The box was warm in his hand, turned over and over before unseeing eyes.
He'd only gone upstairs to pull out an old case file, to a room that had not seen routine for many months.
Twenty four, really.
Twenty four exactly.
He knew John thought him above this. Silly little calendar dates. But he remembered. Could recall each and every moment that made his heart sing with such astonishing detail it could leave him overwhelmed.
He knew what today was. He just hadn't known what it meant.
'Oh for God's sake John, it doesn't matter.'
He closed his eyes, the box still turning over in his hand.
'Doesn't matter?'
How had he not seen. Not heard.
'Sherlock... it's our anniversary.'
'I'm aware.'
Too busy. Too busy not looking. Too busy looking at a thousand things other than John.
'We made plans.'
Far too soft. Where was the anger, the frustration. Where were the clipped edges that spoke of clenched jaws.
'No john, you made plans. How you expect me to know what I'll be doing in a weeks time is utterly beyond me.'
'A month, actually.'
There. There is was. It wasn't even hurt. It was resignation.
'God John, it's not important, It's dinner, just cancel. It's nothing we can't do any other night.'
He'd rounded then, crumpled map of the Grand Union Canal clenched in his fist ready to wave as evidence of his own importance, ready to fight .
But John said nothing.
No fire in his eyes, no tremble in his hands.
He'd looked at him. Really looked. Had let his eyes flicker from the iron grip to his defensive stance and back to his face in one breathless instance.
And he watched as those shoulders dropped infinitesimally beneath some unseen weight, gaze dropping as John nodded, just once, no reflection in his voice as he said, 'Okay.'
No one hid disappointment quite like John Watson.
He should have known. How could he not have known?
Weren't there supposed to be signs? Little tells to inform him he was making such a ridiculous mistake?
He sighed. Clasped the box suddenly, tightly, in his hand, relishing the edges furrowing the creases of his fingers.
And he'd never have known. John would never have said.
He'd only come upstairs to pull out an old casefile, the old bedroom more Sherlock's domain than John's.
Apart from one corner. Two old moving boxes filled with long forgotten photo albums and on top, John's old lock box, the one he'd got long before Afghanistan, back when he was keen to put a rank before his name.
The sun had revealed the shift in the dust pattern, the fresh fingerprints around the lock.
It was only a matter of minutes before it was undone, its contents shifted, eyes ghosting over old photo's, dog eared postcards and letters of medical discharge before alighting on the small, square box of mahogany.
He probably should have guessed what had been inside, should have known that John would be the type to shy away from the typical black velvet and stiffly hinged cliché. Not for John, John wouldn't care. But for him.
It was simple. Beautiful. Light bouncing from its polished surface in sharp crescents.
He watched it's shadows dance within its arc as he turned it, breath fogging it's surface as he fought the dark and visceral wave that threatened to band around his chest and choke his breath.
He'd never felt more foolish in his life.
To have so wilfully overlooked what he would have known was coming had he not just opened his eyes.
With reverent hands he replaced the lid, eyes pressing shut to coalesce the sudden overlaid image of the same band, scuffed and worn, never once removed, so very many years from now.
Kettle just boiled, spoon idly prodding at the teabag. He watched the slow rise and fall as John breathed, fingers curled into a loose fist upon the work top.
John knew he was there, he could tell in the line of his jaw, the way he chimed the spoon against the mug as he finished stirring, the way his breath paused as Sherlock's hand rested gently on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry." Voice low as he stepped close, head bent and cheek close to resting on the soft sweep of John's hair.
"It's okay." But it wasn't, he could see it now, screaming at him in the way John moved his mug tiny, pointless distances across the worktop.
"It's not okay."Soft and pained. His arm came around John's chest, palm briefly flattened over the dull and listless thump of a heart cast aside.
"It's not okay John," Face pressed to the back of his neck. "And I'm sorry."
For his part, john remained extraordinary, resolutely silent without condemnation, recognising in the faint vibration of Sherlock's body that this was a physical pain, a sick abhorrence and desperate longing to take back a hurt unjustly given, and he calmed the storm with nothing more than his gentle touch and strength to lean on, asking nothing.
Simply waiting.
"I love you." Pressed into the warm skin of John's neck. "I love you more than I can ever tell you John,.. because there will never be words enough for what I feel for you."
John shifted in his arms, back a little straighter, lips parted and brow furrowed with the faint lines of concern.
He breathed as if to speak...
"Ask me to dinner John."
That breath held.
Held.
"...Sherlock..."
"Ask me." The hard wooden edge of the box lid pressed into John's chest, absorbing the barely there trembling of the hand that held it. John's hand came up to cover his, warm and dry as it gently cupped and curled around long pale fingers.
For a moment. Almost an eternity. They stared down at the dark space between their hands, fingers shifting to move and lace as John's heart beat strong and sound, felt against the entire circle of his arms, a held breath, and then...
"Dinner?"
"Yes."