Work Text:
“That was your mother,” John said, and tossed Sherlock’s phone onto the sofa. It came within an inch of Sherlock’s head.
Sherlock didn’t flinch. After so many years, he was accustomed to John’s excellent aim. Eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin, he merely grunted.
“Three calls in two days. She’s visiting tomorrow, Sherlock, she wants to see you. If you want me to answer the bloody phone next time I will.”
Blood spatter, missing murder weapon, stained curtains, broken ceiling fan: pushed aside. Sherlock scowled without opening his eyes. “I wish you would. She likes you better anyway.”
John snorted. “Maybe because I actually speak to her.” A beat of silence. “She is your mother.”
“As she never fails to remind me.”
“Well, she is,” John said, and made the usual sounds associated with putting the kettle on.
“You can have her,” Sherlock snapped absently, trying to get back to the ceiling fan, but -- no. No, not good, because John’s mum was dead, and Sherlock’s family was John’s family but not quite, because he and John were together in all ways except the official ones, and usually it wasn’t an issue but sometimes, just sometimes, it crept up.
This was an entirely catastrophic line of thinking. Damn it.
John took the mugs out of the cabinet. “I’m picking up your phone next time,” he said quietly.
He didn’t say You’re a cock or I’m far better at dealing with your parents than you are or There are a few things about our relationship we should address someday. Sherlock thought them anyway.
* * *
John and Sherlock existed, as they always had, outside the sphere of normal society. Sherlock liked to think they were happy this way, because mostly, they were. They solved a lot of cases and had quite a lot of sex. Just yesterday they’d found themselves crammed into a doorway in Southwark, sweaty and breathless, John’s gun trained on the empty street until Sherlock’s mobile buzzed to let them know they were off the hook. With a smug chuckle John had tucked the gun back into his jacket and turned to press Sherlock into the wall, hands against Sherlock’s shoulders, mouth seeking Sherlock’s with wicked urgency. Urgency that shouldn’t have been possible after five years together, after countless other back alleys and closets and Scotland Yard offices and even, once, the morgue (to John’s obvious horror and secret delight).
No, they were very, very happy. It’s just that life wasn’t always sex in the morgue.
Sometimes life was tax returns and trips to the chemist for toothpaste. Sometimes it was John’s rewritten will, John’s sister’s divorce, lawyers and paperwork. And parents.
John had already been married. Really, really married. About as married as a person could be. With a cake and bridesmaids and dancing. And whenever Sherlock thought about saying Maybe we should get married he thought of John’s wedding. The wedding. He knew John would think of it too. There was no way around this large, sugar-crusted confection in their past, no way to divorce the sweet memory of Mary from the words I do.
And so Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his fingers and thought instead of blood spatter and how a knife might have caught on a ceiling fan, and how John would certainly call Mummy and they’d chat amicably for half an hour and John would hang up with “See you soon, Mrs Holmes,” when really, John should say Mummy, but he couldn’t quite.
* * *
“You’re staying to do the paperwork this time, Sherlock.”
“I’m waiting for results at the lab.”
“You’re always waiting for lab results. You can wait for them here while you do the bloody paperwork.”
Lestrade, seated at his desk across from them, glanced up at John and smirked. “What’s that saying? Like an old married couple.”
John chuckled and slid a stack of papers toward Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes in a show of irritation, but John merely nudged him affectionately with one knee.
Maybe they were already married. Maybe they’d been married since the moment they met.
* * *
The thing was, Sherlock didn’t believe in marriage.
At least, he’d never believed in it before. And he continued not to believe in it with great fervor. A law governing love was preposterous. It signified weakness and frivolity and skewed priorities. More than that, marriage existed only to perpetuate religion (all of which was rubbish) and further the repugnant goal of populating the earth with hordes of tiny idiots.
Well, children weren’t always idiots. But parents often were.
