Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was Sherlock who proposed.

They were in the lab, testing blood samples, when Sherlock looked up from his microscope.

“Find something?” John had asked.

“No,” Sherlock said. “I was just thinking.”

“About?” John asked.

“Us,” Sherlock said.

Molly cleared her throat, flashed John a smile, and took that as her queue to exit. John watched her go, confused, and Sherlock leaned back away from the microscope. He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a small cardboard box, which he held out to John.

“I’m supposed to give you this,” he said.

John frowned at it. “What is ‘this’?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock said.

John sighed and took the box. He opened it and felt his breath catch in his throat. The ring was a simple gold band. John took it out and held it up to the light, inspecting the engraving on the inside.

“This is… are these chemical compounds?” John said. “How the hell did you manage that?”

“I found a specialist,” Sherlock said. “In America. I mailed it to them.”

John blinked at him. “Jesus.”

“So will you?” Sherlock asked.

“What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes fondly. “Marry me.”

John grinned and shook his head.

“Of course I’ll fucking marry you.”

▪ ▪ ▪

The first two years, it’s as though nothing has changed.

The third and fourth years, things start to slow down. John takes a job at the clinic, Sherlock becomes even pickier with the cases he chooses. He builds his lab in the basement of 221, they nearly die three times, John is kidnapped once, and Sherlock breaks an arm one year, and his foot the next.

By the sixth year, things are almost what John would consider “normal”.

And that’s when it starts.

▪ ▪ ▪

“Are you going to eat that?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. John taps his foot under the table. Sherlock hums and looks away from the window. John gestures to the slice of chocolate cake on Sherlock’s plate. Only one chunk off the edge is missing.

“No,” Sherlock says. He slides the plate across the table.

John sighs. “We’ll take it home then.”

▪ ▪ ▪

Sherlock is gone for the better part of his days, shut away in his lab downstairs, or in the morgue, or just gone, where, John doesn’t know. When he is home, he’s lost somewhere in his head, or busy on his laptop, which he closes firmly whenever John comes close.

“It’s a project,” Sherlock says whenever John asks him about it.

At first John found it nice, having the flat to himself, knowing Sherlock would be home again at some point during the evening, smelling of chemicals, his hands stained. Or tired but relaxed, a bag of take-away in his hand, dropping a kiss to the top of John’s head.

Now the flat is too quiet. The clock in the living room ticks, too loud, and there’s the occasional creak, but there’s a sort of emptiness that John hasn’t felt since Sherlock died. The only difference now is that John knows Sherlock will come back home at the end of the day.

He hopes.

▪ ▪ ▪

Sherlock comes home half past two in the morning, smelling faintly of dust and cigarette smoke. He pulls off his clothing and dumps them into the dirty laundry. John stares at the wall, his back turned. Sherlock pulls down the covers and slides in next to him, shifting to get comfortable.

John waits, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything, doesn’t wrap his arm around his middle and nuzzle his nose into the back of his neck. He just sighs, then, eventually, falls asleep.

John closes his eyes.

▪ ▪ ▪

“Are you bored?” John asks over breakfast.

“With what?” Sherlock asks from behind his newspaper.

John digs into his grapefruit.

“Us,” he says. “Me.”

Sherlock turns the newspaper down.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says.

John looks up.

“I can’t remember the last real conversation we had,” he says. “Or the last time we spent a day together, or – or slept together—”

“Last night,” Sherlock says.

John sighs. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock sets down the newspaper and watches him. John rubs at his eyes.

“Domestic bliss,” John says. “I guess that’s not really our style, is it?”

“What were you expecting?” Sherlock asks.

John laughs sadly. “I have no idea.”

▪ ▪ ▪

One morning, Sherlock has his bag packed by the time John gets up.

John frowns. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing to worry about. Project,” Sherlock says with a smile. “I won’t have reception.”

“Wait, Sherlock—”

“I’ll be back on Monday,” Sherlock swoops down to kiss him. Then he’s out the door.

▪ ▪ ▪

This is it, John thinks.

Sherlock is going to come home, and he’s going to announce – what? He can’t do this anymore. He’s found someone else. He’s found something that doesn’t include John, something that works better for him, makes him happier. Something that keeps him on his toes, because John has a hard time keeping up at crime scenes now-a-days, and Sherlock spends more time alone in his lab than he does at home with John.

