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Sherlock Holmes had engaged in sex on numerous occasions before his temple's re-dedication to The Work. He knew the mechanics of it, the chemistry involved. He knew what love was on a scientific, familial, and platonic level. He understood many more pop references than he let on simply because it was fun to watch people think they were teaching him something. There was a theory about when love set into a relationship, though technically it was more of a habit, an addiction of sorts where one's brain reacted positively with every dose, despite whether or not it was healthy. Wanting to have sex with his attractive, kind, slightly dangerous flatmate despite the platonic status of their relationship and John's oft-declared heterosexuality, was healthy. The nearly overwhelming urge to spend the rest of his existence physically, mentally, and legally attached to only him was not, as far as Sherlock was concerned. He hadn't any idea what prompted any of it, but perhaps admitting it in a ridiculous manner would take the wind out of his sails, so to speak.
"We should marry," he said, from his reclined thinking position on the sofa. John sat in his chair reading some inane novel about dragons and desert horse people and Winter coming. That know-nothing bastard was clearly the son of that dead oaf king and the sister of the man who raised him. He may have skimmed it earlier. John, however, didn't even look up when he replied.
"For science?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because people don't get married for science, Sherlock. Now I've always dreamed of a huge political arrangement like my ancestors used to have," Sherlock couldn't help the briefest of smiles at the jest before sitting up to lean his elbows on his pyjama-clad knees, "but, in this day and age, it isn't really a thing anymore."
"Statistically speaking, arranged marriages tend to be the strongest and last the longest," he countered. "Also, many are arranged on the basis of the perceived ideal genetic content of the offspring. For instance, a child of our making would probably have your nose and hair of a similar colour to mine, probably lighter. Perhaps maybe even ginger, with that recessive gene in both of our family lines. Science."
"You're forgetting one thing in that."
"Am I?"
"We are scientifically unable to make a child together."
"Of course not, John. Now with modern advances however, it's only a matter of time and I wouldn't be surprised if it happened in our lifetime. But, in the mean time, your sister shares your genetic make-up, more or less. I can probably have some formal agreement drawn up between us, and kill two birds with one stone. She'd have to become the healthiest she's ever been in order for us to harvest her eggs-" He was only half joking, as he was slightly panicked at revealing to John and himself that he'd actually spared thoughts about what their children would look like. The doctor finally looked over at him and it was an unexpected struggle for Sherlock to keep his mask in place.
"No, Sherlock, absolutely not." He brought his book back up in front of his eyes but Sherlock could see he wasn't reading the words. Then, "Are you... actually serious?"
"When am I not?"
"You do know that Mycroft is... mostly joking when he calls me your enabler, right? I do have clear boundaries, you know." Sherlock hesitated to think a moment longer and John started actually reading once more.
"Would you believe that I care for you?" John finally marked his place with his left forefinger and looked at him for a long time, sapphire, platinum, and honey eyes seeming to heat whatever they touched.
"Yes, I believe you care for me a great deal," he said. Then, surprisingly, "And I you, and, according to, well almost everyone, it seems we're practically married now. " John's jokes had much more of an hysterical edge when he was trying to keep some sort of fear of Sherlock's ignorance at bay and talk the rather socially inept man through something important. John really was a marvel, often pushing aside his own great discomfort in favour of making sure Sherlock understood a piece of knowledge. "But it's not the right kind of love." John sat almost perfectly still but for hand gestures and all was very quiet for a long time as the genius was given time to study the situation from within.
His concentration was broken by John marking his page with one of those ridiculous 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' bookmarks and padding into the kitchen, his loose tartan pyjama bottoms falling over his feet and a small swath of over milked tea skin showing where his olive drab tee shirt was slightly rucked up from his sitting. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off of it until it was thankfully adjusted. The consulting detective was seized with an idea and stood to immediately put it into play.
