(no subject)

[logicals]

Preparation. It was the word that kept jumping up; a wedding, it transpires, doesn't happen overnight. There are weeks of painstaking labour, of sampling colours and and cakes and dresses and tuxes. The location had to be sorted out, the theme and the music (though that'll figure itself out, just waiting for a stroke of genius) - in short, there's a lot be done. They're barely halfway through their bookings, where Mary and John leave Sherlock behind for hours at a time and he still hasn't managed to switch anything off, because there's just so much to do. He's busying himself every second of every day because if he stops he's not sure what he'll do to himself, so he works and he works and he works and it's stressful, it is, but he's found a charming few videos on youtube that tell one how to fold serviettes into swans and that's obviously going to be useful.

There's a considerable amount of work put into, and it's just another day. A day deemed exceptional by a select few, yes, but it's still a collection of hours that people have designated as special and worth remembering, worth throwing thousands of pounds down the drain just to ensure that that one day remains perfect and it doesn't make any sense, really, but that's only when he over thinks about which shade of lilac accentuates the bridesmaids without drowning them in unflattering colour (and he's over thinking a lot these days, falling into unexpected visits to his mind palace before he's deposited out minutes, seconds, hours later). He's trying to watch that, warily steering clear of the tell-tell signs where he's about to fall back into his mind without any true warning.

It's jarring, like a jagged piece of glass that suddenly sinks into your skin (only it's so much more because this is his mind, his mind, and it's getting difficult to push it away, it's getting difficult to ignore because it's there and he's worried but it's not the time, this just isn't the time) but it's not as though he finds it difficult to hide internal struggles.

Having done today's tasks (writing out invitations is an exceedingly dull business), Sherlock has decided to give himself a congratulatory drink of scotch. Or more accurately, a mind numbing glass of scotch. Or three. Having just slipped three nicotine patches over his arm and underneath his dress shirt, he feels as though he can get through most anything tonight tries to throw his way.