to floor in a mix of lace and tulle. She turned around, the dress almost floating as it followed. She lifted her hair to show them; the way the lace framed her open back, and the ever-so-slight train.

"Oh, Margaux," Mrs Holmes breathed.

"It's beautiful, so ethereal," Molly added.

"You look amazing," said Rose.

She turned around with a smile, swinging her arms to make the sleeves sway. "Thanks guys."

The seamstress eyed her design from top to bottom. "Are you sure about the neckline?"

"Why?" Margaux looked down at her chest. "What's wrong with it?"

"Do you not think I should raise it slightly? Hide the..." she grimaced and pointed awkwardly at the thick scar across her collarbone.

Margaux instinctively placed her hand over it. "Oh... erm... well, I, I don't actually mind people being able to see it."

The other women exchanged glances, all of them silenced by shock and disbelief.

"Really?" The seamstress replied.

"Really..."

"I think it looks great the way it is," her friend Steph finally interjected. "Hiding it would make it seem like it was something to be ashamed of."

"I was not implying she should be ashamed," the woman snapped.

"If Mary was here, she'd have smacked her 'round the head by now," Mrs Hudson mumbled.

"Y'know what, it's fine," said Margaux, taking a deep breath. "You've done a beautiful job, I love it and I'd like to keep it the way it is, thank you."

"You're the bride," she replied, her voice laced with cynicism.

Margaux followed her back towards the dressing room, her hand moving from her collar to her neck as she traced her fingers across the ridges of her scar.

She emerged from behind the curtain again in the dress she had arrived in. White, fitted to her body and cut just below the knee. She smoothed her hands over her hips and fidgeted in her heels as the five other women collected their things and filed out of the boutique. She reluctantly thanked the seamstress and followed them out into the street.

"I'll be having Mikey doing a thorough investigation on her," said Mrs Holmes, her bright blue eyes narrowing with anger. "She better hope that her business is above board or I'll have him shut her down. Horrible woman."

"Can you wait until after the wedding? I'd like to make sure we get our dresses," Margaux laughed.

"Oh, I know, I'm sorry," she shook her head.

She placed a hand on her shoulder. "Let's just enjoy my hen night, ey?"

*

Sherlock placed his bag on the floor and fixed his suit jacket.

"Ah, good, you got my text," he said as he looked across the room to John who was waiting in the armchair.

"I did. Bit short notice to find a babysitter though," he gestured to Rosie who was playing on the floor beside him.

"That's fine," Sherlock shrugged. "She can be an honorary groomsman."

Rosie looked up at him, speaking incoherently.

"I don't know," he replied. "You'll have to ask auntie Margaux."

John gave him a puzzled look. "Don't tell me you understood what she just said..."

"Of course I did. She asked where Vaughan was."

"No way. There's no way you- hold on, you don't know where your son is?"

"I assume he's with my father. Perhaps I should call, just to be certain..."

"Perhaps."

...

John rocked Rosie to sleep in her pram as Sherlock handed him a bottle of beer. He took it and looked up at him.

"You actually bought beer?"

"Yes. Sorry, I know the best man is supposed to organise the stag night but–"

"But he couldn't make it?"

"What?"

"Sherlock," John let out a breathy laugh. "You know you haven't actually asked me to be best man, don't you? The wedding's in two weeks and not a word."

"Well I thought it was implied. Who else would I ask?"

"Your brother..."

Sherlock twisted his mouth in disdain. "I think we'd both rather spontaneously combust. Mother insisted I make him an usher though, which he reluctantly accepted."

"So, you were just... not going to ask me? You were going to have me turn up on the day with no speech planned."

"But you have planned a speech."

"How do you know that? Actually, never mind."

"Oh, stop stropping, John. You're my best friend, I would choose no one else."

John looked down at his beer and smiled. "Aww."

"Shut up."

Footsteps began to creak up the stairs. Sherlock turned his head slightly, assessing the sound – expensive shoes, walking cane, or was it an umbrella? He listened again, it was an umbrella. He sighed.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" he asked, taking a swig of beer.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway with a muted smile.

"Oh, it was nice of you to invite your brother," said John.

"He didn't invite me."

"I didn't invite him."

They spoke at the same time, both looking at John with the same expression.

"No," Mycroft continued. "Actually, I'm here because I wanted to speak to you about something which has been brought to my attention." He walked forward. "I am aware of the so-called 'copycat', and I believe it would be in your best interests for Dr Watson to take down his blog."

John sat up straighter. "Take it down?"

"No," Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft sighed. "Brother dearest, it does not take a consulting detective to deduce that this person is getting their information from Watson's website. It's like a manual on how to commit a crime."

"So?"

"So... with your upcoming nuptuals–"

"You think they're going to try and ruin the wedding? How?" Sherlock replied. "Kill a guest by putting a blade in their belt?"

"Or they might just give a ridiculously long, dramatic speech..." said John sarcastically, his eyebrow raised.

"You promised I didn't ruin your wedding."

"As much as I enjoy the pally banter," said Mycroft. "I must urge you to consider my request." He turned to Sherlock. "I know it may be hard to comprehend, but I actually want your day to go well. I am... happy for you."

Sherlock looked at the bottle in his hand. "How many of these have I had?"

John snorted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and tucked his umbrella under his arm. "Goodnight." He strolled out of the flat and disappeared down the stairs.

"Should I delete it?" asked John. "I mean, what he's saying is right. I wrote about what happened at my–"

"Nothing will happen at the wedding."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I can't explain it, I just know."