Sherlock didn’t believe in marriage at all. He didn’t believe in bowing to society in any conceivable way. So it shouldn’t have mattered when they were out in the world and he introduced John as his partner. “Partner” was a serviceable word, and John certainly qualified as Sherlock’s partner in many respects. But it was the only available word, and it didn’t accurately describe their relationship. “Boyfriend” was outright asinine, as it seemed to suggest they were both fifteen years old. “Lover” made it sound as if they were carrying on some sort of illicit affair. Which was fun to imagine, but again, inaccurate. And “this is... John” did not convey any reasonable meaning when seated in the back of an ambulance with said John. Especially when John was unconscious and Sherlock had to insist that the British Government would fire each and every last paramedic if Sherlock was not allowed into the ambulance as well.
The thing was, marriage meant certain things to certain people. There was no better, simpler way to tell the world, this is the person I love. This is my other half.
Plenty of people were married. But Sherlock knew, without a doubt, that none of them could possibly love each other as much as he and John did. It simply wasn’t possible. From a scientific standpoint, of course.
Sherlock did not believe in marriage, but he wanted to be married.
He found this something of a surprise.
* * *
Mike Stamford stopped them in the Barts hallway, beaming and dimpled as ever. “Haven’t seen you in ages,” he effused. Sherlock mentally corrected him: eight months, two weeks, five days.
“Brilliant to see you,” John said, clapping Mike on the shoulder. “How are things? What’ve you been up to?”
Mike gave Sherlock a pointed look. “Go on, then.”
Sherlock couldn’t help a laugh. He’d always liked Mike. “Be my guest,” he said. “Really.”
“Oh, no.” Mike waved a hand at himself. “I insist.”
Sherlock sighed and turned to John. “Just back from taking his oldest to university, and by the scuffs on the sides of his shoes, helped her move a trunk up a flight of stairs. Manchester, most likely, given that he’s just taken a train back this morning and the edge of the ticket is still in his back pocket. Started jogging again this past year and lost a bit of weight -- ten, twelve pounds? But he’s been on holiday recently, as he’s put four back on this month but hasn’t moved his belt back to the proper notch yet.”
Mike gave a low whistle. “Very, very good.”
“Did I miss anything?”
“Hardly. The wife and I just celebrated our twentieth anniversary. Went on holiday to France for a few days.” He grinned. “Delicious food.”
“France.” Damn it. If only he’d asked to see Mike’s wallet. “I should’ve gotten that.”
Mike shook his head, chuckling. “How about you lot? I’d pretend I knew what you were up to, but you look just the same as always.”
“The usual,” John said, watching Sherlock. He didn’t need to say it anymore: That was fantastic. “Cases. Blogging. Trying not to get killed.”
“Doesn’t get dull, I hope, all that murder?”
“A bit tedious, yeah,” John said, and winked.
Sherlock watched John and Mike, their voices fading as he mentally put the conversation on mute. Twentieth anniversary.
Pointless. Choosing a date to celebrate an ongoing relationship was uselessly sentimental and assigned added weight and significance to a particular day when all days should be the same. Sherlock felt the same way about birthdays, but tolerated them only because John was hell-bent on overly festive celebrations of all kinds. Well, Christmas, mostly.
Mike Stamford laughed at whatever John had just said; Sherlock gave a tolerant smile to pretend he was listening. It was Mike’s fault that Sherlock could no longer dismiss the value of casual conversation. John was here by virtue of a single offhand comment Sherlock had made to Mike in this very hallway. And even then, only because Sherlock hadn’t had his coffee that fateful morning and was hoping to stall for time in case Molly Hooper showed up to fetch it. And so he’d allowed himself to be sucked into pleasantries with Mike Stamford. Which, of course, had resulted in John.
They’d very nearly missed each other. One cup of coffee away from never having met.
If he and John had an anniversary, which they absolutely did not, it would be January the twenty-ninth.
* * *
They got home late one night after a case and slipped into well-worn grooves of habit. Sherlock shrugged off his coat, hung it up, and took John’s without thinking. John stoked the fire and began to dial for takeaway. Sherlock hung John’s coat on the back of the door next to his and wondered how he could ever presume to wish for anything more. He wondered why he felt the need to tell the world that John was his, that he was John’s. They spent most of their time in their own world anyway.
Sherlock had never felt the need to tell the world anything.
* * *
“You’re distracted.”
“I’m always distracted.”
John snorted, sliding his hand into Sherlock’s hair, fingertips against scalp. Delicious. Sherlock closed his eyes.
