Electing to ignore that thought (it was easy to ignore because---Y/N realised---she'd known it deep down for some time), Y/N broke the silence half-heartedly, "If you say so. Hey, it was nice of John to let us sit sort-of by ourselves. Do you think he did it on purpose because he knew we wouldn't know anyone here?"
"He probably did it so I don't say anything I shouldn't to his friends and family," Sherlock replied bluntly.
"It's not your fault people are intimidated by intelligence." Y/N didn't see the happy smile that lit up Sherlock's face at her compliment because she'd turned in her chair to look around the room. Most of the seats were occupied now by the other guests and an anticipative hum of conversation buzzed around the high-ceiling like bees caught in a net. They were wondering if the buffet was open or if the bride and groom had to declare the party officially started before they could eat. Y/N knew because she was also wondering the same thing.
As if he could sense her thoughts, Sherlock said: "What are we supposed to do now? Like, what happens next?"
Turning back to face him: "Not much. People just eat food, drink, and later dance a bit. Have you never been to a wedding before?"
"No. One of my cousins got married when I was eleven but I didn't go."
"I envy you. I've been to so many recently I'm going to be picking confetti out of my hair until 2045."
Sherlock chuckled, and it made Y/N's whole day. She continued:
"It seems like all my friends are getting married at the moment. I guess we're just at that age. It's like they're all following some instinct that all of a sudden demands they have a ring on their finger. I don't feel it, personally. Maybe I would if I was with someone, but I just don't have that urge to go out and meet anyone if I'm honest." Y/N left out the reason why she didn't want to meet someone: because she had eyes only for the man sitting across from her. And meeting someone else would mean eventually moving out and away from him---which she really didn't want to do, to the extent of being willing to turn down a romantic relationship even if a guy literally threw himself at her feet.
She had been talking to herself, really, musing aloud, but Sherlock seemed surprisingly engaged in what she'd been saying.
"I think I've felt like that my whole life. At primary school, everyone cared about video games and stuff, but I didn't. Then in high school and college, it was just first relationships and exams, and I didn't care about those either. The curious thing is, you don't seem to mind being out of the loop, but I have always felt like everyone else is inside a really nice house and I'm trapped outside staring wistfully in the window." He had finished fiddling with the sequins so moved on to examining the vase of flowers set between them, selecting various stems and inspecting them dispassionately, just as something to do.
"Yeah?" These moments were some of Y/N's favourites. During long drives, or when he had no cases, Sherlock and Y/N would have interesting conversations to keep their minds busy, and this one was well on its way to becoming just that. In the few years that Y/N had known Sherlock Holmes, he had never once mentioned the fact that he didn't really enjoy being an outsider. Y/N had always been under the impression that he revels in his differences, enjoying his eccentricity. It was quickly becoming apparent that she'd been quite wrong.
"Yeah. Like...video games are stupid, but people seem to have a lot of fun while playing them and I guess I just wanted to be a part of that, you know? I think it's been like that for as long as I can remember. Like at university, my classmates would go to parties. I never wanted to go, but I kind of wished I did because they seemed to have fun."
"You have fun in your own way, though," Y/N tried reassuringly, hoping she sounded like his friend and not a sympathetic school councillor.
Sherlock shrugged his broad shoulders. "Hm. But I miss out on a lot of things too. I've never been to a concert, or kissed a woman, or gone on holiday as an adult, or watched Star Wars---"
"Do you actually want to do any of those things, though?" Y/N didn't really know what to do now. How does one persuade someone else that they're perfect just the way they are, and that their perfection does not directly correlate to the number of mainstream trends they partake in?
Sherlock seemed to find a sudden and intense interest in a patch of the tablecloth. "Some of them."
Before Y/N could enquire as to which ones, someone across the room had started tapping a champagne glass with a fork---or that's what it sounded like.
"Can I have everyone's attention, please?" A voice called to the room at large, and Y/N realised it was probably John giving a speech before he finally let his hungry guests eat the food they were all wistfully sneaking glances at.
...
"Look what I found." Y/N proudly placed the plate she was holding down on their little two-person table like a pirate displaying the gold they'd stolen to their captain. The plate held several melted-chocolate covered strawberries and marshmallows stabbed through with kabab sticks and Sherlock visibly perked up at the sight of them.