John rubs his thumb against the ring Sherlock gave him. The engraving scratches against his skin.

▪ ▪ ▪

“Maybe you need to spice things up a bit,” Mike suggests Saturday night, just as the waitress sets down a basket of fish and chips. Mike thanks her and digs in. John turns his glass of beer on his coaster, watching the moisture drip down the glass.

“How, exactly, does one spice things up with Sherlock Holmes?” John asks.

Mike shrugs. “I don’t know. Go grave-digging? Build a meth lab?”

John snorts out a laugh.

“Marriage isn’t easy, John,” Mike tells him. “Trust me, I know. I’ve been married for thirty-five years, and sadly, I’m still not an expert. I just know that if Sherlock were truly unhappy, he wouldn’t stay.”

John swallows. “Yeah.”

▪ ▪ ▪

Sherlock comes home Monday afternoon, looking tired but awfully pleased with himself.

He tosses John’s bag at him when John enters the bedroom.

“Pack,” he says. “Three days.”

John drops his bag onto the bed. “Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

Sherlock beams at him. “It’s a surprise. Pack.”

▪ ▪ ▪

They take a train up to Sussex, and Sherlock rents a car. John rests his head against the window and watches the scenery drift past. He doesn’t bother to ask where they’re going, or what’s going on; Sherlock won’t reply anyway.

Eventually they pull up to a small stone cottage, with a vine-covered stone wall and a black gate, and trees dotting the grass here and there. Sherlock turns off the car and turns to John, smiling.

“What do you think?” he asks.

John blinks. “Um. About what?”

Sherlock gestures to the cottage.

“It’s nice,” John nods. “What is it?”

“Ours,” Sherlock says.

John looks at him. “Come again?”

“This is the project I’ve been working on,” Sherlock explains. “Three bedrooms – one for us, two offices – two baths, a den, screened-in porch on the back that looks out into the garden. No press, no nosey neighbours, no Mrs Hudson to tell us to keep it down.”

John swallows. “You… bought a house.”

“Yes.”

“For us.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t think to mention this?” John asks.

Sherlock shifts in his seat. “It – it was meant to be a surprise.”

John looks back to the house. “Well, I’m… definitely surprised.”

Sherlock opens the car door and steps out. John follows, his legs feeling wobbly. The cottage is nice, quiet and private. Sherlock opens the front door and steps inside, and John follows. It’s bright and airy, cozy and comfortable. There’s already a couple of pieces of furniture in the living room and kitchen.

“I’ve been antiquing,” Sherlock says.

“I can see that,” John says.

“We still need a bed,” Sherlock explains. “I’ve had my eye on some chairs and a sofa. Your office is for you to decorate, of course. There’s a shed out back I was going to use for a lab, if that’s all right with you.”

“You’re serious?” John asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” John says. “I just – this whole time, I thought you were gearing up to break everything off.”

Sherlock frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“You’ve been rather distant,” John says.

“I’ve been busy,” Sherlock says.

“Shopping.”

“Yes.”

John starts to laugh.

▪ ▪ ▪

They buy Chinese food from a town nearby and bring it home. They eat out of cardboard containers in the backyard and watch the sun set behind the tall brick fence. There’s no hum of the city, no honking horns or people talking loudly. Just crickets in the grass, a bird singing nearby, and the wind in the trees.

“For future reference,” John says a while later, once they’ve packed away their food containers and headed inside. “Next time, just tell me what you’re doing so I won’t worry so much, yeah?”

“That would have ruined the surprise,” Sherlock says.

“I can act surprised,” John says.

“No.” Sherlock says, then grins. “You’re awful at acting.”

John rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t seriously think I was getting bored of you,” Sherlock says. “Did you?”

“I wasn’t sure,” John says. “Marriage never seemed like your thing.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you to marry me if it wasn’t ‘my thing’,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah,” John says. “I – I know. Really. Or I should have.”

Sherlock smiles. “How can I make it up to you?”

“You bought us a bloody house, Sherlock,” John laughs. “I think that’s enough.”

Sherlock hums. “Are you sure? You haven’t even seen the bedroom yet.”

“I thought you said there was no bed,” John says.

Sherlock grins. “And when has that ever stopped stopped us?”