John had just filled the kettle, plugged it in and flipped the switch to the 'on' position. As he went for the cupboard, Sherlock spun him about by the shoulders and mashed their lips together. They were soft, warm, and smelled of scented lip balm. Just as he'd always imagined. He then released him and took a step back to observe the reaction closely. Surprise was the most prominent.
"I...," John finally said after a long moment, "What was that?"
"It was a kiss. Well, more or less. I thought you'd prefer something that wasn't a pretense or a means to an end and spontaneity keeps things... fresh."
"I... well... Okay." John went back to his mechanical tea preparation routine.
"Have you nothing else to say?"
"Like?" Sherlock couldn't help his eye roll. Clearly John's mind wasn't functioning properly, which means the kiss must have worked, but it didn't give the scientist the immediate results he expected. His friend was usually so straight forward about his thoughts when it came to him.
"Like, 'yes of course I'll marry you'?" John's hands, which had been on his hips as he'd done as much as he could without the hot water, dropped to his sides with an exasperated sigh.
"Sherlock, that's not how it's done. You can't just..." John turned to look up at him, that great fondness bleeding into his exasperated expression. "That just isn't it."
"Were you dissatisfied with the kiss?"
"A bit," he admitted. Sherlock couldn't explain how negatively that answer affected him, but he pressed on, because everything else wasn't going away. All of these other... feelings still remained firmly in place, nearly choking him and pounding in his chest, but in a strangely positive fashion despite the discomfort. Then, John did the thing he always did, the thing that made these feelings surge. He explained. "It was cute and spontaneous but... it lacked..." he gesticulated for a moment, searching for the correct word, "passion."
"Passion?" That particular critique wasn't what he was expecting at all.
"Well... yeah. I mean the spontaneity was good and it was really sweet, but in a ... school yard game sort of way. It was innocent. There was no... promise... of something deeper."
"I... didn't want you to feel obligated by sexual expectations," he debated. "As I said, it wasn't simply a means to an end. Well, not that end, though it's understood I wouldn't object..." And that was too much. He was going to frighten John off by pushing too hard against his self-proclaimed sexuality. The issue was, that Sherlock knew physical attraction when he saw it, despite everything. John was secure enough to admit when another bloke was good-looking, but Sherlock had never actually seen him exhibit signs of physical allurement except when he caught him every so often... looking. John was pretty good at being stealth about it, but he just wasn't as fast as Sherlock. He did the right thing by never bringing it up, he found.
"You wouldn't?" John seemed more surprised that Sherlock wasn't averse to sex than afraid he was going to hold him to some unspoken agreement.
"Of course not." He thought John might run, or reject him outright, but, and he really should have started expecting it, the ex-Army Captain kept him on his toes, once again going in an entirely different direction.
"Making my not being obligated to go any further than I wish a given, show me that."
"The... the p-passion bit?"
"Well, yeah." John was actually blushing. He found it adorable. Sherlock found that fact disturbing, but no more so than any other time he found him endearing. "How... would you kiss me if, you know, you were free to just express what you're feeling? Because I know the feeling part isn't actually the hard part. For you, it's the having to work so hard to cover it up that-"
With a loud noise, Sherlock crowded him back against the glass of the sliding kitchen door and took the greatest chance he'd ever taken to date. And that was saying something. John didn't fight him, but did stiffen in surprise again, before relaxing and allowing his tongue access. That's when Sherlock really let everything go, clutching him and nearly lifting him off his feet, reveling in the return of whatever he was conveying. John's taste was ambrosia, intoxicating and more addictive than any drug he'd ever tried. He was in great danger of losing his mind when he sucked on Sherlock's tongue and made the most interesting noise when the action was remunerated. Sherlock slowed, then ended it, before he was past the point of no return.
"Yes? You'll marry me now?"
"Sherlock, I thought I was under no obligation!" Panic returned in full force.
"N-not sexually, no! I mean, not that you're under any obligation to say yes to marriage now, but-" At least John initiated this time, severely cushioning the blow of his subsequent sudden departure.
