Really, Sherlock had been planning for this. Of course, with Mycroft's insight and his own considerable power for knowing things he really shouldn't, it was hardly surprising. But the romance of the gesture wan't lost on those who witnessed it.
Ever since the same-sex marriage bill had been announced, Sherlock had begun working. With Mycroft's help-only for John would he suffer the git-, they easily procured the votes needed to get the bill to pass. They hadn't even had to resort to any of Sherlock's deductions to blackmail the voters. Many had agreed because of their political platforms, others for those they represented. The bill passing hadn't caused Sherlock any significant loss in sleep.
But the actual thought of proposing? That filled him with terror. Of course, logically, he knew that John would say yes. Sherlock knew how the doctor felt about him; John made no secret of their bond. But Sherlock had always had an issue with allowing himself to be vulnerable. The possibility of rejection, no matter how remote, was enough to cause his already pathetic sleep schedule to fluctuate to the point that John had been forced to stay up exceedingly late each night, carding his hands through Sherlock's hair soothingly in just the way that could always relax the genius when his brain was working too hard.
Those nights spent in John's arms only strengthened his resolve to follow through on the venture, though. Rings were really not the proper engagement present for John; he never wore the things, so a wedding ring would be enough. Instead, Sherlock had custom dog tags made to add to the ones he already keeps around his neck; one in gold and one in iron. On the iron one, Sherlock had chosen the words "Quo Fata Vocant (Whither the Fates Call)", the motto of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, to be engraved on the ring as iron was the warrior's metal. A fitting engraving, really, as John so often followed his instincts, even when every bit of self preservation told him to run the other direction as Sherlock led him after murderous psychos. On the gold were the words "I Only Have One", which had changed from meaning one friend, to their only being one person in the world with whom Sherlock truly fit.
The waiting is what nearly killed him. The bill was a big ticket item; the voting date was pushed back a few times, people puttered about in an attempt to stall the bill and amp up their own careers. Finally, however, the day came. And, as fate would have it, Sherlock and John were at a crime scene in a small bakery.
"Sherlock, what d'ya got?" Lestrade barked, brushing past Donovan to get to the door as Sherlock and John entered. Donovan cast a look at their clasped hands, then shared a glance with Anderson, rolling her eyes.
"Well, obviously not a suicide."
"What? She left a note, Sherlock! She hung herself, the stool is toppled over right next to her, and the note is written in her hand, on her stationary. How could this possibly-"
"Lestrade, you see but you do not observe!" Sherlock groaned, disappointed as always by the lack luster ability of Scotland Yard. Anderson sneered at the consulting detective, knowing and hating that his own work thus far indicated a suicide. Not wanting to hear about his own shortcomings, the bitter forensic specialist turned on the telly behind the bakery counter, flipping to a news channel for the traffic report, a viable concern since he'd be driving home from the crime scene at the inconvenient time of rush hour.
"The stool is only five nine inches high, not nearly enough of a height boost for a one-point-six meter woman to hang herself from a noose two-point-five meters in the air."
Lestrade frowned at the stool thoughtfully, annoyed that of the fifteen or so people who had been buzzing about the room had all missed that while Sherlock Holmes saw it as soon as he walked in the door.
"Right, well, we'll look into it. Unless you have any ideas . . ."
"Of course I do!" Sherlock crowed indignantly, stalking to the note. "Obviously, this is the victim's handwriting. Seeing as her writing is consistent with her other writing samples, one must assume she has either been suicidal before or was coerced into writing the note. As we can see, her writing is perfectly legible, not in any way distressed. So, coercion is looking less likely. If you check her medical records, you will find that she has a history of depression and on at least one occasion she attempted suicide. Now then, the murderer-"
Sherlock cut himself off abruptly, striding across the room and ripping the clicker from Anderson's hand, ignoring his indignant yelp, and turned up the volume, staring intently at the screen.
"In a historic vote, Parliament has voted for same-sex marriages to be made legal. The landslide vote, an incredible-"
Immediately, Sherlock turned off the telly, tossed the clicker onto the counter, and left the bakery quickly. John followed unquestioningly, puzzled though he was, and soon found himself standing in a familiar park. Lestrade, who had at first been complaining about needing the full statement from Sherlock and the rest of his deductions, now followed silently, confused by the sudden change in his old friend. Anderson and Donovan, gossip hounds that they were, followed at a safe distance, unable to pass up the opportunity to watch Sherlock as he seemed to finally snap.
Sitting on a bench, Sherlock patted the seat beside him in a clear offering to John. Joining his lover on the bench, John stared up into the pale face he loved so well. Not knowing exactly what was going one, the three curious bystanders kept watch from a good 10 meters away.
"This is where you met Mike the day we met, isn't it," Sherlock said. It really wasn't a question.
"Yes, this is actually the bench we were sitting on when we were discussing my inability to stay in London on an army pension."
Sherlock looked around with the kind of singleminded focus he usually saved for The Work, dissecting the place as if simply looking at it could bring back that monumental moment.
