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He’d been watching from afar for some time now, biding his time until the perfect moment presented itself. It really should have been quite easy, because he was an experienced man after all. While he’d not have more than one or two serious relationships in the past, he was skilled at introducing himself, and initiating the first date. But this time, it wasn’t like that. Somehow, instinctively, he knew it was different. If this happened, if he took that step, it might be a forever situation.
June
Harry and Clara’s wedding. John had no real interest in the festivities side of things, having just made it back from Afghanistan, if being a wounded man with no promising future in sight could be said to “make it back”. Harry had insisted that John be her Best Man, which while he still had to use his cane to be in the wedding procession, was better than trying to walk the bride down the aisle.
Clara’s Maid of Honor had tried to flirt with John at every turn, probably due to some notion that people in the wedding party would always pull. John managed to put her off with a few half smiles, and far too many drinks. Pain was radiating through his leg, and his limp was more pronounced than it had been in weeks. He was unaccustomed to being caught off guard, but it was when he made his way to the bar for the third time, that he’d seen him.
Curly dark hair that should have given him a cherubic appearance, but everything else so elegantly sculpted that there could be no question he was young, but a grown man nonetheless. If anything, the most cupid thing about him was his lips, which pursed a time or two as his long and proficient fingers pulled and sorted at an arrangement on the end of the gifts table.
When their eyes met, John thought he might go down through the very floor, for his vision had a whole galaxy stirring in his irises, the colors never quieting to just a basic one or two. The bowed-mouth had started to curve a little at the corners, but then the eyes suddenly opened more widely, and the vision darted off into the back room where the decorations were being stored.
Harry had come then, dragging John off to meet Cousin So-And-So, someone John hadn’t even known existed–and certainly didn’t care now. He didn’t see his mystery vision again after that. At least, not at the wedding.
July
John had been at the airport, sending Harry and Clara off on a belated honeymoon. The placed was of course packed, as Heathrow always was. Weighted down with not just his cane, but also an overnight kit of Clara’s, she rescued it from him just in time. A child had run past, energetic and ready to board, knocking the case from John’s hand where he loosely grasped the worn plastic handle.
Clara thanked him, pressed a warm kiss to his cheek, and reminded him to take care of himself while they were gone. He’d nodded along, trying not to smart at being treated as someone as young as the child that had upset the case. John knew he was a bit embarrassed, despite the fact anyone else might just as easily have dropped the case in the commotion.
With Harry and Clara boarding, John had turned to go back through the airport to get a cab, standing alone on the stretch of pavement outside and raising his hand to hail one. One sped past him, already occupied, and that’s when he saw him again.
Instant recognition, it was mutual. The young man was on his mobile, looking a bit distressed at whatever the person on the other end was telling him. It didn’t mean that he didn’t register John’s presence, however, and his spare hand lifted to touch at the window, mid-sentence.
The cab was too fast, however, and they pulled out into the traffic and sped off before anything else could come of it. John had watched until it disappeared, missing three potential rides of his own. Later, he recalled the license plate number, and put in a call to find out where the cab had taken its passenger. The company wasn’t able to provide the information to a complete stranger, so nothing came of it.
August
Sweltering heat for London, but John had done some recovery, so he was trying to take a walk around the park near his bedsit. Staying with Harry hadn’t worked out, not after the wedding, but John didn’t begrudge the newly-married their privacy. If any timing could have been better, it would be that John go out later in the evening, instead of the lunch hour.
In no shape for work yet, but he paused outside the window of an A&E, reading postings for positions. It would just part time or so he kept telling himself, hand curling and flexing on the cane, just itching to be around a scalpel or gun instead. Action. John needed action.
Not resigned, but knowing it would come to nothing right now, he turned away from the glass. The reflection just caught the swirl of something, and he saw him. It was the upsweep of curls off the crown of his head, a light breeze defying the heat, though a pool of sweat gathering at the gape threatened to plaster down the ones closest to his skin. John’s mouth watered.
The man’s hand was up, but he was across the street, and was interrupted by a group of officers to whom it appeared he was spouting something quite vehemently. His patience gone, over what, John could not know from this distance. Unable to tear his eyes away, and possibly hoping he’d have a chance to say something, John stood alone.
The vision touched his hand to his brow line, blocking out the sun, then rapidly turned the direction opposite to hasten down the alley nearest him. One minute stretched into two, then five, then ten. He did not reappear.
September
John had finally made enough progress to take on a locum position. He only worked two days a week, but at least it got him out of the drab bedsit where he’d been lodging. Cane still in use though, he was carefully making his way down a rain-slick section of pavement one evening, a short stop at the Tesco taken after work to get his dinner.
He’d been to his therapist earlier in the day, and she was still trying to encourage him toward writing a blog and maybe attempting a social life. John wasn’t willing to do either, not just yet. In the back of his mind, he kept seeing that vision.
October
Two days had become three, one of the other doctors out on maternity leave. John will still living in the bedsit, and out of plastic bags with plastic cutlery. Day by day, things were becoming less and less solid to him. Boring blurs, all of it.
