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Sherlock dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box he had gotten a few weeks prior. He flipped it open and stared at the contents. A single gold band, set into flimsy velvet-covered cardboard. He flipped it closed again and returned it to his coat pocket as John entered the flat.
They had been dating for three months now, but it seemed like forever to Sherlock. He supposed it almost was forever-- he had fallen in irreparable love with the man at the end of their first case, when he had killed for him-- him!-- after knowing him for less than twenty-four hours. Sherlock had struggled with the new sentiment through the rest of their cases, until Moriarty. On that rooftop, he had considered it. He had paused, thinking. He could have said it then; 'I love you, John. I always have and always will.' But no. He couldn't.
When Sherlock had returned, John had Mary. And Mary was despicably difficult to hate. Sherlock liked that she made John happy. He just wanted it to be himself making John happy. That was why he had stood without complaint as best man at the altar, watching the most important person in his life marry someone else. It was a small consolation, he supposed, that John had called him his best friend. It was something, at least.
-
John had fallen in love with Sherlock at Angelo's. 'Married to his work.' Ha. Now John knew different. But he hadn't always. At Bart's, the worst day of his life, he had wanted to say it. 'No, Sherlock, come down, right now, so I can tell you that I love you properly.' But no. It wouldn't have worked.
When Sherlock died, John didn't know what to do with himself. He picked up extra shifts at the surgery, insisting that he was fine. He wasn't one to dwell in self-pity. And yet, every night, he slept with Sherlock's robe, breathing in the scent of ink and tea and cigarette smoke and whatever gorgeous shampoo that man used. Until Mary. Mary had helped John get over Sherlock. Well, not really. But the robe went back in the closet and that seemed like that. But then, Sherlock returned, and he couldn't decide whether to punch the man or kiss him. So he did both. One in front of Mary, the other very much not.
Sherlock had been asleep. John had returned to 221B for a night, to talk to him. But Sherlock had been asleep, his face peaceful and frightened at the same time. So John tiptoed over and laid a kiss oh-so-softly on his forehead. Sherlock didn't wake up, and John snuck back out the door, smiling slightly. He had wanted to say it when he asked Sherlock to be his best man. But the wedding was already set, and. . . he loved Mary. As much as he could. It hurt, when Sherlock stood behind the altar, stoic and unmoving. Christ, he. . . he couldn't.
-
Sherlock remembered the night it happened. Mary had been in a car crash, not a year since John and her had been married. All the proper safety precautions had been in place, but a series of malfunctions and surgery complications had left John in tears when he burst into 221B that night.
That night.
John had stumbled in, shiny trails making their way down his face.
"She. . ."
And Sherlock knew. He knew that Mary was gone. He knew that John had been holding the tears in until he got there, to him. Because John felt safe here. With him. Sherlock had stood from the sofa, not knowing what he was doing. He walked over to where John was lingering in the doorway, and hugged him. He held him tightly against his chest as John sobbed into his second best dress shirt and Sherlock didn't care. He only cared about John, and that John was hurt, and crying, and pressed up against him because he felt safe there, with him.
After a moment, when John's sobs turned to weak sniffles, Sherlock broached a new topic. "Harriet?" They had named their baby, a girl, after Harry. John had wanted it and Mary, well, Mary loved John.
"Wasn't in the car." John sniffed. "Staying with my parents."
"Ah."
-
John remembered the night it happened. Mary, the car accident, the complications in surgery. He remembered it all in crystal-clear detail. But he'd rather not relive that part. He'd rather not remember when he had stumbled into 221B, not knowing where else to go, with the tears he had been holding in streaming down his face. No, he'd rather remember the hug. When Sherlock had taken one look at him, stood, and hugged him. It had been the best hug of his life on the second-worst night of his life. And yet, he had felt safe. So he had kissed Sherlock. For real. He finished sobbing into Sherlock's shoulder, sniffed, wiped his cheeks, and tugged Sherlock's head down so he could kiss him. Sherlock had been surprised, obviously, but the surprise had quickly turned into compliance. However, John pulled back after just a second, mumbled a quick apology, and rushed upstairs to berate himself.