"That is the moment that led you to me."
John looks at Sherlock's face a little more carefully. They are not usually an overly sentimental couple, although they have their moments in the safety of their home. But the look on Sherlock's face is one that John recalls as being the one that has occurred at each of their major milestones. When Sherlock first admitted they were friends, when he said that being friends was no longer enough, when he said "I love you" for the first time, every time he'd said "I love you" since then. John had come to think of it as his "I know I have emotions but that doesn't mean I need to share them with anyone so enjoy this while it lasts" look.
"Yes, it is. I suppose I should really send Mike a "thank-you" card sometime," John allowed, an amused smile causing his lips to twitch.
"How about I ask him to be one of the grooms men at our wedding, instead?"
All three of the Yarders gaped as Sherlock pulled the small box from inside his suit coat and opened the catch, allowing the world to look at the promise he is beyond ready to make, nerves aside. Despite herself, Donovan could't help but mentally-she does have some self discipline, thank you very much- coo at the adorable proposal. Sherlock stared so sweetly at John, as though he were literally the only man in the world, the first genuine smile she had ever seen pulling his face into a strange look-strange only because it was never seen by anyone but John and that it made Sherlock suddenly seem a dozen years younger.
John stares at the dog tags, astounded that Sherlock was asking him and not the other way around. Glancing up at Sherlock's face again, John's face softened as he read the open vulnerability in Sherlock's expression. Resting his left hand on Sherlock's thigh, John caught the brunette's lips in a gentle, loving kiss. It only lasted a moment before John pulled back, burying his face in Sherlock's neck and breathing in the scent of Sherlock's familiar coat and scarf.
"Is- is that a yes?" Sherlock asked, his voice hesitant.
John laughed, nudging his forehead against Sherlock's neck affectionately before pulling back to face him. "Yes, Sherlock."
Sherlock's face breaks into the most heartbreakingly ecstatic expression, not even a smile really, just bright and open and filled with an all consuming belief in the short, blonde, army doctor in front of him.
Taking the dog tags from the box, Sherlock pulled the chain from beneath John's shirt, opened the clasp to slip the two dog tags on with the military ID tags and then let the chain fall back onto John's chest. Both men stared down at the tags, faces bright and relaxed, before turning into each other simultaneously. Their mouths met in a lazy caress, John's hands cupping the taller man's face as Sherlock's arms pull his fiance into his lap.
Anderson stared at the man he thought to be a psychopath, who had only ever claimed to be a sociopath, as he expressed more emotion in a matter of minutes than he'd seen on the genius' face in years. Lestrade couldn't help the broad smile splitting his face in half as he watched the young ex-addict finally find his completion. He could practically see the last of Sherlock's heart healing from past hurts as John held him. And Donovan-well, she was not-so-subtly wiping tears from her face as she stared at the freak and his fiance, unable to work up any hatred for the man as she watched the truly beautiful moment before her.
And miles away, in his office, Mycroft Holmes stared at a computer screen, a slight upturn of the lips the only evidence of the "Iceman's" emotion. He always knew that John Watson had the potential to make Sherlock, but he'd never expected the full acceptance and support that the doctor had given to his wayward brother.
Pulling apart slowly, not separating further than was necessary for breath, the two men breathed each other in, basking in the moment. Finally, however, their desire to display their relationship in public in such a way wore off and the two stood up.
"It was the woman's brother, Lestrade. They own the bakery together, but she'd been stealing from the till to help pay for her therapist. He got fed up with her thieving and knocked her out, found an old suicide note of her's, and then hung her from the ceiling."
Lestrade shook himself from his momentary confusion just in time. Running after the detective and his blogger, Lestrade called, "Wait, Sherlock, we need your statement!"
"Tomorrow, Lestrade. I'm going to go home, have a great deal of sex with my fiance, and, if we're feeling particularly motivated, we may even begin to plan. Personally, I'd be just as happy if we didn't leave the bedroom for a long while. So don't be surprised if I text you tomorrow to say I won't be able to make it."
Laughing despite himself, Lestrade slowed to a halt, watching them walk away, hands clasped firmly between them. He could hardly blame them; he had felt the same when he had proposed to his ex-wife and most of his mates had said the same was true for them.
"Oi, Greg!" John called back, he and Sherlock having paused in their exit to turn back to the Detective Inspector. "You may want to call ahead for the next few days if you suddenly need Sherlock. We'll be needing a bit more warning than you usually give us."
With a wink, the doctor allowed Sherlock to tug him into a run, following the genius as loyally as he always did. Lestrade was left with the memory of the first drugs bust John had witnessed. "Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we're very very lucky, he might even be a good one," he'd said. If he was honest with himself, that had been something of a prophetic statement. John Watson was the catalyst that was slowly turning a great man into a good one. Although John still had a ways to go on Sherlock's manners, arrogance, etiquette. . .
This was a good start, though.