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He could tell I was nervous. I haven’t done anything to surprise him in a while; it isn’t easy to catch him off guard. And it’s so simple to please him in other ways. He likes little things. Cold beer in the fridge when he gets home. Cheese toasties on rainy nights. He likes flowers. I hadn’t expected that. I got them, the first time, because they were beautiful, and so is he, and I wanted to. I left them on the counter in a beaker. He stopped still in the middle of the kitchen when he saw them. I was working at the table, studying the effect of heat treatment on the viscosity of wood stain. I realize that’s not an ideal experiment to perform in a small, enclosed space. Well, I had the window open, or I think I did.
Anyway, he was going for the kettle when he saw them, and he stopped dead. His hand twitched, and then he turned around to look at me. He looked almost angry: staring and silent. I said, “What?” I might have sounded defensive.
It was only when he said, “Are these for me?” that I realized he was deeply pleased. His voice had gone gruff, and his ears were slowly turning pink. I got up then, quickly, because I needed to touch him.
I said, “Yes,” and I hugged him.
“Flowers,” was all he answered, into my shoulder; “It’s absurd, me getting like this over flowers,” but then he turned his face into my neck and kissed it, and I knew I’d done something good. So I’ve been getting him flowers. Periodically. Which is still a surprise of sorts, but not such a surprise, after the first time. And the other things we like to do together are quite ordinary—movie nights and Angelo’s and walking around the city and raiding the morgue for useful bits. Ordinary for us, at least. Not really surprising.
So he could tell I was nervous, that night, but he thought it was about the party. Really I’d been trying to work up my nerve to talk to him for days, and I’d set the NSY party as a sort of deadline for myself, so he wasn’t wrong. I wanted to get it done before Christmas, so I’d have an answer for the questions at the family party. I knew Mummy, she’d definitely ask, and in front of him, but trying to be subtle—“Have any plans?”
But he didn’t know I was thinking about all that. He’s gotten the idea that I have anxiety about public events. Well, he gets protective, so I didn’t say anything. I let him smooth my shirt over my shoulders, and tell me I looked wonderful—I do enjoy that, silly as it is, being tidied and praised. I let him tell me everyone would be so pleased we came, a blatant lie. A few people (Greg, Molly) would be glad to see us, but most of them indifferent. He was pleased, though, which was the main thing. He held my hand in the cab. I tried not to fidget. The box in my inside jacket pocket felt bulky and obvious, even though it clearly wasn’t; he hadn’t glanced at it once in the days I’d been carrying it around. (I would have noticed it within sixty seconds.)
On the very rare occasions when he deems it necessary we socialise, I do the talking. I would think he’d like to, since he’s the one who insists on going; but he doesn’t. He likes to nurse a drink, and hang about, and watch me talk. So I do; I find the nearest marginally-intelligent-looking person, pretend I’m on an investigation, and draw them out. And John is pleased, because I’m being friendly. I’m making him feel part of the group, by extension. Or I find someone who has an interest in us, John and I, as a crime-solving team (never in us as actual people; we don’t want to engage that sort of fan—things get far too personal). And I tell them stories. John likes those conversations even better. He likes to watch me remember the things we've done. Occasionally, I find someone I actually like talking to (usually the odd guest out, hanging around the back wall). That’s best, but I have to be sure not to leave John out entirely—turn to him occasionally and ask his opinion, or touch his elbow; some part of him is still afraid (somehow!) that I will find someone more fascinating than him.
At any rate, this time I was too preoccupied to put on a good show for him. I knew that, so I went straight for Lestrade, standing over the bar, and asked him to get us drinks. John would start talking while we waited, or Greg would draw him out. Greg squinted at me. “Really? You’re letting me choose what you have?”
“Within reason,” I said, realizing the potential dangers. “We need to be alert. In case of anything.” What I meant was in case of the box, which was in my pocket, finding its way into my hand, and the words I needed to say to him finding their way into my mouth. Which felt impossible. But I make a habit of doing impossible things, periodically. It keeps me on my toes. If I could just convince myself this was worthwhile—disrupting things.
Because it was all going so well. We were comfortable. We liked each other, and we even managed to say it aloud. Now that we’d managed to get here—to the point where kisses and quiet nights side by side on the sofa doing our own work, occasionally reaching out just to be sure of each other, and flowers, and regular hugs, was all normal, a foregone conclusion—it seemed strange to ask for more.
But I had to know that he knew I was sure. I had to make sure that the whole world knew I was sure. He deserved that, after everything. I wanted him to look down at his finger a dozen times a day and see my ring, and never wonder again if I would leave, or if I’d forget that he was the most fascinating man in the world. I suppose I needed that, too—to find out if he’d promise me. To see his ring and be sure. Sometimes I still forget he really loves me.
At some point, I realized Lestrade had handed me a drink; it was cold in my hand, and that brought me back to myself. It took me a moment to find John, but he was watching the game, perched on a barstool beside Greg, both of them cursing happily at the activity onscreen: as I’d hoped. He didn’t need me to talk for him, with Greg around. I took a sip and found it was gingery and sweet. Lestrade was better at choosing for me than anticipated. The fear in my gut welcomed the sugar and burn of it as a kind of comfort. I looked round at John again, soft-edged in the low light. He is so many things for which I will find no words, but just then all I could think was lovely, and mine. Slowly I slid my hand into my pocket to finger the box.
“Do it,” said a voice at my elbow. Molly. I turned.
“How did you know?” I might have sounded indignant, but she only laughed.
