Wedding Ring

A/N: First fic for a new fandom! (Did I say fandom? I meant life-consuming obsession) Oh Sherlock. This is for my dearest friend who introduced me to the series.

If you've never heard of mood rings, Google images! They're actually quite pretty and fun to watch changing color.

No Britpick for this, unfortunately, also no guarantee of political correctness. As in, I have tried to do my research on same-sex marriage in Britain, but if anyone with expert knowledge catches any glaring inaccuracies, please let me know so I can fix it, thank you!

John is putting away the groceries as usual, and Sherlock is not helping as usual. The usual struggle ensues to maximize distance between all foodstuffs and all body parts. Most of the fingers and eyeballs and livers go on the top racks, since Sherlock prioritizes their accessibility over food. John has long since learned not to touch anything in an unmarked container, even if it does happen to be edible. More likely than not, it's just another experiment. The first time Sherlock kissed John, John was convinced he was only doing it for the sake of measuring…who knows, the coagulation of someone else's saliva in one's mouth after intense making out. Surely that might come in useful for a case.

Evidently, however, the consulting detective is capable of doing things without deductive motivations. John quickly figured that Sherlock was enjoying swapping saliva far more than normal for a case, and he went with it because really, it's the least he can do to repay John for all the ruined dates and half-finished meals and shot-up walls and horrible 2 a.m. violin recitals.

…who is John trying to kid? He's in love with Sherlock. Case closed.

"John?"

"Hang on, I'm just trying to consolidate some…erm, dirt samples. 'Cause the milk really won't fit otherwise—"

"John?"

He sounds…uncertain. This is new.

Well, no, it's not. There have been times, times after meeting a woman, after seeing a hound, that Sherlock has been uncertain, but certainly not here in the flat, with no cases on the table, with nothing to worry about but the state of the refrigerator.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

John enters the sitting room scratching an itch at the base of his skull, and Sherlock's eyes track his hand. More specifically, his right ring finger.

"A ring," Sherlock says. He curls deeper in on himself, knees up against his chest on the sofa.

"Oh, right." John remembers. He waits for the inevitable sermon of deduction, but nothing is forthcoming.

The silence breathes heavily between them. To suffocate it, John explains, "They were having a sale today, something to do with the CEO's birthday. Or death day maybe, I don't remember exactly. Anyways, I was tired of fighting with the machines, so I went to the actual lines, and the cashier said I could get 15 off a 30£ purchase, anything in the store. I was about 50 pence off, so I grabbed this ring from all the piles of useless knick-knacks they sell next to the cashier's to make up the difference."

Sherlock says nothing, his steel gaze still fixated on the ring, and John shifts uneasily under those eyes that he should be used to by now.

"It's funny how they think this economic sleight of hand is even necessary, when the average consumer already spends far more on mass-packaged food than a healthy human being should conceivably need to eat." John stops short when he realizes how Sherlock this judgment sounds. If everyone ate like Sherlock, world hunger would long since have been solved.

No, it wouldn't, the newly developed Sherlock-lobe of his brain retorts. There's still the issue of distribution, ulterior motives of corrupt governments, nutrition, profits—

"Right, so," John almost snaps to shut his Sherlock-lobe up. Certainly not to actually make Sherlock shut up; he hasn't said hardly anything since John got back. "Actually, I was thinking of you when I got it."

And there's that look again, that uncertainty that is a stranger on Sherlock's face: what is going on?

"Just, a new fashion statement for you," John says lamely. "Not really my area." He tosses the ring idly in Sherlock's general direction and wanders away to sit in his usual spot that is out of Sherlock's way but close enough for the consulting detective to bounce theories off his skull or summon him for sending emails or getting his phone or a nice make-out session just to relieve boredom.

He altogether misses the intent scrutiny Sherlock subjects the ring to as he slips it onto his own finger.

It's utterly infuriating, how unwilling the ring (it's not even a ring, really, just a colored band) is to give up its secrets. Sherlock has been trying to deduce it for two hours, but it won't tell him a thing.

