"So this is it?" Sherlock asked. He prodded the box that sat on the table. John looked up from fiddling with his cufflinks.
"Yep."
"May I?"
"Oh, sure, please do," John said, feeling more than a little chuffed. Sherlock opened the teal velvet box, studying the contents. He gave a small nod, the twinkle in his eye unmistakable, and the corners of his mouth turned up into a genuine smile.
"Well done, John."
Ring in his pocket, John headed out. The day was all planned. He'd pick up Molly, and they'd board the Eurostar, be in Paris by eleven. They could have lunch, stroll around Paris at their leisure before he proposed to her under the Eiffel Tower. It was corny, sappy and cliché, but it was a secret, silly wish of Molly's, and one John knew he could easily pull off.
He jogged up the steps to her flat, eager to get going, knowing the pounding in his chest probably wouldn't calm down to a normal pace until the next day.
"Hi," Molly kissed him good morning, tugging him in. "You look spiffy," she whistled, giving him an appreciative once-over.
"Why thank you," he flashed the lining of his jacket, grinning. "Courtesy of Savile Row tailors."
"Why are you so fancy?" she asked. "Court date?"
"Oh, so funny," he puckered his mouth at her. "No, I'm here to woo you," she laughed.
"Is that so?"
"Yep. Wanna go to Paris for the day?" she almost dropped her tea.
"What?"
"Paris. It's only two hours, it's a long weekend, so we don't have to be back early tonight. We can stay up all night and drink all that ritzy champagne in the park. There's supposed to be a fireworks show or something."
"I'll have to shower," she said, already running to the bathroom. "Pick something for me to wear, you know what to choose!"
John really didn't, actually. If he had his way, she'd wear that smooth number she wore to the Christmas Party. His phone beeped.
Garment bag from Harrods, shoes in box underneath. Accessories in dress pocket. SH
The fact that Sherlock knew his girlfriend's size was a little alarming, but then again, it was Sherlock. John took down the dress bag. Inside was a buttery yellow afternoon dress. Or maybe it was a cocktail dress. Hell if he knew, but it was Molly's color, and her style. A rope of pearls was in the dress pocket. The blow-dryer was heard from the bathroom, and John hurried to lay out the things, pleased to note Sherlock had thought to buy Molly kitten heels rather than something ridiculous.
Molly scurried out of the bathroom in her slip, hair done.
"What's the occasion?" she asked, taking the dress from the hanger. "Is this new?"
"Yep. Sherlock got it for you." She turned so he could zip her up and he obliged, placing a kiss where the hook and eyelet would meet. He loved this woman, and as she fixed the strap of her slip, tucking away the little dress-straps into the sides of the sleeves, her free hand swiping at the smudge of lipstick, John blurted:
"Will you marry me?"
BOLLOCKS
His phone buzzed almost immediately, and not even looking at it, he knew it was a text from Sherlock. Molly only looked up at his reflection, and then turned around.
"What?" He rubbed his face.
"No- no, that's wrong, it's wrong, I was supposed- with the Eiffel Tower and champagne and those bloody little- the sparkles and-" Molly's arms wound their way around his neck as she pressed herself to him.
"Ask me again," she said gently.
"What- now? No, you've always wanted-"
"Ask me." His hands rested on her hips, he looked defeated. "With a smile, I hope." Her eyebrow raised, a little sympathetic at his inner-turmoil that his well-thought out plans had been ruined by none other than himself. Frankly she couldn't be bothered to feel too badly, because he was about to propose to her.
His smile was fond and he reached into his pocket, pulling out the box.
"Will you, Molly Hooper, do me the honor of marrying me-" he'd barely got the words out before she'd kissed him. Arms about her waist, he did feel the tightening in his chest ease. She gasped, delighted, when he showed her the ring he'd picked. Butterflies in his stomach disappeared once it was on her finger. They sat on her bed for a few moments, taking it all in.