-
The first time John had kissed him, Sherlock had thought that he was dreaming. It had been enough that John was hugging him, being comforted by his presence, of all people-- this felt like icing on the cake. No, that was wrong. The metaphorical cake had already been frosted. The kiss was that decorative arrangement of inedible things on top. It had surprised him, and very little did. But when John's rough fingers tugged at his collar, grazed his neck, he lost all thought process. When John kissed him, it took him most of the kiss (a fraction of a second, but still) to realize his current situation and to kiss back. By the time his eyes slid shut, John was pulling away, mumbling something, rushing upstairs. It wasn't fair to have your greatest dreams realized just to have them dashed in front of your eyes. Little did he know at the time. . .
~
The morning after that fateful kiss, Sherlock made tea. Sherlock never made tea. But he made tea that morning, for John. Anything for John. John had stumbled down the stairs, eyes downcast and very red.
"John." Sherlock sat down at the table. John's eyes still refused to meet his.
"Hm?"
"Last night." Sherlock shifted a little closer, stirred his tea.
"What about it?" John turned away. He was ashamed; Sherlock probably wanted him to leave now; he had acted rashly, with no self-control. It was probably utterly deplorable in Sherlock's eyes.
"Was it. . ." Sherlock didn't know how to finish the sentence, for once in his life. He looked at John again. Maybe John regretted it. Maybe it had been a mistake; John didn't want him, like him even. Maybe John was planning on leaving; maybe that's why he wouldn't look at him.
"What?" John sounded agitated. Shit, this really wasn't a good idea.
"Was it one-time, a mistake, or would you like to do it again?" he blurted. Shit. Shitshitshit. He hadn't meant to say that. What would John think of him now? He grimaced and looked away.
"Ah, well, erm. . ." John stuttered over his words, stalling for time. He looked over at Sherlock, who seemed none too happy. Maybe he should reply negatively? "What would you like?" There. Evaded.
"Not the question."
"Well I don't mind either way."
"Fine."
"Fine."
John snuck a glance at Sherlock. He was smirking a little into his tea. John drained the last dregs of his own and stood. On a whim, he walked over to Sherlock and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before heading into the kitchen without another glance. He didn't want to see Sherlock's reaction.
-
John had kissed him again. There were no words to describe how Sherlock felt, mostly because he wasn't used to describing emotions. But he smiled, and when he finished his own tea he came up behind John and kissed his temple before depositing his own mug in the sink.
-
The kisses increased in frequency after that morning. Morning kisses, tea kisses, good-night kisses, "we just solved a case" kisses, "we almost died but didn't" kisses. Some, especially the post-case kisses, grew heated and fervent until they wound up on the couch or in Sherlock's bed, sweaty and grinning. It technically counted as dating, John supposed. The slept together, sometimes sexually, sometimes not. They kissed often and in public. They held hands nearly everywhere they went. It was nice. Very, very nice. Sherlock felt the same.
-
The first time Sherlock whispered "I love you," he had thought that John was asleep. They were tucked together, legs wound impossibly tight, his arm slung over John's side, his face buried in his grey-blond hair. "I love you." He had meant for the darkness to consume the words, snatch them away before they were delivered to John. But it hadn't really worked that way. "I love you too." John's words were groggy but full of affection and truth. Sherlock had grinned despite himself and nuzzled closer to his John.
~
So this is where he was left. With a ring box eating a hole in his pocket like that corrosive acid he had tested last week. Just-- how did one propose, exactly?
"John?" They were nestled on the couch; some crap telly or other was playing.
"Hm?"
"Should we, I mean, would you want to, that is--"
"What on Earth, Sherlock?" John turned to face Sherlock. He pressed a kiss to his nose.
"I-- ah-- would you like to get married?" He shrunk back into the couch minutely, dreading John's response.
"Of course, love," John replied. He leaned in for a much longer kiss on the lips. "Have you got a ring?"
"It's, ah, in my coat pocket." John grinned brilliantly and stood up to get it while Sherlock waited on the couch with equal levels of anxiousness and giddiness. John returned in a moment with the box.
"I believe it is traditional for you to put the ring on my finger," he said, handing the box to Sherlock. Sherlock smiled nervously and extracted the ring from its faux-velvet cage and slipped it on John's waiting finger. Yes, it looked much better there.
"Do you like it?"
"Of course love. I love it. I love you." He kissed Sherlock again.
"I love you too," Sherlock mumbled. Yes, this was right. This was very, very right.