“More distracted than usual,” John said, and kissed Sherlock’s ear. Gooseflesh prickled down Sherlock’s back.
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said. He opened his eyes and rolled over, kicking off the sheets to drape a leg over John and draw him closer.
“Don’t change the subject,” John murmured, as Sherlock’s hand traced the dip of John’s hipbone.
“This is always the subject.”
“You’re distracted. I know you,” John said, voice muffled as he kissed the precise spot at the juncture of Sherlock’s neck that always made him gasp.
Sherlock gasped.
Sherlock would have to say something, sometime. But not now.
* * *
“Yeah, hi, it’s John. Hi. How is she? Is her cough any better? Mmm, yeah. Okay. I see. And she’s sleeping all right? I know it’s got cold up there, that should actually help a bit with the cough at night. Has she been round to the clinic this week? Good. Good, well just tell them to call me if anything changes.” A laugh. “Tell them your doctor in London insists on being informed. Right, well, glad she’s improving. You’ll be coming down, then, next month? Good. Well, I’m sure he’ll be glad.” Another laugh. “Yeah, he never would, would he? Well. It’s lovely to hear you. Talk to you soon, er -- Mr Holmes. Bye.”
* * *
“He had a knife.” John pressed a wad of gauze to Sherlock’s forearm, applying pressure. “He had a knife, but you said he wasn’t armed. And then we chased him across Waterloo Bridge without calling the police.”
Sherlock grimaced, more out of chagrin than pain. “I did say that, yes.”
“So what happened?”
“I -- I didn’t notice,” Sherlock admitted, watching John remove the gauze and dab at the long, shallow wound with antiseptic.
“You didn’t notice,” John repeated, reaching for a fresh piece of gauze. “You know how many times I’ve heard you say that? Exactly twice, and I think the other one had to do with whether or not Molly Hooper was standing in the room.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” Sherlock said, through gritted teeth.
The truth was, he hadn’t noticed because of the moon. Sherlock Holmes hadn’t noticed a knife because they’d pounded up a staircase near Savoy and Victoria Embankment and out onto Waterloo Bridge, and the moon was out in full, its light bathing the Thames, with Big Ben and the Eye lit up like the glowing heart and mind of the city, and if there ever was a time or place Sherlock wanted to drop to one knee in front of John Watson it was right then and there.
This was intolerable. The now-constant thought of matrimony had caused sentiment to explode in Sherlock’s heart at an entirely inopportune time.
“Are you going to tell me what’s been distracting you lately, or are you just going to get us killed next time when you don’t notice the gun?” John said genially, wrapping tape around Sherlock’s forearm. “Because it’s not a case on your mind, I know that much. You’ve been somewhere else lately, even between cases. And you’d solved this case by the time we got to the bridge.”
John was observant. And perceptive, and intelligent. Of course he was.
Sherlock took a breath, feeling vaguely ill. When words refused to cooperate, he took another breath.
“I want you to marry me, John. I’m -- I’m sorry.”
John gave Sherlock a look that quite clearly said Are You Shitting Me. He dropped Sherlock’s arm and slid apart from him on the sofa so he could stare more fully into Sherlock’s face. “What?
“Please don’t make me say it again.”
“Are you... proposing to me?” John said slowly, his eyes bright and incredulous.
“No. No, I’m just saying -- I’ve been thinking about it, I actually can’t stop thinking about it, so I felt I should tell you. But it’s fine, really, I’m sorry.”
John opened his mouth, and then closed it. He tilted his head and thought for a moment. Then he opened his mouth again. “You are apologising for not proposing to me.”
“No,” Sherlock said, and this was not going according to plan. Not that there was a plan. There had never been a plan, unless it involved Waterloo Bridge. “No. Yes? I am apologising. I’m not proposing. Those things are not dependent on one another.”
“Sherlock.”
“Forget I said anything. Just -- you were right, I’ve been distracted. That’s the reason. I said it. It’s done.”
“Sherlock,” John repeated, more firmly this time. “Stop. Did you ever think about asking me how I feel about getting married?”
“You were already married.”
“Yes,” John said, drawing out the word as if hoping Sherlock would reach some obvious conclusion.
