Chapter Text
It was Sunday night, a bit after nine, violin music drifting through the flat, when Sherlock spoke. The violin paused a beat, just long enough for Sherlock to speak.
"Marry me." The violin continued.
"Sorry?"
"Marry me." The violin quieted somewhat, but the bow continued to slide across the strings while Sherlock's eyes followed the snow drifting past the window. It was late in the year for snow; nearly March-- global warming at work.
"Yeah, heard that part. Explain why you said it." Sherlock heard John lean forward from his chair, place his book on the table, and turn to stare at Sherlock's back.
"It makes sense, John. We share a flat, you've yet to keep a girlfriend past two dates--"
"Mary--"
"After I returned, John. I die and suddenly you can keep a date. Seems a bit suspicious to me. And, in fact, when I came back, she broke up with you as well." He stopped, waited for John to day something. But John was silent, so Sherlock continued.
"We partake in many dangerous situations frequently; if one of us were to wind up in the hospital it would be of utmost importance for us to make medical decisions for each other. Mycroft can only do so much."
John paused for a second before replying, "That's still no reason to get married."
"Then what would be?" Sherlock lifted the bow from the violin and turned to look at John.
"People get married for-- for love, Sherlock. People get married because they love each other, not for medical benefits."
"Does our relationship not have love?"
"No-- I-- it's too late for this. I'm going to bed."
"It's barely half nine."
"Yes, I know that, but I'm not going to sleep this instant, am I? Just-- we'll discuss this in the morning, okay?" Sherlock bit back a caustic remark and instead said,
"Okay." Sherlock listened as John took slow steps up the stairs and then resumed playing.
-
John brushed his teeth slowly, staring at his reflection. His eyes trailed across each line on his face, the puffy bags, remnants of his spotty sleep schedule from the most recent case. He was tired. And yet. . . he couldn't stand the idea of leaving Baker Street, couldn't stand the idea of leaving Sherlock, or having Sherlock leave him. Again. He was tired, and yet he still got the same rush each time, for each case, each chase. He loved the way adrenaline drained from his bloodstream after a case, loved being too exhausted to move once the adrenaline was gone. He loved the expression of joy on Sherlock's face, loved. . .
Bloody hell, he loved Sherlock Holmes.
He changed and slid into bed, turning the sentence over and over in his head. He wondered when it had happened, or why he hadn't noticed. He wondered how it had been so gradual, the growth of affection for this man, that he hadn't noticed. Or perhaps it hadn't been so gradual, and he had just been so caught up in the details that he hadn't realized it. But either way, he was in love, and now that he knew it was impossible to get the idea out of his head.
He lay awake for several hours after coming to this conclusion, mulling ever aspect of his relationship with Sherlock. The electric whir of the side table's lamp blurred into background noise, as did the soft yellow glow emanating from its lone bulb, as John's mind delved further and further into the intricate topic he had decided to undertake. It was like a coral reef, complex and bright and beautiful, but also dangerous and sharp, holding hidden threats at each turn. But unlike reefs, which dwelled in clear, warm, and shallow waters, his and Sherlock's relationship dove into something akin to a deep-ocean trench, bright and simple at the top, but the deeper one went, the more pressure was felt from all sides, the darker it got, and the more sunlight disappeared. And desolate as it seemed, it wasn't, not at all.
John Watson did nothing halfway. Not work, and especially not love. He was wholly invested the second he made a conscious realization of his love for Sherlock. So it did not surprise him in the least when he turned off his lamp, slipped between the covers, and felt the overwhelming urge to reach out and pull Sherlock's being to him. But the other half of the bed was empty and cold, so John sufficed with laying sideways and placing an arm over the chilled spot on the mattress.
-
Sherlock loved John. He had for a while. But unlike what John was likely doing this instant, Sherlock felt no need to dissect it. It was simple enough to him. John was a light. And Sherlock was dark and angry and foreboding. When John had entered his life, he had become less pitch-black and more grey in places, more open to things-- things like love. He had felt no need, no real need, for drugs after he had met John. John was peace, kindness, home. His very presence quelled the chaos that was Sherlock more than he knew. And Sherlock was infinitely grateful.
So Sherlock need not dissect it. No questions entered his mind for once. He was content with the fact; he didn't need to know when or how or why. He was fine.
He had picked up the bow long ago to continue playing, just after John had gone upstairs. Now he continued to let notes dance across the stings into the early hours of the morning, torturing his mind with daydreams of what it might be like if John said yes, because he was fine.
Apart from the overwhelming longing he felt all hours of the day, of course. Other than that he was absolutely fine.