From the ring on a dead woman's finger, he can tell how many affairs she's had. From a few scratches on a phone, he can tell the owner's relationship to the giver. From a jade hairpin, he can tell the state of an office romance gone sour. From this ring…all he can deduce is his apparent body heat. It turns a serene, midnight blue at his resting temperature, green when he cuts off circulation to his finger with a rubber band, yellow and then muddy brown when he takes it off and leaves it for a few minutes. The science is easy enough: there is a crystal structure inside the ring that alters with the application of heat, and each structure reflects different wavelengths of light. Elementary.

What is less obvious, Sherlock thinks, is the significance behind the giving of this ring. Flippantly bestowed, perhaps to hide a deeper meaning? What deeper meanings do rings hold?

Promise wedding engagement loyalty liege servitude fashion horror movies fantasy movies many that he has never seen so how can he KNOW Christmas carols partridges gold dragons hobbits power organic chemistry benzene Diels Alder lactones drugs busts Saturn but he's deleted everything about astronomy what does it MATTER that we go around the sun and this ring goes around my finger—

In the end, he kicks at some cobblestones on the pavement of his mind palace, cobblestones comprising useless information, because everything he has looked over is useless, none of it explains WHY John would choose a ring of all things to bring home from the supermarket just because he wanted to save 15£, he could have gotten some like nicotine patches or lube, something useful, not just for sentimental value, but…

He turns over another stone and thinks. He looks at the ring again, it is pale green, as he knew it would be: he's stressed, anxious, thinking too hard, blood is rushing to his brain, his lungs, his senses, the sympathetic nervous system doesn't prioritize extremities, his hands are predictably cold, why isn't John here to warm him up?

Hang on. There's something there now. He traces the edge of a thought, a curling wisp of smoke about to fade away…

Reasons for John giving him a ring:

1. He would like to monitor Sherlock's mood through a rather faulty means.

2. He would like to dissuade Molly's or anyone's continual pursuit of Sherlock.

3. He would like Sherlock to marry him.

Yet each of these is fundamentally flawed. 1) A mere ring, color-changing though it may be, is not a sufficient indicator of all the styled nuances of the human mood, all those emotions and feelings that Sherlock has been getting more and more of since John…since John. 2) John knows Sherlock is always the pursuer, not the pursued; it's part of his job description. Sherlock will not go running after any hopefuls like a promiscuous member of Oryctolagus cuniculus; whether same hopefuls will be warned off by this ring, this passive-aggressive agonistic declaration of courtship, is irrelevant. In terms John can understand: Sherlock knows what he wants, and that is John, and no one else.

3) Sherlock does not have a particularly flattering opinion of matrimony. He concedes that for normal people, it is somewhat useful, as either partner can obtain such sordid things as spousal benefits, life insurance, at least one night of obligatory sex, societal approval, the supposed life fulfillment of raising a family and growing old together…none of which honestly apply to Sherlock himself.

John speaks to Sherlock in his mind palace. That is, the concept of John that Sherlock enshrines in his mind palace speaks to him within. Usually it cautions Sherlock with the familiar "Bit not good," when the genius in him outweighs the human. Now, though, it says, "What was that about being married to your work, Sherlock?"

Married to the work. Married to John. When did it come to this? Sherlock is not inherently polygamist, and besides, no law recognizes his union with his work. For that matter, the law would qualify John and him as civil partners, ugh, such a clinically detached term, and when has Sherlock become so sentimental about marital nomenclature? Or anything, for that matter.

It all begins with John. John and a ring. John and metaphorical rings, two phones, a pink one and a scratched one.

Could be dangerous.

And that was the siren call that reeled John in. One day, Sherlock would like to say to some besotted party, I'm flattered by your interest, but I consider myself married to my work. And to my blogger.

If Sherlock believed in God, he might call what he has with John 'sacred', to parrot opponents of same-sex marriage whose heterosexual unions are hardly the epitome of sanctity. As he does not believe, he is content to let him and John go unnamed and unclaimed by any of the myriad insufficient words that try to describe them.