Dinner had been eaten and Sherlock and Y/N were getting bored, and a little claustrophobic. They could leave their table but there was no one they wanted to talk to, and nowhere, really, to go, so they were stranded, of sorts, left with nothing to occupy them apart from word games and whatever nibbles they could find when they were brave enough to face the crowd around the dessert table.
Sherlock took one of the sticks and bit into a strawberry with satisfaction. "I can't believe you managed to get at the chocolate fountain. Did you have to beat up many of John's relatives, or did you just climb onto the table?"
It took Y/N a few seconds to realise he'd said anything; she'd been distracted by his pink tongue licking up the chocolate he'd gotten on his nimble fingers. "I didn't beat up anyone, but I did have to get in there fast, they're like gannets." Y/N watched as her friend finished his first stick and started on another, raising her eyebrows. "As---it turns out---are you. I didn't know you liked strawberries that much, I would have brought more."
"I love strawberries. We used to grow them at home when I was growing up."
"Did you have a community garden?"
He looked momentarily confused. "I didn't need to, we had our own land. I didn't grow up in London, nowhere near it."
"Really? You have posh-city-boy written all over you."
An amused chocolate-dappled smile twitched Sherlock's lips. "I actually grew up in a cottage in the countryside. I only moved to London because I wanted to solve crimes so I had to go to where the crimes were being committed." The memories seemed to please him, a fond light behind his bright eyes as he recalled: "The worst crime we had in rural England was this one time when our neighbour accused my dad of stealing his dog."
"And had he?"
"Had he what?"
"Had your dad stolen your neighbour's dog?"
"No, of course not. That was one of the first cases I ever cracked, actually; I found her in the neighbour's woodshed at the end of his garden. She had hidden away to have a litter. Mr Fitcher was so pleased he let me keep one of them."
Y/N shook her head in disbelief. "I'm learning so much about you today. I never would have thought you were a dog person, or a country boy, or guessed that you were so obsessed with strawberries. Why didn't you ever talk about this stuff before?"
Sherlock used his napkin to rid himself of the last remnants of chocolate. "It never seemed relevant."
'Everything about you is relevant to me', Y/N wanted to say, but bit it back with well-practised ease. "Well, I'm glad it was relevant today."
"Why? It's boring."
Y/N didn't agree to that at all. There was nothing boring about finding out that someone you were under the impression you knew really well is actually another person entirely to who you thought they were. Someone sweeter, someone more innocent, someone who spent their childhood running through marshy fields and plucking fresh fruit from home-grown shrubs. "It's not boring to me. How is it boring?"
"Because it's just ordinary mundane stuff. My childhood was rather uneventful."
"That's a good thing. Tell me about it?"
The expression on Sherlock's face was that of complete bewilderment but he---probably realising there was nothing better to do---gave in anyway. He told Y/N of summers spent hunting for caterpillars in his mother's vegetable patch, of walking with his brother to the farm down the road to buy eggs. Mrs Holmes would make her own bread, giving them grilled toast for breakfast with wedges of local honeycomb on a saucer. His father would drive them to Wales every year in a beaten-up old Ford Capri for a rain-soaked camping trip in the mountains. His brother aced every subject at school but Sherlock struggled with maths. They'd make sugar paper hats, and swords from rolled-up newspapers, and play pirates. Their family would visit the beach some weekends, the sky always puddle-grey, the sand grainy, seals popping their heads out of the clay-stained waves.
Sherlock's voice was so deeply mellow, his words painting such soothing mental images, that Y/N felt jolted when someone said beside her:
"Hey, I'm so glad you came, Sherlock, a small part of me didn't think you would."
Said man looked nettled, irritated at the interruption. Y/N wondered if he was annoyed about the unexpected chat, or that his story had to be suspended. While he'd been recollecting his past he'd drifted off to some faraway place, gaze clouded with a nostalgic haze. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that he could just talk and have someone listen, whether he thought what he was saying was boring or not. Everyone needs someone like that, Y/N decided. Someone to just...listen, even when you're not really saying anything at all.
"I said I would, so I did," Sherlock's amiable tone had disappeared and was replaced with the usual clipped way he addressed his old roommate. He was wearing that metaphorical mask again, but John saw through it.
