John shivered, holding out his hands to the crackling fire. It had been a freezing night out in London, so cold that even chasing Sherlock around a crime scene hadn't been enough to keep the chill away. 'The murderer could have bloody well waited until it got warmer,' he thought to himself. He rubbed his hands together, trying to generate enough heat to feel them. 'Or at least until Christmas was over.' The case hadn't even been that difficult. Within ten minutes, Sherlock had told the police to arrest the dead man's wife and stridden off of the crime scene. John glanced back at the detective, who seemed either unaffected or unbothered by the cold. He pulled of his scarf and coat (in his usual dramatic fashion, John noted with a roll of his eyes), tossing both heedlessly onto the couch.
Sherlock glared loathsomely at the Christmas tree in the corner. John saw this and smiled, shaking his head. This was the first year Mrs. Hudson had cause to put up decorations in the flat, seeing as how Sherlock's only idea of Christmas was a triple homicide, and she had absolutely outdone herself. Tinsel hung beside stockings on the fireplace, lights were strung in various locations, and, of course, a beautifully decorated Christmas tree was standing in the corner. John had gotten Sherlock a present, but it sat alone underneath the tree.
When John looked at it, he felt a tiny twinge of disappointment. His smile faded a little. He hadn't really expected Sherlock to get him anything; after almost two years of living together and eight months since he had confessed his feelings and found, happily, that they were reciprocated, John knew Sherlock well enough to realize that. Still…
John shook himself slightly. It was alright. He shouldn't get upset over such a small thing- he was the boyfriend of the most brilliant man in London, after all, and he wouldn't want to change that for anything. Sherlock had been his savior. His life had been in black and white when he had returned from Afghanistan. No one to save, nothing to do, just the same nothingness day after day after day. It had slowly been killing John, and he had known it too. No one could or even tried to understand. The day John walked into Barts with Mike was the day that changed John's life. After meeting Sherlock, everything had burst into color. What he did started to matter. He started helping people, saving lives again, and that fact in itself had probably saved his own.
John felt a sudden surge of affection for the detective, and he turned to look at him. When John saw his face, however, he frowned.
"You alright, Sherlock?" John asked, concerned. Sherlock looked anxious, which was never a good thing. Sherlock nodded. Still, John could see something was bothering him. "Are you sure?" John was a worried. Usually Sherlock was content, even cheerful, after solving a case.
"I'm fine, John. Everything is fine." Sherlock picked up his violin and plucked at the strings discordantly. He plopped down on the couch.
John walked over to the couch and sat down next to Sherlock, grasping his hands to still them. Sherlock tried to pull away, but John tightened his grip. He worked the violin out of Sherlock's hands, setting it down gently.
"Sherlock," John began. "I wish I… you know that you can tell me if anything is bothering you, right?" This seemed to have almost no effect on Sherlock. If anything, he looked even more uncomfortable.
"Of course." Sherlock paused. He stared straight at John, searching his eyes before seeming to decide something. "I was going to save this for tomorrow, but…" He fished a small, brightly wrapped package out of his pocket and held it out to John, before flashing him an uncertain smile. John stared a moment before taking it. He felt a grin spreading across his face. "Sherlock, I… thanks. I really thought you weren't going to get me anything."
Sherlock frowned, still looking anxious. "Why not? Is it not traditional to get a gift for someone you care for? Just because I don't-" John cut him off with a kiss, smiling against his lips.
"Thank you, Sherlock," John said. "Whatever it is, I'm sure I'm going to love it." These words seemed to have a huge impact on Sherlock, and he nodded.
John held the present for a second, looking it over. It was small- smaller than his fist- and shaped roughly like a cube. It didn't make any noise when John shook it, but the action did cause Sherlock to smile. Bright red wrapping paper covered the present. He peeled it off carefully, unwrapping the gift with reverence. He peered into the box, then froze, staring at what was in his hands. Was it… was this what he thought it was? He looked at Sherlock in shock, and the detective took the box from him, kneeling.
"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock said, grinning. He paused, taking a deep breath. "Will you marry me?"