The next week consisted of a combination of private snogging sessions beginning timidly and usually ending frustratingly abruptly. No one but them knew what they were talking about, thinking it another one of their strange inside jokes when Sherlock would ask something to the effect of 'How about now?' to which John would infuriatingly reply,
"Nope."
During one particularly steamy bout, he attempted to get more control of himself by conversing with John between kisses, genuinely trying to work out what would get him to finally agree.
"People are tempted to believe romantic love more when it's associated with physical evidence."
Without missing a beat, John responded, "Which sounds practical on paper until you consider that these same people tend to think love is sexual arousal." He really was Sherlock's perfect match.
"Of course it's not."
"Well, you've said it yourself." John stopped altogether and he could have screamed for the sheer simple want of his kiss's return. "It's a chemical defect, an abnormality. Of course you also say that you're a sociopath, which we all know you're not, because, unlike other people, I actually do my research." John continued to hold his face the way he often did during these times, gently directing everything, as he planted another more chaste kiss on Sherlock's forehead, then leaned back on the sofa. "But you're right about the fact that actual proof of love is in the brain. Since there's no way to show this then I..." He knew that expression, the one that occurred when John was beginning to second guess something.
"You what? John you what?" His heart began beating much more quickly than he was sure was necessary. Fear was a terrible thing, but no one could evoke it so thoroughly in him as even the very idea of John... going away.
"I... sorry, Sherlock. Maybe I shouldn't have started-"
"No!" He couldn't figure out something more eloquent to say. Dread was beginning to take over. Not only was this going the wrong way, John was about to try and- No! Unacceptable! He cleared his throat as he kept his eyes on John's perfect profile. John opened and closed his left hand as he did whenever he was very nervous.
The first revelation hit Sherlock then.
He had to have his full attention, however. "John?" The name rolled off of his tongue as easily as anything. If it were possible for a word to taste good, it would be John's name.
"Yes?" he answered his hand, then glanced up at him long enough for his eyes to be captured. His... smoldering eyes, nearly all grey in the current light.
"If... If I find visual proof that I love you, you'll marry me?"
John's whole, perfectly compact body seemed to cry out Oh, what the hell.
"Sure," he conceded, completely truthful, but not believing for a moment Sherlock would find a quick solution to this particular conundrum. "If you can somehow find a physical demonstration that you are actually in love with me, the way anyone can be in love with someone, then I will immediately consent to marry you." He was quiet and still for a long moment. "Look, Sherlock, I know you care in your own way, and I've made it enough."
"That's ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous. But seriously, it was enough to be platonic. I didn't think you'd ever return more than platonic feelings for me." Ah! The confession of previous feelings, despite- oh! He was talking again. Best to pay attention. "But to stand before our loved ones and the universe and pledge ourselves to each other... that's a really big deal for me; bigger than some really good kissing. I mean, we're not past the point of no return yet and I'm afraid that if-" John sighed forlornly and it was heart-wrenching, but not as agonisingly harrowing as when he used skilled doctor's fingers to brush a raven curl off of Sherlock's brow. "Look, this is more than I ever thought would happen, and it's enough. Okay?"
"And when it's not?"
"It will never not be." Again, nothing but pure truth. It only made Sherlock want to try harder.
"I promise not to ask again until I've come up with a solution," he declared. "When the proof is found, I will show it to you and you can decide whether to accept or reject me. What do you think?"
"Sherlock..."
"We don't even have to do anything until then. I do like a challenge and, frankly getting my re-emerging libido back under strict control after you've so thoroughly agitated it, I-" John not only swallowed his words, he didn't even stop until Sherlock was somehow spilling into his clever hand. John had never even touched him there before that, and Sherlock didn't even realize what was happening until it was already happening, as he sucked a mark into the crook of John's neck, and clasped him tightly and sounded for all the world like if he had lasted just a few minutes more, they would have been in bed.