"Hi, Y/N, nice to see you." His already euphoric face split into a larger grin and he playfully joked: "Are you here as Sherlock's date?"
"No, I'm just keeping him company," Y/N laughed light-humouredly, hoping they couldn't hear her brain loudly yelling 'I wish'. She was too busy doing that to notice the colour Sherlock's cheekbones had gone.
"I'm just going to get something from the buffet," he excused himself, rising to his full height, the contrast of his compared to John's being somewhat amusing.
Left to continue small talk with someone she didn't know, well, at all, Y/N struggled for something to say as John took Sherlock's vacated seat. This was one of her least favourite parts of weddings; when the hosts flitter around their crowd of adoring guests and greet them personally. In Y/N's experience, this usually involved them showing off their rings and using the phrase 'your time will come' as if Y/N was not complete without a husband on her arm. She could easily disregard the condescension, after all, her friends hadn't meant it that way. They were just swept up in their own happiness and wanted everyone else to feel the same level of joy. No, what Y/N really hated about those moments is the fact that her friends looked...not like her friends anymore. Suddenly they're adults, the only thing standing between them and a life of mortgages, picket-fences, and nappy-changing being a honeymoon.
Y/N wouldn't say she's fed up with social conventions, but they sure do get repetitive. Maybe that's why she's so drawn to Sherlock, so pleased to have him in her life. He doesn't fall for all that rubbish. And if he did, he'd probably put his own unique spin on it. She had to hold in a smile at the mental image that her mind conjured of Sherlock Holmes being domestic. He'd probably celebrate anniversaries by taking his partner to a famous crime spot, and if he did have children he'd obviously sing them the periodic table song rather than lullabies as he put them to bed.
Wrenching her mind to the present moment, Y/N focused her attention back on John. He looked like every groom she'd ever seen. Happy, but looking like he'd seen several hundred more samples of napkins than he'd have liked. 'Sherlock's right,' she thought. 'Weddings do seem to be more about throwing a party than the pair's love for one another'. "Are you having a good day so far? You two looked lovely at the church." Same line, same answering tiered smile.
"Yeah, yeah, definitely. I mean, of course, it's my wedding day, it's the best day of my life." He ran a hand through his sandy hair as if that was just something he said but didn't really believe. Wedding parties probably aren't his idea of a good time. They probably aren't his new wife's either. They aren't anyone's, yet people continue to have them because of traditions, and...stuff. Sherlock's way of thinking was definitely rubbing off on her, Y/N realised. Or just exposing what had already been there, buried, dormant, waiting to be brought out. "I'm glad you came, really, I know how Sherlock doesn't like this sort of thing. It's good for him to have you here."
She blinked in surprise. "You think?" She'd always considered the focused, logical detective being good for her, not the other way around.
"Yeah, definitely. You're good for him in general, to be honest. I mean, look at him."
"What about him?"
It was John's turn to be surprised now. His tone of voice suggested there was a prominent point and Y/N had completely missed it. "Hadn't you noticed?"
"Noticed what?"
"Everything." John gestured at the empty plates stacked at the edge of the table, waiting to be collected by one of the various waiters floating smoothly throughout the room like helpful ghosts. "First of all, he's actually eating properly. Second, he's obviously happier; I honestly don't think I'd seen him genuinely smile while I lived with him, not unless there was a cadaver or a violent murder involved. He was thin, too, ever so thin. Now, look at him. You know he joined a gym?"
A few puzzle pieces fell neatly into place with that information. "So that's where he goes. I did wonder. How did you know?"
"I saw him there once. I couldn't believe it; he didn't use to have the motivation to get up before twelve. It's doing him good, he's filled out a lot more. He looks a lot healthier. I used to worry about him."
"Worry about who?" Sherlock's deep and inquisitive baritone sounded behind Y/N as he soundlessly approached their table. He had managed to locate more strawberries, and John stood, giving his seat back to him which he settled back into appreciatively, giving Sherlock a hearty pat on the back.
"Nothing, just something Y/N and I were talking about. Thanks for coming, again. Sorry that Amy couldn't come over and say hi with me, she's catching up with old friends. Enjoy the rest of the party."