Chapter Text
John was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper at breakfast.
His eyes, however, were skimming the same article again and again, without really taking in the contents. John's whole attention was drawn to his flat mate and best friend, who could behave extremely eccentric and who, in his opinion, didn't miss a chance to do exactly that. Meanwhile John was convinced that the earth didn't just revolve around the sun, but rather around Sherlock, not to mention about his own life. Every few seconds John looked at him closely over the edge of the newspaper and watched his curious activities that morning. Actually, all of this had already started the day before...
Since the evening before, Sherlock was behaving peculiar, to put it mildly, and by "peculiar" John meant even more odd than usual. When he had left the morning before for work, he had left his friend at the kitchen table, hunched over one of his whimsical, chemical experiments. A quick glance had told him that Sherlock had been working with a brown liquid and something that looked suspiciously like toenails, and John had quickly decided that he didn't want to know any of the details.
When he came back that evening from the surgery, Sherlock had been restless and irritated, and John had decided it might be best for all parties concerned to leave him alone until Sherlock came to his senses again. It was unnecessary to say that John's actions had not completely been free from selfish motivation. Sherlock simply had these kinds of moods from time to time, and John had believed it to be a result of being without a case for more than three days, which precipitated these "withdrawal symptoms". Therefore, John had retreated to the living room to blog about their latest case, making himself comfortable in his armchair, when Sherlock claimed the armchair opposite him.
It wasn't unusual for them to sit together in silence, in fact, they sat together many evenings like that. It would have been perfectly normal had it not been for the fact that Sherlock had stared fixedly at him. Different than his usual staring, which, for some unexplainable reason Sherlock did occasionally. Somehow, he had looked haunted and harrowed, and he didn't avert his gaze from John for at least an hour, as if the answers to his questions could be found in John's features if he just searched hard enough. At some point John had started to feel incredibly uncomfortable and just when he had decided to ask his friend what the hell was wrong with him after all Sherlock had jumped out of his chair and announced that he had a few things to do. By then, it had already been ten o'clock. Before John had been able to utter a single word, Sherlock had dashed out of the door, leaving him behind in a confused state and with a queasy feeling in his stomach. Two hours later, he had come back home, just to continue scrutinizing John's features, but by then, he had looked in a different, curious way at him. Finally it went too far for John's taste, and he had slipped off to his own bedroom.
Now, Sherlock sat opposite John at breakfast, his elbows on the table, his hands put together under his chin, continuing where he stopped the day before, that is to say staring at John. He couldn't fend off the bad feeling that he had become one of Sherlock's experiments, and since he hadn't the faintest idea what kind of experiment, he was on his guard and didn't take his eyes off Sherlock.
Blindly he groped around for his coffee cup on the table with his hand, not averting his own eyes once from his friend. Everyone who'd see the two this way, looking deeply into each other's eyes, would undoubtedly think they were newly enamoured. This thought didn't really help John feeling any better.
As he finally took a sip of his coffee, he saw Sherlock put something on the plate before him.
Apparently Sherlock had finally decided to let the cat out of the bag.
Involuntarily John took a deep breath, relieved. Curiosity won out and John set the paper down.
The sight that awaited him, however, was unexpected.
A small black box was before him, open, inside a silver ring. It was beautiful, John had to admit. Brushed silver with a small purple stone in the middle of the band. Next to the band was another without any stone in it. There must be a second ring, a match to this one, in which the arrangement of the bands was the other way around. The ring was simple, yet refined, and John could easily have chosen it himself, if he would have to choose one.
John cursed himself. Curiosity killed the cat. "What is that?" he tried blankly.
Sherlock met his inquiring look with a blank expression. "A ring. Obviously."
His comment earned him a deprecating stare from John, who felt the urge again to punch the detective. "Yes, I can see that. The question is: What is the ring doing on my plate?" he asked testily, withstanding the temptation to indulge the urge.
"Try to make a deduction," Sherlock dared him to apply his methods. He leaned back in his chair, put his fingertips together under his chin and looked at John with an unreadable face.
While John had no idea where this was going, he felt a foreboding feeling starting in his belly that promised nothing good. "Is this another experiment of yours?" he asked incredulously. "Shall I eat the ring so you can measure God knows what?"
Sherlock frowned at him. "Don't be ridiculous. Sometimes you can be so slow. It's an engagement ring, John."