Sherlock continued to kiss him, apologising briefly for the mark and handing him several tissues with which to clean his hand. He then trailed his mouth back over the area, licking gently, some basic part of his brain almost joyful at his claim being visible. He pushed his hand up under John's top, trailing his fingertips lightly along one of the many thin scars on the skin of his side due to their adventuring. It was a knife wound, much deeper than John had indicated at the time, yet it only seemed to make John angrier at his attacker. The assailant had caught Sherlock off guard and laid him out. Sherlock had had to masturbate for the first time in several months to the memory of John 'accidentally' breaking the combatant's arm and blaming it on inadequate calcium intake. The goosebumps that rose then mirrored the ones on John now, indicative of what his nipples were probably doing. A graze of those same fingers confirmed it, the re-emergence of John's erotic sounds encouraging.
John began to slowly withdraw as Sherlock directed them toward his own bedroom, promising nothing past what was done for him. They stopped altogether as they kissed against the inside of Sherlock's closed door, John's eyes so full of worry that he couldn't bear to look into them. He busied himself once more with John's most enticing throat, his hands manipulating certain pressure points on his back in a measured manner, so that half of his words emerged with uncontrollable little moans. John was warning him that he'd never actually been with a bloke before, that he'd never wanted to before now, and he wasn't sure Sherlock would be able to get him there this first time. He didn't want Sherlock to feel inadequate. Even now, in his uncertainty, he was concerned for Sherlock's feelings. What an idiot. What a beautiful, clever, idiot.
"If anyone could do it, don't you think it would be me?" he asked. John had sighed then, and walked over to the bed, arranging himself so he all too closely resembled a corpse in a casket in the soft light that filtered through the curtains. So he made sure to involve John in his own pleasure, not needing every word he asked for, but allowing as many of them as John needed to feel relaxed. It took a considerable amount of time to find the precise pressure and motion, but, once found, it was a matter of moments before John was crying out confused questions about how Sherlock was accomplishing this, the strongest orgasm of his entire life, and that was saying something.
John in throes of orgasm was a feast for the senses. The way he arched and moaned, how he undulated sinuously, how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them in wide surprise, looking at him with a plethora of meanings all fighting mercilessly to be seen. Sherlock kissed everything he could reach in order to give him a moment's respite, but, at the look on John's face, eyelids at half mast, lips, slightly parted, he couldn't help diving back down for more study, and a repeat tasting and viewing of this phenomenon. He often accomplished the improbable. Rarely did it give him this level of satisfaction.
After a second orgasm for both of them, John passed clean out for a brief period, not even budging when Sherlock took a warm cloth to both of their emission-laden bodies. He then gathered John to him, unable to stop lightly touching his lips to skin until he fell asleep himself. He had an experiment to tend to but couldn't bring himself to leave the bed, calculating its probable outcome until his brand new lover woke long enough to use the facilities. Sherlock was up in a flash, back to work, wrapped in the sheet. John had put his clothes back on and wandered past him. But Sherlock halted him, grasping his wrist and kissing the inside of it before tugging him down for a proper one. The fact that he could still smell himself on John was the most erotic when they kissed unflinchingly, tasting each other in their mouths. They shared a satisfied smile before John shuffled off to his room to find clean clothes before having a shower.
***
He told Lestrade in order to hurry the process along. John was nothing if not inspirational and, right now, Sherlock was running low on that. But asking his lover incessantly how to prove himself would probably annoy his oft-irritated... boyfriend? Is that what he was now? He'd have to work out what they'd call themselves at a later date.
Lestrade failed horridly at behaving as if he were surprised at this new aspect of their relationship. "I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. I'm going to be out a lot of money, but I have a chance to win it back." At Sherlock's puzzled frown he moved on. "But all of that aside, not only do I know when two people fancy each other," he stated, "but you yourself taught me how to tell more easily when people are actually having some sort of affair." At least he was paying attention. "And you, you're practically shouting it!"