“You look like you’re about to die of nerves,” she said, dropping her voice to a half-whisper, “and you’re fidgeting about in your coat pocket. Besides, you’ve been besotted forever and so has he. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Do you think he knows?”
“Oh, no.” She came around to arrange herself on the stool beside me, finger the stem of her blue iced something-in-a-glass and eye me. “I should say, it’s obvious to a woman.”
“That's absurd.”
“It’s just socialisation.” She talks to me entirely differently now that she’s Greg’s. I had known she was intelligent, but am still startled by how quick she is when she and I are all right—now I don’t fluster her with my careful indifference. Now that she knows it’s not her fault. “We grow up on romcoms and love stories. You all don’t.”
“God, no. I never wanted to.” If I had been a woman, would I have been forced to watch romantic movies? Would I have wanted to? “What is it about them?”
“They’re so human,” she said, and sat back against the bar. “They’re such ordinary stories, but that’s the good of them—they make it feel all right to be human. Uncertain of yourself. It makes you think you could find a way to be happy as you are.” She smiled at me.
“I didn’t know,” I admitted, because I hadn’t. It would make John happy, that I’d listened, and learned something. The knowledge could be useful on a case—the psychological impact of romcoms. But now I couldn’t manage to be social any longer, not with John sitting there laughing, and the box in my pocket.
“Excuse me,” I said, and I went directly over to John, and tugged on his hand.
“Hm?” He looked up at me, smiling, dark-eyed in the low light, and my heart dropped down to my toes, because how was I ever going to find words? But maybe—maybe I should just try for the impossible, anyway. I tugged on his hand again, pulled him up off the stool and said, “Come outside.”
“All right.” He was growing serious; he could see something was happening. He caught hold of my hand; followed me through the crowd. My heart was beating hard. I got him out into the street, in the December night. It was dark and cold, but the crowds made me feel less conspicuous; alone with him in the middle of a London street’s magnificent indifference, the cabs rushing past, the headlights shining off the wet pavement, and the neon signs blinking above us.
“I’ll be quick,” I promised. I was finding it hard to get my breath. I unwound my scarf, stalling for time; wrapped it around his neck, and he blinked at me. I’d dragged him outside without his coat; it was a rational thing to do. But he looked at me as though I was being sweet, but puzzling; his eyebrows were being quite eloquent about it. I gave up trying to find words, then, and just pulled the little velvety box out of my coat, and laid it in my palm where he could see it. His eyes went wide.
“Should I open it?” I said, breathing deeply through the pounding of my heart.
“Is that?—Sherlock, is that—?” He sounded breathless, too.
“Yes, of course. Obviously.” I even tried a laugh, but it came out high-pitched and faint and I gave up and flipped the box open after two tries, curse my clumsy fingers, so he could see the ring and not doubt himself or me a minute more. “Would you—do you—want it? Should I ask you?”
“Yes!” Now he was starting to laugh too. “Yes, I want it, and yes, you ought to ask me, you idiot! Oh, my God.” He stared at me. He was waiting. I had to find words.
“Please marry me.” I could barely talk. “John, marry me.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.” I was shaking.
“Yes. Oh, God.” He grabbed my shoulders. He was going to kiss me. He doesn’t do that in public, not in the middle of London, but then he was: I barely had time to see it coming before he was kissing me, urgently, and then he was in my arms, small and solid and beautiful, sniffling into my neck, while I savored the feeling of his hot, wet breath in my skin; and then he pulled back wet-eyed and said, “Put it on me, will you?”
The little silver circle inlaid with ebony slid on perfectly; settled onto his finger as though it belonged there. “Of course,” he said, staring at it, “of course you know my size, God, you didn’t ask Harry for my ring size, did you? She couldn’t have kept this a secret.”
“Harry wouldn’t know your size,” I said, staring at it too, and picked up the hand and kissed the little, rough finger with my ring on it; I couldn’t help myself. He laughed again.
“No, you’re right,” and then he took my face in his warm hands and kissed me again. I swayed a little; I was that far gone. Only he can make me forget myself in the middle of the street. Then he said, “I have slush in my shoe, and I'm cold. Can we take this inside?” And then, in a sudden whisper that told me he was still near tears, “Or just go home? I’d like to go home.”
“I’ll get your coat,” I said. I felt vaguely that I ought to steady him, but I couldn’t manage it; I was reeling. I’d done it. I had him. I had asked him to marry me, and he’d told me he would, and he'd cried. He'd kissed me in the street. I left him there; went back through the noisy heat of the main room, up to the bar, where Molly and Greg were standing, Molly tucked under his arm.
“John’s coat?” I said, to Greg, who squinted at me; pulled it off John’s abandoned seat and handed it over.
“Everything all right?”
Molly grinned, suddenly, and shoved out from under his arm.
“Everything’s fine,” she said, and came right up to me and gave me a hard hug, with her chin on my shoulder. I could feel her laugh silently. “Everything’s wonderful,” she added, letting go, and patted my shoulder. Greg was gaping at us, but she didn’t look at him, only tucked herself back in at his side, and said, “Give him our best, Sherlock, and take him home.”
He had flagged down a cab; it was waiting for us at the kerb. I helped him into his coat, and opened the door for him; went around to the other side in a daze, and slid in, as near him as I dared. He tucked his hand into my elbow; squeezed it gently. His other hand lay in his lap. The ring shone amid the shadows, in the streetlights’ glow. We looked at it all the way home.