John looked at him in surprise. The queasy feeling in his belly spread out swiftly now and took possession of his stomach. "Whose?...What?"
"Yours. Obviously. It's on your plate," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.
John did not see though why that would be obvious. Last time he checked, he was not engaged. Nor had he the desire to be so again, thank you very much. Especially not after the disaster with his former wife, Mary. After Sherlock jumped in his faked suicide, leaving John behind, he was broken. He eventually met Mary and fell in love with her. Or so he thought. He had hoped that the relationship would make his life at least a bit more liveable, if not necessarily full-value. In another life it might have worked. Perhaps if he would never have met Sherlock, it might have worked out. But he met Sherlock in the first place and when he figured out that Sherlock wasn't dead after all, fate simply took over. John and Sherlock were close as ever and rushing with him from crime scene to crime scene at godforsaken hours didn't improve his marriage. Whenever Sherlock called he would be off the moment he got his message. No matter what. In the grocery store at the chip and pin machine. While having dinner with Mary. While being out with Mary. Once even at a funeral. Mary eventually had enough and gave him an ultimatum. He had to choose between Sherlock and his wife, and well, there was nothing to choose of course. Mary moved out and they got divorced a few months earlier. Sherlock never had a good influence on his relationships.
"FROM ME. FOR YOU." Sherlock became slightly irritated and impatient.
John raised one eyebrow. Thanks to Sherlock's reply, by now, his stomach felt as if in choke hold. He couldn't believe his ears. Whatever was going on definitely fell into the category "a bit not good". "Right, uhm….I still don't get it, sorry. You want to marry me all of a sudden?" he asked confused. With Sherlock, one never knew…
"It's for a CASE, John," Sherlock replied, annoyed, and rolled his eyes.
John tried to collect his thoughts. "Sure. Of course. For a case. Obviously. …..Why?"
"Really, John", Sherlock exclaimed harshly. "What's wrong with you this morning? Don't be so slow. Slow is boring," he threatened.
John just shot him a glance. No need to argue with Sherlock. Although , theoretically there were probably one thousand reasons to argue with Sherlock; practically, there were none. John would lose. Moreover, he was still too happy that Sherlock was alive. So when Sherlock started to have his moods, John simply reminded himself that he was still his best friend after all. Most of the time this mantra did work. Sometimes though they got in a row. But he was certainly not interested in a row today. He didn't want to be distracted during his work at the surgery, and having a row with Sherlock never did his concentration any good.
John inhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair. "Please explain it to me," he asked Sherlock with the calmest voice he was able to produce.
"Because we need a cover. I need a fiancé." He looked quickly at John. "And I promised you to never keep you out again after…well, you know. But you are still a very bad liar and I need you to be a convincing boyfriend. We will start the case in three weeks. So I'm giving you some time to adjust to the idea and have some practice with me. No need to start the case any earlier," Sherlock rattled on.
John didn't hear anything after Practice. Somehow that sounded disturbing.
"What do you mean, practice?" John asked alarmed.
"Being a couple. Getting used to it. Being boyfriends. Come on, John. First you have to convince me that you can play your role well. Stick to it, in all circumstances." He paused for a moment, glancing at John uncomfortably. "And besides, you're much more experienced than I am. Actually I might need some guidance in this."
John sighed and watched Sherlock carefully. His nervousness was sort of touching. Nevertheless he asked quietly why it had to be him. Of course he knew why. Sherlock seemed to be able to read his thoughts, again.
"Whom else could I ask? Mycroft? Lestrade? That would be ridiculous. I NEED my blogger."
The thought of Sherlock faking a relationship with one of the other men was too funny. John tried to suppress a smirk. As a result, his objection inevitably lost some of its strength. "Sherlock, you're really asking too much this time."
"Oh please, John. Not that 'people might talk' thing again," Sherlock replied, being on edge.
Maybe he should try logic, John pondered. Considering the fact that the Holmes weren't exactly family men, maybe the underlying significance of family ties were beyond them. Social conventions weren't their pet issue after all.
"You know, it's nearly Christmas," John objected, trying to explain his resistance.
Sherlock made a face. "Yes. Boring."
"And you want me to maintain the role? Being engaged? Even in front of our families and friends?" John asked in disbelief.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked testily.
No, logic definitely wouldn't work.