"I am?" Sherlock was usually the master of his emotions, to the outside world. Perhaps all the statements regarding the nature of their relationship were more than just snipes.
"John's so much more subtle, but you're behaving as if you've never been... You haven't, have you? You've never been in love?"
"It's pointless," he hissed.
"Doesn't make it not the case," Lestrade had said in that infuriating know-it-all tone. Is that what Sherlock sounded like to other people? It was annoying. But he couldn't help it. He actually did know it all, compared to most. "Besides, what makes you think I'll be able to help, having a failed marriage under my belt?"
"My John isn't an adulterous idiot like your ex wife," Sherlock spouted. "Do you honestly think I would even bother if he was even a little similar? Now, will you help me or not, Greg?!" Sherlock nearly shouted, his voice barely contained within the glass walls of the office. The Detective Inspector went very still for some reason.
"You're really serious about this." It wasn't a question.
"Would I be asking the likes of you if I wasn't?"
"Yeah but... Never mind." George showed mercy then, picking up a file and holding it up in front of him to read so there was an illusion of privacy. Like the confessionals at church, Sherlock could express his feelings without feeling like he was being watched, with a solution in sight. "So what's the problem?" Sherlock sighed and fiddled with the arm of his chair.
"He said that he would agree to marry me immediately, if I found a way to adequately demonstrate my... feelings... for him."
"Aaand there's all my money back and then some. Good show."
"I'm so glad we could amuse you," Sherlock used his most acidic tone in the face of Lestrade enjoying this entire thing way too much. That stopped the copper's laughing, replacing it with an expression that would have been adequately contrite if there wasn't lingering amusement in his eyes.
"Sorry. I'm sorry. Look, you don't experiment on his things or break into his laptop without permission nearly as much as you used to. And you got a separate fridge for your... experiments. If that doesn't say 'Sherlock Holmes is in love' I don't know what does."
"Very funny."
"I'm not actually trying to be funny."
"Lestrade!"
"What? I can't believe there's nothing in that massive brain of yours?"
"You know this isn't my area." Lestrade rested the file on the desk and pondered the subject, pursing and un-pursing his lips, then swiveling his chair around to look thoughtfully into the air toward the cracked open window. Summer was nearly upon them and a mild breeze made it pleasant to work in there with only a suit jacket on.
"Well it has to have you written all over it. You're not the simple flowers and chocolates type. That is, unless the chocolates are shaped like human hearts and the flowers are lethally poisonous." They both chuckled at that. Mostly because it was accurate. "Erm... buy a fresh chemistry set and conjure up a nice dinner served in lab equipment?" That actually wasn't bad.
"That'll go on the list."
"Well, whatever you come up with, no drugging or behavioural conditioning to make him more susceptible to accepting you."
"But Lestrade-"
"Sherlock, no! Don't think you're fully forgiven for that missing Wednesday thing. John told me all about that when he found out. I could still have you arrested." Touché.
"John would never press charges."
Lestrade could only shake his head. "Look, whatever it is, it has to be something only you would do, a way only you would think of." Sherlock slapped his palms together, mouth round and eyes wide with the containment of an idea so grandiose, it barely fit in his head.
"OH!" He swooped out of the room leaving Lestrade behind with his frightened expression.
Sherlock then cloistered himself in his room for a week whenever he was at home and not working on a case. During these times, he would only allow John to accompany him when he needed help with the experiment, which his partner diligently did, having no idea what it was actually for. John was actually good about that, contrary to popular belief. As long as no one was getting permanently harmed physically or emotionally, he was a sight more logical about experiment participation than Sherlock's other peers. John even began giving him an orgasm whenever his mind was racing too fast to think properly after the first time it worked, citing that it always helped him relax when his mind was going wonky.
