slytherintomychamberofsecrets:
Sherlock proposed.
Sherlock was not a man of exuberant confessions. He wasn’t one for romantic tradition, either, excluding (often poorly-timed) physical affection. No; Sherlock had tried, and failed, to understand the appeal in profound statements of love in a relationship. John never minded his partner’s romantic ineptitude, though, simply because it was Sherlock - Sherlock who didn’t understand or care that the planets revolved around the sun. He was used to it, and it only endeared the detective more to the doctor.
Which is why, when John walked into the flat to see a velvet-boxed ring and a rose sitting on a chair-side table (next to a bottle of chloroform and a jar of pickled eyes), he was absolutely puzzled.
At first, he thought the ring and rose were for whatever bizarre experiment Sherlock was up to. But the man calmly explained that no, the two weren’t associated with his current experiment. John searched for other possible solutions. For a case? (“No.”) Someone stolen property? (“Honestly, John. I’m not that bored.”) Mrs. Hudson’s? (“Now you’re just being silly.”)
It wasn’t until Sherlock gave the answer away that John finally understood. The detective gave a heavy, bothered sigh and folded the newspaper he had been reading. He set it on the arm of his chair, propped his shoulders up and brought his fingers to his lips. He studied the doctor firmly, only looking away once to examine the tokens on the table, before stating the obvious. “An engagement ring. And a rose, as suggested by Mrs. Hudson.” He nodded John’s way. “For you. If you’ll have them.”
Sherlock had always had trouble with tones of voice; stating matters of great importance as if they were absolutely nothing. He proved that yet again, though John didn’t - couldn’t - bother correcting him. His jaw seemed to hit the floor as the words sank in. “Wh-” he tried to project. Nothing came. He stared from Sherlock to the rose and ring (his ring!) and back to the far-too casual detective. “Sher-” he breathed with what little air he could find. A choked noise of surprise forced its way up, and the stunned doctor was too far gone to hide it.
“You may want to sit, John,” Sherlock suggested, a vague, amused smirk nestled on his features. “Your legs are beginning to tremble.”
‘Well no shit, Sherlock!’ John wanted to cry, but all he was able to do was stare at his partner, mouth agape, and sink down into the chair behind him. As the cushion depressed under his weight, he slowly gazed back to the gifts. Sherlock was asking for his hand. In marriage. The two of them. Married. Was it a joke? Was it some game the detective had thought up? A finger pointed at the table. Again, John failed to form words. “Wh-“
“Yes,” Sherlock responded, cutting short any half-utterance John could have managed. “I’m asking you to marry me.” (The little noise John made was worth having to state the obvious.) “Well. It’s more of a demand, really.” Sherlock shrugged a shoulder and situated one leg on his knee. He noticed John rocking himself to and fro on the edge of the seat, eagerly waiting to hear what was to be said. Though really, it looked as though John was going to pounce him. The sociopath made a mental note to prepare himself if that was the case. “As you know, I’m married to my work,” Sherlock spoke calmly. He waited for a verbal response that never came. “And, you’ve become a part of my work.” A certain softness lit Sherlock’s eyes.
Finally, John was able to find his voice. “So-so-” More or less. Stuttering was a step in the right direction, anyway. “So… you’re just making me marry you,” the soldier summarized.
Sherlock smirked, proud that John was able to speak and had finally caught on. “Problem?”
John regarded Sherlock for a long moment, scanning him for any implication that it was a dream or a joke. Neither scenario arose. A breathless chortle passed through John’s lips, and he exhaled softly, staring at the ground to gather his wits. “Most people appreciate some sort of choice, you know,” he mentioned for good measure. He glanced Sherlock’s way, and the quirked brow on the man’s face signaled that he didn’t care. John let loose the smile that wanted to light his face. “But, I’m not most people,” he noted.
Allowing a small smile to grow on his face as well, Sherlock reached for the ring and offered it to John. “No, you’re not.”
“Neither are you,” John was quick to add. He eyed the black box and the ring which shone within, and contemplated mentioning that most people proposed on one knee. As he moved to meet Sherlock’s eyes, though, he could see the nerves hidden within the stoic-looking man, and decided that it wasn’t necessary. His trembling fingers wrapped around the box, and slowly, carefully, he worked the ring out of its container and onto his appropriate finger. The sight made him laugh just as breathlessly as before; amazement painted on his face.
It was that look which softened Sherlock’s visage even more, something only John could ever do. “Quite right,” Sherlock murmured. He leaned forward in his chair and reached his hand towards John’s newly-decorated hand. Immediately, his reach was responded to, and there they held one another’s hands in a perfectly-fitting grasp, and soon after their lips met in a sealing kiss; an agreement and an answer that yes, God yes, they would be married.
Sherlock was not a man of exuberant confessions. But, then again, they were never truly needed. And John was more than happy with that.
I DON’T EVEN HAVE WORDS FOR HOW PERFECT THIS IS
THANK YOU OH INTERNET FOR THE BLESSINGS WE HAVE RECEIVED.
for thequestforchocolat:
It’s just a trick. A magic trick.