"Well….Sherlock. Everyone already believes that we are a couple. I am not going to support that idea by telling everyone I am engaged to you. They are not just some people," John replied, trying tenaciously to talk his friend out of his engagement plans. "We can't just lie to them."
"The nature of our relationship is none of their business. You might call this a white lie, if a lie indeed. You could also text them about it and not attend any parties," Sherlock offered.
John only frowned at him. The nature of their relationship? He just hoped fervently that Sherlock wouldn't tell him next thing that the nature of their relationship was disputable.
"Oh, I see where this is going. I am very sorry for the terrible timing of this killer, John. Maybe we can ask him to wait until after New Year before striking again. Then we don't have to tell them," Sherlock said sarcastically. "You can correct it all afterwards, John, if you want to. Don't be silly."
…if you want? Why on earth wouldn't he want to? John's confusion grew exponential the more Sherlock explained and the more John himself objected.
"No one is going to believe that, Sherlock. Do you really not care one bit about that? Lying to them?" he asked. "You know what, don't answer that one," John added quickly. He knew he might not like the answer.
Sherlock sighed and bent forward. "John, please. Forget the rest for a moment. I really need you. I cannot do this on my own." Sherlock looked uncomfortable.
"Doing what?" John asked.
"Helping our client," he finally said.
John sighed and buried his face in his hands. He was sure he was not going to like it. Not one bit. But Sherlock saying please was all too rare and pointed at the seriousness of the situation. One never let down one's best friend after all…Still, John could not see where this was going. Silently he cursed himself for not being able to tell Sherlock no.
Slowly he took three deep breaths, bending forward and putting his elbows on his knees. "Fine," he said. "But if I have to tell my sister that I am engaged to you and I have to face your brother, we need to discuss terms," he declared with a serious face. He didn't even dare thinking about the Yard…
Sherlock watched him with curiosity. "Tell me."
"First: You will eat at least one proper meal a day. Second: You will try to get some sleep during the case. Third: You will be nice to both our families and friends at this year's Christmas party and you will make some effort to get them proper gifts. Four: You will not give me any pet names. Last but not least, you will rectify this whole situation when the case is solved," John said, determined. "The terms are not up for negotiation."
"That's not negotiating. That's blackmailing," Sherlock protested.
"I had a good teacher," John replied unmoved.
For a little while they were staring at each other silently again.
"Agreed," Sherlock finally answered with a heavy sigh.
"Well I guess at least I know what I'm committing myself to," John replied, shrugging. That was at least something, he comforted himself.
Sherlock stood up and went around the table to John. Hesitatingly he took the box from the table and took out the ring. Thoughtfully he watched it for several seconds before looking at John with that piercing manner which was appropriate to Sherlock.
John returned his look. He thought he saw a hint of embarrassment in the eyes of his usually self-confident friend. Instinctively John held out his hand to him, not averting his gaze from Sherlock.
The detective took his hand in his own and put the ring carefully on John's ring finger. He reached his hand in his pocket and took out a second ring, putting it carefully on his own finger.
The ring resembled his own, as John already had suspected. Since they were not just rings, but beautiful ones, someone had taken some effort to choose them. He wondered whether Sherlock bought them himself or the rings came to him in another way.
"That's settled then," Sherlock finally said, contented. The hint of embarrassment had vanished from his face. Sherlock moved to the living room to search among his papers. One moment later, he was already throwing them around the room, obviously not able to find what he was looking for.
"I'm off to take a shower before work," John said more to himself than to his friend. Realizing that John would not get any further information on the case at the moment, he may as well get ready for work.
"Hmmm." Sherlock's voice was muffled by the papers in front of him.
Just as John tried to make his way to the bathroom, Sherlock summoned him back. "Oh, and John. Don't you dare to take the ring off ever…"
"I'm just off for a shower. Come on, you can't be serious," John exclaimed in disbelief.
"John! Promise!" Sherlock insisted.
"All right, all right. I'm not going to take the bloody ring off until you say so," John replied, lifting his hands over his head defensively. He thought that his friend was still behaving extremely strange and only hoped that at least the staring would cease now they had settled the engagement thing. Why they couldn't just pretend to be engaged as soon as they were undercover instead of sort of really being engaged in front of the whole world, remained a mystery to him to which he wouldn't get an answer any time soon. John couldn't avoid the impression that there was something shady about the whole story…
"Good."
Inwardly he was seething with rage about the taken-for-grantedness, with which people generally expected his obedience and he himself gave in again and again. From time to time it was enough to make you crazy!