Then Sherlock had it down. He smiled a little whenever he heard the word 'Magpie'. It was John's special nickname for him, that went from something teasing about his black head, pale belly, tendency to collect odd things, and be loud and clever, to a full blown pet name, now with the added bonus of being able to reveal the great affection at its foundation. It caused a flood of pleasant memories and he had no idea how that would be dangerous in the future, but knew, with his penchant for getting into the oddest sort of trouble, it probably somehow would become so. He decided he would try to reverse it after all was complete. It took him another week of practice, including meditation, John's special name for him, and thousands of pounds before he got what he needed.
By then, Summer was in full swing, complete with the season's first proper heat wave. Sherlock found him on the roof again. John would often go up there as some sort of conditioning exercise. Sherlock always felt the worst when this happened, because it meant there had been a nightmare or panic attack that he hadn't been present for. Fortunately, John was smiling in delight as a dove with soft little patches of toffee colour among the snow white of her feathers, perched from his hand and ate. She was allowing him to pet her and grasp her in his hands when he looked up at the door, the most radiant of triumphant grins affixed to his countenance.
"Look, Sherlock! She's all grown up!" The newborn had been found abandoned during one of his experiments Sherlock had started up there as a way of providing a comforting presence without being intrusive on John's therapy. John had of course wanted to rescue her, researched how, and built her a shelter, providing for her and allowing Sherlock to tag her. He called her Tesla, as they'd just solved a case regarding the use of one of the prominent pigeon-loving scientist's machines as the murder weapon.
"I'm sorry you're afraid to marry me." John grew extremely still for a moment then continued stroking the bird's head. "This isn't the proposal. I just... I admit that I've given you every reason to be. But please believe me when I say that fear of me is the last thing I want."
"For," he murmured.
"What?"
"For you. I'm not afraid of you, Sherlock. No, I'm afraid for you. The work will always come first. We always get into these life or death situations and that's brilliant on almost every level, but I also never wanted to get... involved for those same reasons." John finally looked up at him. "But, I couldn't help it and now I'm stuck. It doesn't mean I have to make it worse by wanting... It's fine like this. We're fine. We're," he sighed, "all fine."
"I found it."
"Found what?" Sherlock was pretty sure John knew already but was willing to draw it out to please him. And also because John was afraid he actually had found a way, which was more clear now.
"Come." Sherlock held out his hand and John put the dove in it with a cheeky smirk he wanted more than anything to snog off of his face. But he had something much more important to do than dole out punishment. He did glare at John, his heart not actually in it, then frowned at the dove, examining it and releasing it after he and the bird had blinked at each other for a full minute. John finally put his hand in his(he couldn't ever help noting perfection of fit) and Sherlock lead him inside. They washed their hands on the way to the bedroom.
"You've already done whatever you planned to do in there for now," John said with raised eyebrows and a playful smirk. Before the sun was even up fully, they both were, in the carnal sense, before John's half day at the surgery.
"We've only just begun, and that isn't what I've brought you in here for." With a heated kiss, he corrected himself. "Not the initial reason, anyway." John smiled through another kiss before he allowed himself to be walked to the foot of the bed and his attention directed to the wall above the headboard. Four seemingly empty 11x17 frames were hung in a row and, just beneath it, a long, rectangular frame housing a continuous piece of paper with zig-zagging markings on it from one end to the other. On the bed itself was a letter, on good stationary, John's name written with a flourish on it in forest-green ink. Sherlock then left him alone, shutting the door and seating himself at the kitchen table to wait the amount of time he estimated it would take for the letter to be read, its instructions followed, and to gather himself after.
Truthfully, Sherlock had to gather his own self. Lestrade helped him write down and memorize what he was going to say, using as many scientific descriptions as possible in order to help him center himself. He was never more focused as when he was describing something scientifically. It was perfect, everything painstakingly created down to the smallest detail. John would of course say 'yes', and they would live in their own personalized happily ever after. So why was he so bloody nervous? He even heard sniffing at precisely the right moment and stood to shed his suit coat. Underneath it was John's favourite shirt of his, a delicate sage green that apparently 'did things to his eyes'. With both hands, he ruffled his hair out of its usual arrangement, also the way John preferred it, and reached into his jacket pocket for the custom made crystalline case, shaped diligently like a human heart. After a slow ten count, he approached the room.
