So, I was thinking when I finished the "Secret Life of Misery" fic that I really liked the whole idea of doing a "Secret Life" series of oneshots, with different themes (like the last one being misery and this one being friendship). I don't know, but it was just a little thought bouncing about in my head...okay, but this fic is kind of short, but I loved writing something related to Watson's marriage and the difficulty in getting Holmes to be excited about it. I hope it was Canon-like, and that you guys enjoy! Leave any comments/reviews you'd like :) Thanks, and happy reading!

Earlier today, at about eleven o' clock in a quiet registry office down in the central areas of London, I took Miss Mary Morstan as my wife and eternal partner, in mind, body, and soul. There couldn't have been a happier man in all of the world at that moment. And, coincidentally, I perceived that there couldn't have been a more unhappy man as well. For as I'd willingly given my heart to another, it almost seemed I had retracted it from another person whom I cared for very much.

Sherlock Holmes, my greatest friend and partner, was quite a stoic and unemotional man, completely devoid of human feeling as I'd come to find on several occasions. Ever since the conclusion of the case that had introduced my wife to my acquaintance, I had seen Holmes become more irritable and snappish, and especially disgruntled when I would casually say that I was visiting my fiancée. Then again, it is difficult to find Holmes in a good mood as it is, so I didn't really think anything of his morose behavior. I knew that he was disapproving of my growing love for Mary Morstan, and that he truly did not want to see me leave Baker Street permanently. As flattering as the sentiment was, I was a little peeved that he was so quick to judge my Mary. With every mention of her, the steel grey eyes flattened and his thin lips pressed into a frown. I did not like to believe that he disliked my bride, but there were instances where the clues that he laid before me drew me to a most disheartening conclusion.

Throughout my engagement, I must admit that any regard for how Holmes would feel was almost ignored. I had never been more joyful, and I tended to smile much during those four months. That seemed to darken Holmes's mood even more so. Cases were far and few between for the consulting detective, prompting a frequent visit to his drug-induced stupors that I so heavily condemned to him as a horrible flaw. That did nothing to dampen my spirits, but as much as I tried to include Holmes in my delight, it seemed to force him to shrink within his greatcoat and mumble incoherent phrases of discontent. Yes...my internal euphoria was often abused by my friend's secluded attitude.

I had thought that requesting him to be my best man would perhaps soften his restless soul; after all, there was no one else whom I would have rather asked. But in truth I was fearful of Holmes's response. After so long of scorning all women and their femininity, I was worried that he hated my Mary. I wanted my betrothed and my best friend to be cordial and friendly towards each other, but Holmes seemed to want nothing to do with such an idea. I was worried that my plan of broaching the subject to him would prove fruitless, and he would cast me aside as a friend lost to a woman's power. However, some will I hadn't known I'd possessed brought me to the conclusion that I would ask this man to be by my side on the most important day of my life. If he refused, then it would hurt and injure me, of that I had no doubt; but at that critical moment, when Mary and I would stand upon the altar and bond ourselves to one another, it would not matter who was standing next to me. I just wanted it, so badly, to be my greatest friend Sherlock Holmes.

I resolved to introduce the matter to him during breakfast one morning, which happened to be exactly a month before the date I meant to wed Mary. I had been awake almost all of the night, wondering how best to tell him of my desire for him to be with me in the registry office and for him to give me the ring that I would place on Mary's finger. In a way, the motion would be symbolic; almost as if Holmes would be giving his blessing on the marriage, and that he approved in my choice of eternal happiness. It could not occur if I did not ask, but I didn't know how. These thoughts plagued me that night, and the next day I felt jittery from anticipation.

"Good morning, Holmes," I greeted him upon entering the consulting room that morning. I was surprised to see him sitting upright at the table, fork hovering over a plate of Mrs. Hudson's incomparably wonderful breakfast. "You're eating."

"Is that not what one does when he's hungry?" Holmes reiterated dryly.

"It's just surprised me, that's all. You have not been eating much as of late."

"My dear fellow, it is hard enough to live and breathe in this house when Mrs. Hudson is constantly surveying my every move to make sure that I don't haphazardly starve myself to death. Do not add yourself to that highly disregarded list."