And yet John sees fit to dismiss this most wonderful of relationships as symbolized by "just a new fashion statement", a band around Sherlock's finger that deduces him as poorly as he deduces it. He is being petulant, he knows, but he picks the ring up again after he throws it through one of the skull's eye sockets.

(Incomplete) Deduction: John Watson may be hinting at discussing marriage by fobbing off a 50-pence ring on Sherlock. This is an abnormally roundabout procedure given John's open nature and the necessity of sincerity in discussing such matters. However, perhaps it is normal procedure for dealing with anyone like Sherlock. Sherlock would not know, since he has never met anyone like himself. Hence, incomplete deduction.

Resolution (based off of incomplete deduction, therefore also unsatisfactory): John Watson is going to regret not properly proposing to Sherlock Holmes. Not that Sherlock cares for the legalities, but as the saying goes, it's the thought that counts, and this silly little metal shell—an afterthought.

John embarks on a reconnaissance and hopefully retrieval mission to the kitchen only to find that it has not magically turned up any new food since his last visit an hour ago (unless Sherlock's latest casserole made of tendons counts); he returns to the sitting room to find the detective out of meditative pose and into sulking pose. The too-long body is curled on its side, facing the back of the sofa, and since when did he start using "it" for Sherlock? True, sometimes he doesn't think he's human.

Everything else is the same, though. Sherlock is in his usual crisp suit, not made for lounging, his laptop on the table, yellow smiley face and bullet holes in the wall, the only difference is…

Is what? Sherlock moping about something. The absence of a good case? It's only been two days since the last; he's gone longer without. Puzzled, John opens his mouth to ask, but Sherlock preempts him with a lazy "No."

"But I—"

"No."

"What—"

"No."

John gives it three beats of rest and prays that Sherlock can't predict his next intake of breath. "What are you saying no to?" he says as fast as he can.

"Everything that you, your subconscious mind, and the rest of the world could and could not possibly suggest," Sherlock says comprehensively.

John counts to eleven in his mind. "Ok," he says. "Ok, Sherlock."

He turns to go upstairs. Capitulation is a familiar taste. Sherlock's tongue renders him speechless often, in the most wonderful ways, and also in the most annoying ones.

John doesn't consider himself a disgustingly affectionate person, but since he does have an exclusive partner now (after months of scrambled dates fixed by said partner), he doesn't think too much of bestowing a good morning kiss when he gets out on the right side of bed, or a good night kiss when he has work early the next day. So when Sherlock pointedly leans away from his lips across the breakfast table the morning after the No-incident, John is necessarily a little put out.

"You ok?" he asks, scanning Sherlock's face for any signs of distress, physical or psychological, that would provoke this reaction.

Sherlock's face remains (almost triumphantly) blank as he replies, "I'm fine. Just not in the mood."

What the bloody—, is John's aborted bewildered mental response. Since when did one have to be in the mood to accept a tiny peck on the cheek over buttered toast and coffee? But it's Sherlock, there's always an explanation. John just has to deduce carefully, to do Sherlock proud.

Check:

Contagious diseases afflicting either party: none, to John's knowledge.

Experiment in progress impeding disturbance of any part of Sherlock's face that John could conceivably get his lips on: none apparent at first glance. Nor at second glance. Nor the third, and for as long as John keeps looking at Sherlock and Sherlock keeps steadily avoiding his gaze, he cannot deduce any abnormalities in Sherlock's person. Same radiant visage as always.

But, a little overcast. The blankness is not complete. A polar bear may yet be able to find its way out of the snowstorm. What has given Sherlock cause to be so grumpy? Has Mycroft called recently? Has Mrs. Hudson had any interior decorating done (i.e., confiscated some other bizarre prop of Sherlock's)? Has Molly refused to supply some noxious body part for once? Has Lestrade refused to give him a particularly interesting case? Have Anderson and Donovan finally succeeded in convincing the DI that Sherlock is a liability to his post? Has Moriarty resurfaced somewhere? John swallows nervously at this last, but reassures himself that Sherlock would have told him if something were seriously wrong.

…would he though? There have been times, times when Sherlock left John, took a ride with a dead cabbie, went to a swimming pool with a dead boy's spirit hovering over the water, and nothing but luck saved him.