The pictures, when activated with the small remote he'd made sure John possessed, were repetitively moving digital renderings of the things that took place in Sherlock's brain from the left, right, back, and top, when he thought the word 'Magpie' after meditating. The colours that bloomed were all indicative of the hormones associated with actual love, not just infatuation or lust. The long paper was the printout from the heart monitor he'd had attached to himself to record yet more information. He recited the digits of Pi as his meditative focus until he heard the audio cue, provided through a recording of John saying it, played by Molly Hooper.
When he opened the door to his room, John was sat at the foot of the bed as instructed, tears wiped but the tracks still lingering, his mouth in a tight, line, determined not to cry(more)as he gripped the letter. Sherlock got down on both knees in front of him, so he could be as close as possible as he described the pure, bell-shaped white flower preserved indefinitely in the casing.
"Digitalis alba," he began after clearing his throat. "Known more commonly as 'white Foxglove'. It was used, originally, as a natural defibrillator of sorts as well as in the treatment of edema associated with congestive heart failure. I thought I was overdosed. That would have explained the head aches and mysterious loss of appetite, the... disruptions in rhythm." One hand went to his heart of its own free will, before he retook control of it and moved it back to the box. "But all of that went away, the confusion, the depression, everything, when I was finally able to admit to myself, that I loved you. Used improperly, a bit like love, it can stop the heart or cause suffocation. There are very few people who are able to properly handle it. The lethal dose and the therapeutic one are so close, that it's too dangerous for natural general use. And, somehow, you are the only one who knows the exact amount conducive to my body chemistry." He ran his eyes over the looping physical evidence of his love for this man for an unexpected extra jolt of confidence before bringing them resolutely back to John's, where he found the rest. "I still experience the edema and tachycardia, briefly, whenever I know you're close, whether or not I can see you, but not the head aches. Nor do I feel the low appetite. In fact, my hunger for you knows no bounds. I want to devour you until I'm ill and then have some more. I apologise for not having any evidence of that last bit, but I digress." He flipped open the top of the case, revealing the sturdy platinum band, matte-finished so as not to gleam and give away their position when undercover. A center channel housed a row of black diamonds, just above a concealed line where the bottom half could be separated to be reattached during the nuptial exchange. "I'm tempted to ask if it's enough. But then, I would always be disappointed with the answer. Because it isn't enough, nor will it ever be enough for you. So I'll simply beg of you. Will you please be my husband?"
John launched himself at him, toppling them both to the floor, crying and kissing him without actually having said yes. The kisses were quickly becoming too distracting, but he could let it go no further until the results were locked in, however trivial it seemed in reality. With great difficulty, he sat up and pushed the box between them, re-opening it, as the tackle had flipped it shut again. John repeated 'Yes' over and over again in a thick, watery voice, punctuated by several adjectives such as 'marvelous' and 'brilliant' and 'gorgeous'.
"John, my legs..." He still had them folded under him as he lay back flat with the weight of his fiancé on top of it all. They were no longer young men, either of them. Not that John's next actions supported this point, for he sprung to his feet with apologies and slightly disheveled hair, whose silvering didn't even make a dent in how youthful his face was. He hauled Sherlock to his own feet, seeming impossibly taller than himself, who had a full six inches on the condensed battle machine that was John Watson. Only now, he seemed more like a cat, a grizzled pride leader that, even in his later years no one could take down. Sherlock pushed the top half of the ring onto the appropriate finger and set the box carefully in the window sill. Only when it was stable did John grab him by the arm in order to toss him almost casually onto the bed.
"You have ten seconds to get those clothes off or there will be consequences." John was already half stripped.
"I may like-"
"TEN!..."
Sherlock jumped to obey before his body even knew what it was doing.
This was going to be extremely interesting.