"Well," John emptied the last of his beer into his mouth before standing up to go and get another one. "If I've learned anything over the years, it's not to question you."

"You question me all the time."

"Yeah. Just because I've learned not to doesn't mean I don't." He sat back down, handing Sherlock another bottle. "Here." he held it up in the air. "A toast... to your last fortnight as a single man. I have no doubt you'll be spending every single day of it with me."

Sherlock raised his bottle. "To us."

John laughed, taking a sip of his drink. "Why don't you want the blog to come down?"

"Because if it comes down, everything may stop."

"Oh don't tell me you're getting involved in it. Sherlock, you promised Margaux you'd leave it."

"I didn't actually use the word 'promise' so..."

"What could you possibly gain from this person copying more cases?"

"If I let them carry on, eventually they will make a mistake. They all do."

"Sherlock, there are some cases we've worked on... things that could be catastrophic..."

"I'll catch them before it gets to that."

"How can you be sure?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're being cocky again," said John. "I've told you it makes me want to punch you in the face."

He chuckled and leaned back in his armchair.

*

In the early hours of the morning, the flat was still. John had gone home, wheeling Rosie's pram into a black cab and disappearing down the empty street. Lamplight glowed and glinted across the empty beer bottles that sat on the table as Sherlock stood at the window playing his violin. He was trying to replicate Eurus' song, never quite matching it.

Margaux wandered through the door. He turned around to the sound of her keys jangling as they landed on the couch.

She grinned at him. "That sounded beautiful. Don't let me interrupt."

He put the violin down and walked across the room to her. "It's okay," he said, placing a kiss on the side of her head. "I was just doing it to help me think."

He headed into the kitchen. She stood on one foot, wobbling as she tried to take off her shoe.

"How was your stag?" the words were slippery on her tongue.

"It was fine. We had a few drinks, then Mycroft came."

"Oh, you invited Mycroft?"

"No. He came to ask John to delete his blog. Said he's 'concerned'."

"The copycat?" she was hopping, stumbling all over the place as she wrestled with the buckle on her shoe.

Sherlock emerged with a glass, reaching out to hold her arm and steady her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"It's water. Also known as H2O..."

"No, I-I-I know what it is, Sherlock. Why're you giving it to me?"

"Because you're drunk."

He placed the glass on the small table beside the armchairs before taking a seat.

"I'm not drunk!" she protested, before finally releasing the strap on her second shoe.

She kicked it off, sending it flying across the room, and followed him, dropping herself into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him deeply, pressing her body against his. Her lips tasted like cigarettes and alcohol; but to him, it was divine.

"Okay, maybe I'm a bit drunk," she said.

He reached for the water and handed it to her. "Drink."

Margaux tipped her head back and gulped it down. Streams of water trickled from the corners of her mouth, cascading down her neck onto her dress. Maybe she was more than 'a bit' drunk.

He brushed her hair off her shoulders and smiled. "You'll thank me in the morning."

She downed the entire glass, letting out an 'ah' before wiping the water from her mouth. "I only had a few gins. Maybe a shot or three." She felt the droplets tickling her neck and looked down at the damp patch on her dress. "Oh... When did that happen?"

Sherlock let out a soft giggle. "Come on, I'll help you get undressed."

She raised an eyebrow as he lifted her off his lap. "I like the sound of that."

"No..."

She gasped. "Don't you fancy me?"

"Oh, shut up, will you," he laughed before hoisting her into his arms and carrying her through to the bedroom.

"Do you still want to marry me?"

"Of course I do."

He placed her down gently, closed the bedroom door and turned her away from him. His fingers found the delicate zip and pulled it down in one smooth motion. Then he slid off the straps, allowing the dress to pool at her feet.

"Y'know I'm not that drunk," she said. "I could've done this myself." She looked over her shoulder at him. "Which makes me think you wanted to undress me..."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm taking care of you. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

He slid open a drawer and took out a t-shirt. He unfolded it and slipped it over her head before untucking her hair from the neckline and ushering her towards the bed. She dug her heels into the carpet and turned around with a frown.

"I haven't taken off my makeup..."

"So?"

"So, I may be drunk but I'm not a savage."

"Fine, what do you need and I'll bring it to you."

He collected her things from the bathroom cabinet, carrying them in and placing them on the bedside table. He sat with her on the edge of the bed, watching as she swept a cotton pad over her eyes.

"How was your hen night?" he asked.

"It was nice," she replied. "But you know what, the whole time I sort of... missed you."

"You missed me? I thought you'd be thrilled to get away from me."

She laughed. "I thought so too. But no." She looked up at him, fresh-faced and smiling. "I suppose it shows I'm making the right decision... You, I mean, you're the decision I'm talking about."

"Yes, I gathered that," he placed his hand on her face. "I love you."

She leaned in until her lips met his, kissing gently at first, then suddenly with more hunger. Her hands cupped the back of his neck, pulling him into her as he placed his hand on the bed to steady himself. She peeled herself away. 

"Will you have sex with me now?" she asked bluntly.

He narrowed his eyes. "So... eloquently put."

She shrugged. "I can put the dress back on if you want. Do a little dance."

"That won't be necessary."

Sherlock was used to getting his own way. But letting someone else get their own way, that was a different thing entirely. Of course, he gave in to her, allowing her to pull him close and unbutton his shirt.

Fourteen more days, he thought, fourteen days and then the rest of their lives.