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It was a quarter past noon and Sherlock was late again. Why was John even surprised? He refused to wait any longer. Lestrade was already pissed off enough as it was. So he grabbed his coat, left a note on the sofa, and waltzed out the door.
“Where’s the boyfriend?” Greg greeted, not even a ‘hello, good morning.’
“Late,” was all John needed to say.
Greg nodded, and the two studied a fresh corpse that was strewn across the sand at their feet.
It didn’t take a detective to know this guy was murdered. Two bullets to the chest, shell casings at the scene. Why did Scotland Yard need a consultant? This was just an ordinary murder, a sloppy one at that. Forensics even found strands of hair and saliva at the scene that might lead them to the killer.
John tried to ring Sherlock anyway. Three tries. No answer.
Two hours, still no Sherlock. The crime scene was in the process of being cleaned up still, and John had found a nice spot to camp out in the sand. He could go home. It was miserable outside, there was no sun. But something compelled him to stay. He had nowhere he needed to be. Still no sign of Sherlock.
Suddenly it started to rain. “Bloody hell,” John swore, shielding his eyes, and standing up to go home.
At least home wasn’t far. And at least it was going to be warm. He tried calling Sherlock one more time. No answer. John was livid. He knew it was partly due to the soggy socks, but still, he had had just about enough of Sherlock’s tardiness and absences.
He arrived home, feeling the returning trek had taken longer than the departing journey. He fumbled with his keys at the door to his and Sherlock’s shared flat, but before he could find the correct key, the door opened. It was Sherlock. He was covered in mud.
“Nope!” John interjected before Sherlock could even speak, pulling off his jacket and prying the shoes from his feet.
“But John I-”
“No Sherlock,” John said sternly, trying his best not to yell, “I don’t want to hear it, not this time, I just want to get into some dry clothes, make some tea, then go read a book. And you are not a part of any of those steps.”
“Please,” Sherlock uttered softly, eyes downcast. It was really hard for John to resist when Sherlock looked this disappointed, but he had to be strong. He had pushed John too far this time.
John walked away, took a shower, and slid into a dry set of clothes. Now that he was able to take a moment to himself, he realized he may have overreacted a bit. He knew he was in the right to be a bit peeved, but he also knew Sherlock, and he couldn’t stay mad at him. So he walked back out into the living room to make things right.
And there was Sherlock. No more mud. Somehow. On one knee. With a ring.
“John I…” before Sherlock could say anything else John interrupted.
“Yes!” He nearly shouted.
“Oh I um… can I still…?” Sherlock looked very confused.
“Oh yes sorry go ahead.”
“John, you are the bravest and wisest and kindest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. Yes I can be a bit difficult and yes we bicker at times, and yes I’m often late. But despite that, for some reason you love me anyway. And I love you. With all my heart. So, John Hamish Watson, will you marry me?”
“Yes, I will,” John replied, now sobbing joyfully and violently hugging Sherlock.
All the emotions John had previously been feeling fell completely away. Because in an instant John had suddenly become the happiest man in London.