November
The cold was seeping into his bones, but there was a knock at the door. John went to answer it, his sister sweeping in, very inebriated. Clara had called twenty minutes later, but Harry was shaking her head, insisting without actually speaking for John to lie about her whereabouts. John didn’t. Harry exploded and left. John’s unfinished meal sat on the desk just across from his bed, and John fell asleep holding himself with his own hands, trying to keep his body and soul together.
December
Christmas had come. Harry and Clara were splitting up, and John wasn’t surprised, but they had planned a party before the decision had been made and decided to carry on with it. Dressed in a frankly wretched beige and pea green jumper his sister had purchased him last year, John barely looked in the mirror. He was dressed with jeans and his boating shoes besides, his hair wasn’t sticking up, and his breath didn’t stink. That was enough for him.
When he arrived at his sister’s place, she was already three sheets to the wind. Clara had locked herself in their bedroom, refusing to come out, even though the guests were trickling in. Harry went to pout in the backyard, leaving John to pull door duty. He went back and forth between the door, the kitchen to refresh the drinks and crisps, and the bedroom door to try to convince Clara to come out. She eventually did, and most of the guests stayed on until just after eleven.
When the door opened on its own, he curiously looked in from the offside kitchen, wondering who'd be arriving just now. The vision was there. Standing in Harry and Clara’s living room, and dressed in the tightest shirt John had ever seen. The teal color brought out the exact shade in the vision’s eye, the black suit cut trim as well accentuating his slender hips and gorgeous posterior. John’s mouth fell open.
“It’s you,” said the vision. His eyebrow lifted on one side, his lips taking only a second longer to do the same.
“Yes. Yes, it’s me. But…but you…It's midnight.” John shook his head, torn between bemused and astonished. He’d assumed the vision worked for the florist shop.
“I had a case." There was a pause, and then the vision had more to say to him. "You never called. I thought you’d at least try.” It almost sounded like a demand, but there was a touch of offended hurt behind the words, too. The vision, his vision, was hurt that Plain John Watson hadn’t called.
“Was I supposed to?” John didn’t know how else to reply.
“Well, after the wedding, I thought you might. I genuinely prefer to text, but for you, I would have made an exception.” The smile had gone, but the vision was still plainly interested, and John didn’t know what to make of that.
“We can change that.” John was almost comically fast at pulling out his phone, which the vision was equally quick in swiping out of his hands, punching his information into the contacts section. John read off the name. “Sherlock Holmes.” It was like honey on his tongue.
“Yes, and you’re John Watson. Army doctor.” The vision sounded impressed, pleased, and if John was honest, aroused.
His eyes shot up, the darker blue meeting with the color swirl, and his lips quirked. “I was just making myself a drink in the kitchen.” He didn’t ask the vision, no Sherlock, along. He did tuck his head in that direction though, and linger just long enough to make sure Sherlock followed.
January
John moved out of the bedsit on the 30th. Officially, he’d decided well before that, but he didn’t want to leave the landlord in a lurch.
February
Midnight. February 14th.
He and Sherlock had just solved a case, because it turned out the florist gig had been a front for the consulting detective’s real work. After a short movie attempt, Lestrade had texted with a level eight, and they’d thrown off the blankets and pillows to race to the scene.
Now, they stood in a private garden not far from the scene. Sherlock had stopped smoking, because of John, but he still had a habit of standing outside in the cold to survey the world in his own unique way.
John had gotten rid of his cane the very night he finally met Sherlock, and now he was cautiously doing down on his knee, lifting up a ring box. Sherlock looked at him, plainly startled.
“I hadn’t deduced this.” His cheeks were flushed, and John knew it wasn’t from the chill in the air. A knowing look passed between them.
“Are you going to let me do this or not?” John smiled like Sherlock was silly, but also the most wonderful thing in the world.
“I’mnotstoppingyou.” Sherlock said it so fast, the words just snowballed onto one another, and he turned just a bit more toward John. That he was also stripping off his glove, impossible to miss.
“Ok, then. Over the last few months, I have been a miserable man. I was nothing, and anyone could see it. You’ve helped me find myself, and make a newer, better version of me. Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?” John was shaking, more from nerves than cold, but Sherlock grabbed his hands and hauled him back to his feet.
Not light, but adoring, the nearly frantic kiss that Sherlock set to John’s lips. It grew more fevered, and John wound his arms around the detective, the ring box still in his hand behind Sherlock’s back. The detective pressed himself more securely against John, trying to leave no space between them, his head turning slightly so could John could shower kisses along the long slope of his neck, and then find his lips again. Sherlock made a sound like a whimper into John’s mouth, then ripped himself away, and forced his hand forward. “Put it on John, put it on.”
John giggled, but stood his ground. “Not until you accept.”
“I did accept. See, this is my hand, waiting.” Sherlock was like a leaf in the wind, but his hand pushing forward over and over to insist, was no consequence of the cold. When John didn’t put the ring on fast enough, “Please, John.”
“That’s better.” John slid the ring onto Sherlock’s finger, and rose up just enough to give the detective a chaste kiss. “Happy Valentine’s Day, love.”