"It's beautiful," she laughed, admiring the ring. "I love it, really- this was lovely." Another kiss.
"It was supposed to be in Paris," he said. "Like you always wanted, with the Eiffel Tower and- there really were fireworks. Sherlock was gonna be there, and Greg and Sally and oh everybody. I'm sorry I mucked it up."
"You didn't," another kiss, smiling against his mouth. "But does this mean we don't get to go to Paris?"
His smile was brash again, and he pulled her up to her feet.
"Come along, soon-to-be Mrs. Watson, we've got a party to meet."
John checked his phone, once on board the train, two texts from Sherlock were waiting for him:
8:45am OH, WELL DONE JOHN YOU TIT. –SH
8:55am Well done, John. –SH
Paris, France Gare du Nord
The message spread that John had already proposed, everyone met them at the Gare du Nord.
"Don't you dare say a word," Molly said when Sherlock greeted her. "It was a lovely proposal, and this was a beautiful idea."
"You're welcome," Sherlock nodded.
"Some of it was his idea," John admitted and Molly hugged the Consulting Detective in response.
"I suppose I'll have to have you help plan the wedding now, too," she laughed, Sherlock was already miles ahead of her, stating something about her choice of napkin rings or something until Greg Lestrade interrupted him, reminding him they were all in Paris, and it was only half-past eleven.
"We've got ages to make plans," Greg said. "Right now we're in Paris, so what shall we do first?"
"Food," Molly declared.
"My brother tells me there is a very fine restaurant near the Louvre. I'm inclined to disagree, the better food will be found in the Latin Quarter, I seem to recall a very fine bistro there. It's not a long walk," Sherlock's hands in his pockets, he strode off pointedly away from the cabs.
"As long as they have food." Molly tugged John by the arm, catching up with Sherlock, linking arms so she was between them. Greg took Sally by the arm, Mrs. Hudson on his left.
The day was idled by, sort of. With Sherlock bringing them around Paris, he directed them to the more exciting spots, although he did remember that it was Molly and John's day and pointed them off to the more flowery paths and pretty sight-seeing routes so they could "Do whatever it is that engaged couples do"
"That's inappropriate to do in public," Molly laughed at Sherlock, who frowned, until he turned crimson, suddenly understanding.
They never made it to the Eiffel Tower, but they did see it from a distance, from the Champs Elysée as it lit up, sparkling in the warm summer night.
"Hey woman," John looked at Molly.
"Hm?" she smirked, wiping the ice-cream from her chin.
"You gonna marry me or what?"
"Oh," she sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. "I suppose if I must."
"So romantic," Greg added, passing by them, bringing Mrs. Hudson a dish of ice-cream. Sherlock appeared from wherever it was he'd run off to, bearing six bottles of champagne, he handed three to Greg.
"We should head to the gardens," Sherlock said. "If Molly still wants to see the fireworks."
"Oo!" the group all grabbed their cups of ice-cream, hurrying down the Course-la-Reine to the Jardin des Tuileries
The gardens were closed, or were supposed to be. A guard, seeing Sherlock, waved them over.
"I suspect Mycroft made a call for us," John said, looking around, noting several Englishmen in bespoke suits at the entrances and exits to the gardens.
"Sherlock, where are your shoes?" Mrs. Hudson asked, staring at the consulting detective's bare feet. He held up his shoes and socks. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head.
"That looks like fun," Molly laughed, and handed her ice cream to John. Holding his arm for balance, she took her shoes off, looking at him. "Your turn."
"Oh Hell, why not." One after another, they took off their shoes, strolling through the soft grass, waiting for the fireworks to start.
Through the noise of the fireworks, the delighted shrieks and laughter rippling through their group, under the warm glow of sparklers, John asked Molly again if she would marry him. Again, she kissed him in response, smiling against his mouth. Arm around her waist, he held their shoes, her head against his shoulder as they watched the rest of the light show. Sherlock admired his two greatest friends from a distance, his smile was small, but genuine.
"Well done, John."