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It just sort of... happened.
A lot of things seemed to just happen to Sherlock where John Watson was concerned.
John becoming his flatmate, for example.
Sherlock had honestly wanted to have someone live with him; it would help with the rent, which meant he'd be more free to take only interesting cases instead of any that were offering him pay. And while he never would have admitted it out loud, he'd been... lonely. Never would he have guessed that he'd actually make a friend, though. He honestly hadn't expected to find someone willing to put up with him for longer than a single month's rent. The fact that Mike had found him a potential flatmate in less than a week was even more incredible. When the mess in the flat had only gotten a small, cursory bit of disapproval and the skull hadn't warranted more than a passing acknowledgement, Sherlock knew that he had to keep John. He'd be the perfect flatmate.
And before long, he'd become a perfect friend.
They enjoyed cases together, and John often prioritized Sherlock over everything and everyone else. Even John's dates and girlfriends often took a backseat to Sherlock's needs. Sometimes Sherlock had wondered over that, but without further evidence, he eventually simply let himself be grateful for it and moved on to the next puzzle.
For a long time, Sherlock didn't understand why this habit of John's seemed a source of endless fascination for him. It wasn't until after the incident at the pool, where he'd briefly thought he'd misplaced his trust but soon after realized that John's life was in serious danger, that he began to understand why it mattered to him that John would drop everything for him.
Somehow, he had fallen in love with John Watson.
For several months after that realization, Sherlock mulled over all that this attachment meant. During that time, he'd come to desire another person physically and sexually for the first time in his life. He'd gone through quite a period of confusion over that, as he'd always thought himself asexual, but in his contemplation and research, he'd decided that demisexual would be a better descriptor for him. As he'd never been emotionally close with anyone the way he was with John, it made sense that he'd never felt any desire for any person but John, either.
Once he'd come to terms with his own feelings, he'd tried to keep them as unnoticeable as possible. Nearly all of his and John's acquaintances already had suspected for some time that there was more than friendship between the two of them. Sherlock refused to let anything ruin the most important personal relationship that he'd ever had, so he carefully changed nothing about his behavior.
Until the next mess that Moriarty had gotten them into, that is.
Sherlock had shamelessly taken advantage of being handcuffed to John by demanding they hold hands. He had already begun to suspect that he'd have to disappear for a while, and he wanted to have a strong sensory memory to keep with him while he and John were forced to stay apart. His emotional barriers stayed strong right up until the call they shared at Bart's, Sherlock standing on the rooftop. Having to tell John not to believe in him was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but it was eclipsed shortly thereafter by having to leave his best friend behind. Hearing John's pain at the graveyard was like a knife in the chest, but Sherlock had convinced himself that John would recover before too long, and then he would return to Baker Street and put everything back the way it should be.
He hadn't expected taking down Moriarty's network to take so long.
And he certainly hadn't expected to come home on the very night that John proposed to someone else.
Every memory that involved Mary was a painful one, too. Wedding planning, being asked to be John's best man, Mary's encouragement of Sherlock's jealousy of Sholto, her manipulations to make Sherlock think she was pregnant, finding out a month after they married that she had lied to John about her past and thus had put John in danger... all of it was both heart-wrenching and humiliating. How had he been so blinded to her true nature? Why hadn't he looked closer? He was meant to protect John, damn it!
Perhaps the worst memory from that time was the fact that Sherlock had realized during his speech at the wedding that John could have been his all along.
But luckily, all of that was far behind them. In order to deal with the situation with Mary after having shot Magnussen, Sherlock finally started filling John in about his plans ahead of time. Their friendship grew in strength, and they never would have been able to deal with Moriarty and Moran (Mary's true last name) if they hadn't worked on their plans together. Both criminals had been permanently dealt with, and John and Sherlock had taken some well-deserved time away from crime-solving.
During their two-week "stay-cation," as Molly had called it, John's declaration had become the next thing that simply occurred.
One of Sherlock's experiments had gone wrong, resulting in a small fire. In the midst of their argument, John had distractedly said, "Christ, Sherlock, how many times do I need to tell you? You need to be more careful! You're lucky that I'm so fucking in love with you, otherwise I'd never let you bring another specimen into this flat!"
Both of them had frozen for a moment, John in embarrassed horror, Sherlock in stunned disbelief. Eventually, John had started to walk away, but Sherlock had refused to let him, instead pulling him close and kissing the breath out of him. The mess from the experiment hadn't even gotten another glance for several days.
That had been about four months ago. All of their friends and family were aware by now that they were together, and everything was going magnificently. Nothing was awkward. Where before there had been minimal physical contact, there were now frequent casual touches. Where there had been space between them on the couch, they now cuddled up together. Where before there had been longing, tension-charged glances, there were now kisses and hand-holding and whispered "I love you"s. And where before they'd needed two bedrooms, they now had one bedroom and a home lab—no more experiments in the kitchen (except when the stove was needed, and then only if John was home to supervise).
Sherlock was amazed at the amount of renovating he'd had to do of his mind palace since the beginning of their romantic relationship. Before, John had already had several rooms to himself; now, it was an entire wing. During quiet moments, Sherlock would often compare John's current actions and reactions to those that had already been stored away. He liked to keep everything on John completely current.
"Here, love," John said, dropping a kiss on Sherlock's head while setting down a plate of breakfast. "You haven't eaten a full meal since supper two days ago, so you're not leaving the table until that plate's clean."
Humming noncommittally, Sherlock watched John grab his own plate and settle across the table. Today, John was in a hurry—he was meeting up with Harry in less than an hour. As usual when he had somewhere to be, John heaped his scrambled eggs onto a slice of toast and folded it in half to make a sandwich. As he ate, a few small bits of egg dropped onto his lap, a small grunt of annoyance accompanying every missed piece. Sherlock added John's occasional eye roll to his "in a hurry" file in the "breakfast" cabinet in the "John eating" room of his mind palace, because that was new.
Without thinking about anything other than his amazement that he could find such a scene appealing, Sherlock blurted out, "Marry me."
John froze in the act of chewing, slowly lowered the rest of his makeshift sandwich, and stared blankly at Sherlock for a moment. Then he carefully chewed, swallowed, and asked, "What did you say?"
Tamping down his usual annoyance at having to repeat himself, Sherlock cleared his throat and forced himself to say, "Marry me, John Watson."
There was silence long enough for Sherlock to start to worry that he'd be rejected, but when John saw the insecurity on Sherlock's face, he stood quickly and went to Sherlock's side. Placing his hands on either side of the younger man's face, John said, "Nothing would make me happier than to be your husband, Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I will marry you."
Timidly, feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Sherlock quietly asked, "Really?"
"Absolutely, you ridiculous man," John whispered against his lips, smiling hugely. They lost themselves in the kiss for a long while. Eventually, John broke away, asking, "Do I have to meet up with Harry today?"
"You've already had to reschedule twice for cases, John. I think you'd better."
Twisting his mouth into a pout, he said, "All right. I suppose I'll see you in a couple hours, then." They shared one last kiss. John reminded Sherlock that he was to finish everything on his plate, and then he dashed out the door. On his way down the stairs, he called out, "I love you!"
As Sherlock sat eating his breakfast, just as John had instructed, he mulled over the fact that much of their shared life was the result of things that just happened, rather than what either of them had planned.
But then, Sherlock didn't think he could have planned his life any better, anyway.