"Whatever," John replied nevertheless and with that left for the bathroom, silently fuming.
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John took a long and hot shower, trying to calm down again. Slowly, he realized that he had just accepted an offer of marriage from Sherlock Holmes – eccentric consulting detective, who happened to be his best friend and very male; for a case but he had given him his hand, nevertheless. John took a deep breath. He was so screwed.
When his skin was already reddened by the hot water and his fingers were completely shrivelled, he turned off the water. Not very eco-friendly, he thought, but it had to be done. Now, that the water jet didn't drown other noises anymore, he heard the thud of footsteps on the stairs who clearly had trouble ascending them. Mrs. Hudson, he thought. A minute later he could indeed hear the muffled voice of their landlady.
"The mess you've made again, Sherlock." The footsteps had stopped. Mrs. Hudson must have stopped in the doorway. There was no reply. "Sherlock!"
"What?" came the muffled reply of Sherlock. Apparently he was still busy with his papers.
"Do you have a case? It's a bit messy up here."
At least that was better than when he was bored, John thought smirking. He had always been struck by the curious anomaly in the character of his friend that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical man, and he was even fashion-conscious to a certain degree, he also was one of the most untidy men in his personal habits that he had ever known. Not that John was very conventional in that respect himself. The military work in Afghanistan, combined with a natural Bohemianism of disposition, had made him rather more lax than benefited a medical man. But with him there was a limit, and when he found a man who used to keep his cigarettes in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then he began to think of himself as a man who cultivated virtuous habits. John also was very strongly of the opinion that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Sherlock was bored, and proceeded to adorn the opposite wall with a smiley or a patriotic E. II.R. done in bullet-pocks, he decidedly took the view that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of their living room was improved by it. Mrs. Hudson completely agreed with him in this. Not that it did any good at all…
Their kitchen and, to some extent, Sherlock's bedroom were always full of chemicals and the whole flat was full of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the fridge or in even less desirable places. But in the end, except from the wall-shooting, his papers were John's greatest crux.
They really took on a dramatic scale, slowly taking over every inch of the living room, and it was absolutely prohibited to even touch them. Sherlock himself however did not have the slightest interest in clearing up the mess and therefore they stayed a constant offence to John which led to many arguments until the detective finally - and not more than once a year - gave in, bringing himself to arrange them.
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Isn't that wonderful? It seems there are still some criminals out there worth the effort. By the way, have you brought milk? We are out of milk." Based on the voice of his friend, John could easily picture him, emerging out of a pile with documents and smiling broadly.
"Yes, yes. Dear John asked before I left." Mrs. Hudson replied. John heard that she moved again, probably making her way towards the kitchen and trying to avoid the piles of papers.
"Oh, my God, Sherlock, you proposed!" Mrs. Hudson yelled cheerfully, returning to the living room. "At last!"
John's stomach cringed by the joyful exclamation of the landlady. This was going to be terribly awkward. Secretly, he was glad that Sherlock had to deal with her first. Served him right. Despite the embarrassing situation, John couldn't suppress a smirk. He pictured Sherlock, standing somewhat helplessly next to the sofa, and probably wishing that the ground would open and swallow him up. Emotions had never really been his area.
"I knew you would eventually get there," Mrs. Hudson continued. "I always liked John. He is good for you."
Sherlock probably answered with a shy smile, slightly embarrassed by the situation and hoping it would pass as a being-in-love smile, because John didn't hear any reply of his so called fiancé. John let out a sigh. Mrs. Hudson always believed them to be a couple. No need to try to convince her otherwise. John might as well save his breath.
A moment later, John had gathered all his strength and courage and emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp from the shower, wearing his bathrobe.
The quicker he would get over and done with it, the better.
"Sherlock, have you seen…," John acted as if asking Sherlock something, but he didn't get the chance to finish his sentence.
John never got the chance to finish. Mrs. Hudson saw him and, smiling happily, she closed the gap between them quickly and hugged him.
"Oh, John, dear. I'm so happy for you."
"Oh, God…." John's face lost some color, his eyes darting towards Sherlock.
"Mrs. Hudson saw the box in the kitchen, John," Sherlock told him apologetically.
"Well,… uhm … thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Ah, we really would have ..uhm…liked to tell you in a different way," John lied, feeling miserably. There was no backing out now.
