The London sky was a familiar shade of grey, mirroring the mood that seemed permanently settled within the walls of 221B Baker Street. You were slouched on the sofa, the cool glass of your phone screen a temporary distraction from the oppressive atmosphere. Sherlock's restless energy consumed the small living room. He was a whirlwind of frantic pacing, muttering to himself while clutching a crumpled list of potential dates, each name considered for a fleeting moment before being violently crossed out. John's wedding loomed, a social obligation neither of you had anticipated, and the dreaded rule of bringing a plus-one had thrown you both into a state of mild panic.

Gorgeous as you both were, neither of you possessed the social grace to court a companion for this particular occasion, a shared trait that ironically cemented your unusual friendship. Suddenly, a soft projectile hurtled through the air, connecting with your face with a muffled thud. A pillow, carelessly tossed from Sherlock's direction. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, before his declaration washed over you: you, apparently, would be his date to the wedding. It wasn't a request, it was a decree, spoken with the same unwavering certainty he used when revealing a criminal's entire life story from one glance at their shoes. A groan escaped your throat.

This wasn’t how you envisioned your Saturday; the plan had been clear – feign an illness and spend the day under a mountain of blankets. But John was your friend, a good man deserving of your support, even if it meant navigating the awkward social minefield that was a wedding. You tossed the offending pillow back at Sherlock, a silent sigh punctuating the exchange. The relief of having the problem of the wedding addressed warred with the absolute dread of actually having to attend. There was no escape. The wedding now loomed, an unwelcome inevitability, and your weekend was now officially booked with something you really didn't want to do.