Sherlock did not reach a conclusion at all. “So I didn’t want to bring it up.”
John’s expression melted into a fond smile. “Sherlock, that’s kind of you, but it’s not a forbidden subject.”
Sherlock felt his eyebrows raise. “It’s not?”
“No. I mean, I didn’t talk about it because I assumed you never wanted to get married. I mean, I thought you actually hated marriage. As a concept.”
“I do.”
John paused, open-mouthed, then blinked. “See, when you say that, it makes me think things like ‘Sherlock doesn’t want to get married.’”
“I do hate marriage. As a -- as a thing. But... I can’t stop thinking that maybe -- maybe I wouldn’t hate it with you.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t hate being married to me,” John said wonderingly.
“No,” Sherlock growled. “No, that’s not -- I mean. I would love being married to you.” He swallowed, the words resounding with much more weight than he’d realised. “John. I’m not asking you to get married. I’m just... saying.”
“You still haven’t asked me,” John said, after a long pause.
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Correct.”
“No. I mean. Sherlock, you haven’t asked me how I feel about getting married. To you.”
“Oh.” Sherlock considered this for a moment. “Is it worth asking?”
“I think so.”
John’s smile, glinting in the corners of his eyes, caused Sherlock’s heart to forget its steady rhythm.
“What do you, um.” Sherlock gestured between them. “Have you thought about it? Marriage, I mean. Someday. In theory.”
“I’ve thought about it, yes,” John said. “And, um.... I don’t think I’d want a wedding.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said, trying to ignore the plummeting sensation in his gut, and why? Why was this bad? He’d still always have John. John wasn’t leaving. “Right. Well, at least we’re clear then.”
“No, um. Sherlock. I didn’t say I didn’t want to get married. I just said I didn’t want a wedding. A big party.” John smiled. “I would, in fact, very much like to be married to you. I didn’t think it was possible, that’s all.”
“You would.... very much like to be married to me.”
“Of course,” John said, grinning.
“This is, um. Are you -- I mean. Are we --?” Sherlock trailed off. Something had just transpired between them. He had no idea what it was.
“I don’t know.” John cocked an eyebrow. “Are we?”
Everything fell into place. “Oh,” Sherlock breathed. “Wait! Wait. No. John.”
“Sherlock. Did you want me to ask you something?”
“Shut up,” Sherlock said, his mind stuttering, a warm, ecstatic bubble expanding in his chest. “No. John. Wait. In that case --will you?”
“Will I --”
“Marry me,” Sherlock breathed, and it came out at last in one alarming, glorious rush. “Will you marry me, John?”
“God, yes.” John grinned as if he’d never stop. “Yes. I will. Absolutely.”
They fell into a kiss, surging back against the sofa, surprised and desperate and giddy. John began to laugh, and John’s laugh was utterly contagious and soon they were clutching each other and half-laughing and still mostly kissing. Except.
“John.” Sherlock broke off, dismay dampening his buoyant joy. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“It doesn’t have to be like anything,” John said, and then paused. “Oh -- I see. Did you want me to --” His brow furrowed. “Sherlock, will you --”
“No. I mean, yes. Yes to that, but -- come on, John.”
* * *
The moon, now at the apex of its path, bathed the Thames in a cool yellow glow. Sherlock turned up his coat collar, watching clouds paint a pale, broken ceiling against a deep blue sky. John crowded next to him as their taxi pulled away. They stood for a moment, city lights rippling across the river’s surface below.
“I came up those steps, and saw the moon rising,” Sherlock said. “With the river, and the lights, buildings I’ve seen a thousand times before. It’s just... home. And we ran onto the bridge, and it was home, but -- better. And it’s strange that home can still seem so beautiful. Even after all this time.” He swallowed. “And that’s how Baker Street is. With you in it. And I wanted to -- I wanted to ask you, right then.”
John swallowed, and huddled closer. Sherlock linked an arm in the crook of John’s elbow. John gingerly shifted to avoid Sherlock’s newly bandaged cut.
“Sentiment?” John asked at last, his voice rough with disbelief.
“Sentiment,” Sherlock answered, and allowed himself to be engulfed in it completely.
* * *