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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.

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[ Never underestimate the power of awkward dimwittedness.

Give him like ten seconds to put those two and two together for four. He will then take a seat in his chair the way he always has and possibly always will, and move right onto the pressing topic of the evening. Because frankly, he's a bit short on fucks to give about whether or not it's embarrassing right now. He thinks he'd be more concerned with it if he got up to the reception and made a spectacular failure of himself, actually.

Can't have that. ]

Mary's made her insistence clear on a "proper" first dance, at the reception. [ Full suspicious invisible quotation around the proper, of course. It's- standing and swaying and occasionally moving in a circle. Why does she want something more proper than the basics from him?

Oh, he'll follow through on it, but it's one of those situations where he follows a beloved person's steering without actually knowing... why. It's usually more trouble to know, when it comes to the people in his life. ]

_{[ If there's one thing Sherlock doesn't underestimate, it's dimwittedness.

Thankfully John manages to take the hint, even if it takes him far too many 'Mississippis' to get there. Sherlock would think about that in more detail, but at this point any distraction is welcome and apparently that distraction has come in the form of one John Watson (mercifully post-moustache-shave) and now that he's actually looking, he's noticed that he's uptight. He's got something to ask, in fact it's practically burning a hole through his tongue, biting it in - and then it's out there, question spoken without actually having been asked.

Well, he's not going to settle for that. No, he'd be a fool to let John get away with such a pitiful attempt at enlisting his help.

Sherlock makes a face - something akin to vague interest, a little quirk of the brow and a downward tilt of the lips before he looks back and sips at his half empty glass of scotch. ]}

That's unfortunate, given the obvious fact that you have two left feet. Though I suppose it's expected, isn't it? Tradition and all that.

_{[ Literally spits the word 'tradition' out of his mouth. It's just a dirty, dirty thing. Blindly following what our ancestors did because it's the thing to do - it's just not his preverbal glass of scotch. ]}

[ Gross Sherlock, spit much.

Mary's just got an eye for some traditional things, really. Tradition and normalcy. John can appreciate that (no he can't, but yes, yes he can). She's equally as likely to be fine with something unusual at the drop of a pin, but overall he can rely on her to have some bloody common sense.

Where would he even be without her?

John goes for the full disapproving frown at "two left feet", thank you very much, kind dickhead, but doesn't brook a protest because... it's kind of true... shut up. The rest, though, he feels free to latch onto. Definitely not for sassing purposes. Of course not. ]

Think you fit enough distaste into that one? It seems like you got through saying the word without splitting your tongue, so I thought I'd give you the chance to try again if you like.

_{[ Where would he be, indeed?

Tradition is just that. Tradition. There's a lot of it in England, with the royal family sitting inside their luxurious prison whiling away their time doing the duties the country's placed upon them; it's more about presentation than it is about power, because being king or queen doesn't stand for much when you have people like Mycroft in the world, running the whole show from backstage. England would continue on without its monarchy, but it's something akin to a mascot by now.

He'd almost find it interesting, if he weren't so utterly bored by the whole prospect at a reasonably young age. Mikey always had been something of a royalist.

The smile that flickers is entirely mocking and it's stopped before it can become anything more than genuine amusement. ]}

No, I feel as though I got my point across, alongside my DNA.

_{[ He'll just take another drink in the meantime, because don't think he didn't notice how you decided to keep quiet about the two left feet comment. Very telling, that. ]}