"I must tell Mrs. Turner right away!" Mrs. Hudson informed them, still smiling, rushing out of the apartment. Apparently she had forgotten her problems with her hips as well as the grocery bags on the kitchen table.
"At least one person is happy with it." Sherlock offered weakly, trying to encourage John.
"Ring. Still there. See," John said, showing his left hand to the detective.
"Good."
"I can't believe the things I do for you. And I know for certain I will regret this. Mrs. Hudson is already over the moon. What will Harry say? Or Mycroft? Oh God….Your brother will probably kill me if I break up with you." John looked sour.
He had not forgotten that Mycroft warned him on their very first encounter to choose a side. And since he chose Sherlock, Mycroft might not appreciate the breaking of the engagement. John always did have the suspicion that Mycroft was in fact very happy about the fact that he got divorced and returned to Baker Street. Not that he thought Mycroft wanted him necessarily to be romantically involved with his brother, just that he wanted him to be around his brother. If possible, 24 hours a day. If being romantically involved with each other was necessary for that, Mycroft probably wouldn't mind.
"Don't be ridiculous. My brother likes you, John," Sherlock dismissed John's objection with a wave and applied his attention to his papers again.
"I don't know if I am particularly happy about that or not. He keeps kidnapping me, you know. And he will like me only as long as I am exactly where he wants me to be," John replied.
"Just accept it for what it is. It is an achievement of a kind to be liked by one Holmes, let alone by both," Sherlock retorted without looking up.
John shook his head in silent disbelief. "Well, I really don't want to be in the line of fire when you two start in on each other."
"Well, who cares what they say, John."
John raised an eyebrow. "Says the man who jumped off a roof in order to protect the people he says he does not care about."
"I apologized."
"That's not what I meant." He knew perfectly well that Sherlock knew perfectly well what he meant in the first place. Sherlock just wanted to make his point.
"Does the whole couple thing still bother you?" Sherlock observed John curiously.
"It's different whether strangers believe we are a couple, or our relatives do," John explained, ruffling his hair with one hand.
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "None of them will mind. Besides you said yourself they already believe us to be involved."
"Exactly. People just assume things about us….about something they probably don't understand. And if I am honest, I cannot blame them. Because I do not understand it myself, Sherlock."
"What's your problem? We haven't changed, John. The ring does not change anything. It is still you and me…You aren't uncomfortable with us? I mean…in general? We are still friends."
John recognized the tone in Sherlock's voice. The one he didn't like at all. The one that reminded him of the painful days when they resurrected their friendship. The tone of uncertainty had been there since the day he returned. He never really expected John to forgive him for the fall. He had told John that he certainly had hoped they would be able to remain friends but he would have understood if John had refused him. John simply knew that it was on days like this, when he had to ask something difficult or impossible from John that one part of him was actually afraid he had crossed one border that he really shouldn't have. In his view, caring remained certainly not an advantage. After his return, they have had several good and honest conversations on the matter. Sherlock was still convinced it wasn't an advantage but he found that he couldn't turn that on and off. With John came caring and he didn't want to lose this friendship. John didn't make it easy for him, but in the end, Sherlock's honesty resulted in forgiveness.
Those days had been painful, because they had to find one another again when the first time everything just developed on its own. Luckily they found out that the foundation of their friendship was a strong one and in the end John could really forgive Sherlock for his action. Somehow he never had managed to stay angry with him for a very long time. Sherlock was just Sherlock and one could cope with that or not. It was as simple as that. He found that he still could.
"We are fine, Sherlock. But we might be stretching the boundaries a bit. For friends," John told him sighing, showing his ring.
"Well, maybe a bit. But then we were always different," Sherlock added smirking.
Despite himself, John couldn't suppress a grin. "I think so."
"See. It's all fine then." With that Sherlock turned back towards his papers.
"Yeah, it's all fine," John admitted sarcastically through gritted teeth and went off to the kitchen. He really did need some tea. A moment he considered adding something stronger to the tea but finally decided against it. Alcohol as soon as day broke really wasn't a shining example of a medical man. But somehow he knew it was not going to be a very calming afternoon at the surgery. There was no way to avoid Sarah and she would want to know about the ring. And he still had no idea what the whole case was about and why he ended up being engaged to his best friend at all.
When he leaned against the worktop in the kitchen, sipping his tea with relish, he couldn't know that the ring he was wearing would open Pandora's box ...