Victor was aware of the pounding in his head first, which broke through the haze of sleep. He cracked open his eyes, an instant mistake. Neither of them had managed to close the curtains last night, and sunlight hit him full in the face. The feeling of an ice pick driving through his skull intensified, and he groaned. At least they had managed to make it back to the correct flat after their impromptu night out. That was a small victory.
“Sherlock,” Victor managed. “What happened?”
“We got drunk.” Sherlock’s voice emerged from beneath the pile of pillows, low and hoarse.
“We got married, and then we got spectacularly drunk.”
Victor fought with the blankets for a minute, finally managing to tug his left hand out of the mess that was their bed. He squinted, trying to bring it into focus. The band on his finger glinted gold.
They got married.
“That,” he said finally, “was a mistake.”
The bedclothes moved, and an indignant eye peered at him through the blankets.
“You were the one who proposed,” Sherlock said waspishly.
“I meant the getting drunk part.” Victor rubbed a hand over his face. His head throbbed, the inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper, and his bladder was fit to burst. Getting up, however, seemed an impossible task. “Why did we do that?”
A grunt, and the eye disappeared again. “That was also your idea.”
“You didn’t protest at the time.”
“You know I can’t say no to you post-coitus.”
“Ugh.” Victor grimaced. “Can you not call it that?”
“No, because it annoys you.” The blankets shifted again, and a heel connected with his shin. “Now stop talking. My head can’t handle you this early in the morning.”
“It’s almost noon,” Victor muttered under his breath, but he had to agree. All this talking was aggravating his headache.
He made it to the bathroom to relieve himself, and then swallowed some paracetamol. He brought the bottle back out with him and placed it on Sherlock’s bedside table. From the stillness, he guessed that Sherlock had fallen asleep again.
His own phone was discarded on the floor next to his trousers. He picked it up and brought it back to bed with him, even though the light from the screen hurt his eyes and sent pinpricks of pain shooting through his skull. He hadn’t plugged it in the night before, and the battery was almost drained. Still, there was enough life in it for him to scroll through the dozens of notifications that had come in since the previous night.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
“What?” Sherlock mumbled.
“Not you,” Victor said, and Sherlock huffed. “Your blog’s gained about a thousand new followers since that post yesterday, and - Good Lord. My Instagram’s gone up three thousand.”
Half of Sherlock’s face made an appearance this time.
“You put that picture on Instagram?” he asked accusingly.
“You said I could,” Victor reminded him. It wasn’t as though it was an indecent photo. Victor had snapped it right after the ceremony, his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, the both of them grinning like lunatics.
“You asked me after sex. That doesn’t count.”
“Please,” Victor huffed. “You’ve been using that excuse since university. Besides, it’s a nice picture of us.”
“I don’t need the whole world to know about my private life,” Sherlock muttered.
“You’re the one with a blog!” Victor said in exasperation. “You’re the one who goes around solving crimes no one else can. And you’re the one who put up that hiatus post yesterday about your impending wedding. People know, Sherlock. They’ve seen us in public, the press follows us home, we’ve had reporters camped out front since yesterday afternoon - ”
“Victor.” Sherlock emerged from the blankets this time, at least enough to curl around Victor and rest his head on Victor’s chest. “I was only teasing. I’m sorry.”
Victor let his phone fall to the floor and wrapped his arms around Sherlock.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “We’re married.”
“You should really stop sounding so surprised, considering this was your idea.”
“I still can’t believe you said yes.”
“I’ve been in love with you since university. Why wouldn’t I say yes?”
Victor rested his cheek against Sherlock’s forehead. “We should have done this sooner.”
“Yes, well. I wasn’t the one who ran off to India, was I?” Sherlock tilted his head up and softened the words with a kiss. “It’s fine. You’re here now.”
“I’m here forever.”
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. He settled on Victor’s chest again and closed his eyes. “Forever. I can’t wait.”