"I assure you, I don't plan on berating you for your lack of a stomach."

"Well then, what is it?" Holmes asked. "You have an air of purpose about you, and you were obviously pondering something deeply last night that you wish to ask me."

"Oh? And how do you know that?"

Holmes's lips quirked into a smile. It was his favorite game to elucidate upon his methods and present to me a series of deductions that, in the end, would bring a feeling of stupidity upon myself.

"You were pacing about your room last night, and reciting to yourself certain phrases that led me to believe that you wanted to ask me a question, but weren't sure as to the most complete way to say it."

"Yes, I suppose so," I said thoughtfully. I occupied the chair opposite of him and poured myself a scalding cup of tea before helping myself to eggs and a hearty sausage.

Holmes watched me eat with a direct and probing gaze that never strayed. After a few minutes of silence, he said, "Well, are you going to ask?"

I looked up to catch an impatient flicker in his eyes. I smiled wryly. "I had thought you could have deduced by now what my question is, Holmes."

"I am a consulting detective, Watson, not a mind-reader."

"Yes, but if presented with a starting point and the concluding deduction, one can easily fill in the central inferences that relate the two points..." I saw the eyebrows rise at my challenge. So far, everything was going according to plan. If I could keep him in good humor for a little longer, than I shall have succeeded in gaining a satisfactory answer.

"I am not in the mood for games, Watson!" Holmes cried impatiently. "Just let it out, man!"

"Very well, Holmes." I paused and drew a deep breath. "Would you do me the honor of being my best man at the wedding?"

Holmes's eyes widened considerably, and he looked absolutely shocked. His lips were pressed into a firm line, and his gaze never wavered in its intense concentration upon me. The question was asked, and all I could wait for was the answer. But Holmes was surely taking much time to reply...it was only a simple "yes" or "no" that I required. In actuality his silence was quite unnerving and making my mind reel. I took my cup of tea to steady myself against the torrent of emotions that were arising from the accursed quiet, but upon raising it to my lips I found my hand to be shaking. Holmes seemed to perceive it too.

"Watson..." he finally said.

His lamenting tone almost struck me cold. He was going to say no.

"It's fine, Holmes," I said quickly to hide my offence. "I wouldn't want to force you to do anything which you did not want."

"Wait a moment, Watson. I did not say that."

"Your lack of a reply said it all."

"I was merely startled at the question!"

"I could read refusal in your eyes, Holmes. It's of no matter now, I can just ask Lestrade or Hopkins," I said brusquely.

Holmes's eyes shifted to stare at his breakfast plate. "You know as well as I do that you don't want to do that, Watson. Could you allow me to answer you in full, please?"

I could not see what good that would do, since he didn't deny that he was going to refuse my request. It would just rub salt into the wound, a particularly painful feeling that I somehow knew all too well when it concerned my friend Holmes. I just couldn't ignore such a sensation this time.

"Watson, I want to tell you that I would be most pleased to be your best man."

My ears perked, and my slumped shoulders immediately straightened. Had I heard him incorrectly? "What?"

"You heard me," Holmes said. "I accept your offer, dear fellow!"

"You are completely serious?" I asked dubiously.

"I am in full sincerity, Watson, yes."

That was when I broke into a wide grin and almost jumped from my chair with ecstasy. Remembering that Holmes didn't exactly appreciate such emotional measures, I instead wrung his hand with my own and squeezed it with as much strength as could communicate to him my immense pleasure at his acceptance. Holmes actually smiled too, betraying his own happiness in addition to mine.

"My dear friend, I cannot even begin to explain how overjoyed I am right now!" I told him, my hand still clutching his.

In a rare moment that showed me the depth of his caring nature towards me, he chuckled and whispered, "Neither can I, Watson."

And so, a month later, and earlier today, I married Mary Morstan in a registry office in the presence of my friend Sherlock Holmes. There were an abundance of smiles that shone upon me and my Mary, many of them beaming from the relaxed, open countenance of Holmes, whom I perceived to finally be content that his friend had made a wise choice.

As a best man, he was immaculate.

As my best friend, he was irreplaceable.