"Unbelievable," Watson mutters for the third time, as the bagpipers finish the phrase and very considerately begin again. They don't have much time. "Simply unbelievable. I cannot grasp how every time--"
Sherlock attends to this with as much concentration as he usually grants speeches of this nature, which is to say none at all. Watson's shredded army jacket is removed, tossed aside over his indignant squawk and replaced with Sherlock's tattered velvet one; his cuffs are tugged straight and his cravat is tied so as to best hide the stains that last night's revelry left upon it. Sherlock is a man with a certain amount of experience in impromptu disguises, and while his tend more to the disreputable end of things, that experience stands him in good stead now.
"I can dress myself, you know."
"Do be quiet," Sherlock instructs, "and hold still."
He straightens Watson's collar, flattens his unruly hair, and wipes away the worst of the blood and grime on his face with a handkerchief surreptitiously dunked in his hip flask. That finished, he tilts Watson's head from one side to the other, inspecting his work. The bruises are unfortunate, but there's nothing to be done for them. They do give him a bit of a rakish air that Sherlock has always liked, but it's Mary's tastes that have to be pleased now.
Still. There's nothing to be done for them. "There you are, my dear fellow. Right as rain."
Watson's lips quirk briefly the way they always do when he wants to laugh but isn't quite willing to give up his annoyance just yet. It makes Sherlock's chest fill with something warm and fond and more than a little sad. Watson's cheek is rough, and he smells of stale drink. His eyes are gray-blue, the pupils dilated and the whites slightly bloodshot: an expression of exasperated fondness is warring with embarrassment and impatience on his face. Sherlock wants, suddenly and very desperately, to kiss him.
It isn't the first time the impulse has struck him, but he's more skilled at repression--or at least suppression-- than Watson generally credits. He pats the familiar face once, then steps back. Still smiling. His lips feel as though they're carved of wood, but that's alright. Watson, for all his many admirable qualities, has never been the observant sort.
The ring box is a hard shape in his pocket, and his fingers rest against it for a moment before he can bring himself to draw it out and hand it over. "Well. Here you are. You'd best hurry, your bride will be here any minute."
There's some error in the way he speaks; the phrasing, perhaps, communicates more than he meant to. Watson's eyebrows draw together in a frown even as he takes the ring. "Holmes--"
Smile, quickly. He is impatient and still feeling the effects of last night's drinking; inattentive to subtler cues. Manufacture good humor, and he'll believe it. Sherlock smiles, quickly, and puts his empty hands back in his pockets. "Go on, then."
Watson stares at him a moment more, and then he nods and turns to go into the church. Sherlock stands behind, watching his familiar uneven gait for several seconds before he follows.