"Sherlock, is everything…"

"Yes."

Sherlock twists absently at a ring around his right middle finger, and John almost asks before he remembers.

A little deduction couldn't hurt, though. Just to see if Sherlock smiles.

"It's on your right hand," he blurts.

Sherlock looks at him inscrutably. One raised eyebrow concedes, Yes, and your point?

"Because when you play violin, you need your left hand for the strings, and the ring could scratch the neck of your violin. Your right hand just bows, so you can still wear the ring."

Sherlock raises his right hand to eye level. "No." He says with unbelievable equanimity. His lips barely move, and they do not arch up or down either way. Smiles, frowns, all irrelevant. What is going through his mind?

So John has deduced wrongly. But he has deduced that for some reason, his life partner has become a monosyllabic log. Sherlock did warn him when they first met, but John hadn't expected the time would come when he actually wouldn't talk for days on end.

John heaves a sigh and prepares to leave for work, shrouding Sherlock in his silence.

This continues for several days. "This" entails Sherlock doing all the same things as he normally does, stewing various appendages, playing Frère Jacques in devil's fifths ("Mahler would appreciate it," he says when John complains that whoever composed that must be turning in their grave), looking up incomprehensible data on his phone and John's laptop, and generally being a magnet for all kinds of petty explosions and mishaps and messes. John does his best to dodge around this magnet and keep his poles averted from Sherlock's trouble-attracting end. But simple magnetism cannot explain away the fact that Sherlock has refused a series of serials from Lestrade ("Possibly linked! Murders AND localized floods!" the emphatic text had come through before Sherlock threw his phone into the (unlit) fireplace). Nor can it explain why Sherlock has been missing from John's (and his own, for that matter) bed for three days. When he's not on a case, half past midnight normally finds him curled up around, or on top of, or under, or somewhere in the proximity of John.

It is all very perplexing, but as John treads up the stairs, wondering if he should make an effort to alter his footsteps to see if Sherlock will deduce something incorrectly about his day, he hears Sherlock scowling as he says, "I'm not in the mood, Mrs. Hudson."

Out of context, that might raise a few eyebrows, Donovan's being the fastest on the uptake as always. John shrugs and reasons that Mrs. Hudson, God bless her, is probably plying Sherlock with banana bread or something, and Sherlock is being his usual unerringly discourteous self.

Where has he heard that phrase, though, "I'm not in the mood"? Granted, at the clinic, plenty of patients come to him complaining about loss of appetite, flagging libido, midlife crisis, etc…all right, he's entitled to exaggerate a little, otherwise all the problems of "real people" would pale to translucency in the light of John's current living situation/problem/time of his life/no-it's-definitely-a-problem. Sherlock simply…

Isn't in the mood. Oh. Oh.

O. Sherlock's mouth rounds into the perfect O when the figurative light bulb goes on in his head ("Idioms, John, how ridiculous to think that the mere illumination of tungsten in a pear-shaped glass should be a parallel to the complex workings of this hard drive!" And he would tap his head for emphasis and say dramatically, "Circuitry is overrated!" and tell John to put that in his blog).

The perfect O. A perfect ring.

Not in the mood.

Mood. Ring. Was that what the cashier had called it? Some gum-snapping, pimply-faced twenty-something, probably nicotine gum judging from the way he kept looking at the cashier at the next register getting someone a pack. No, no, no. John mentally swats himself to derail the deductive habit that he's forming and rewinds to the ring. Mood ring, he'd said. Dunno if they work, but they do change color and all. Fun things, wouldn't give it to the girlfriend, though, unless you're really thinking of…

O. Fourth most frequently used letter of the alphabet.

So that's what it all condenses into—a perfect circle? But then, it's never simple with Sherlock. John now knows that the ring has somehow disturbed the delicate balance of case-solving and not-eating and ego-shattering (other people's, not Sherlock's) and loving (of John) and not-being-bored that Sherlock knows as life. However, what must John do to restore that balance?

John takes the stairs up with a gravitas in his step that horribly jars the hummingbird in his chest. He hopes that he has deduced Sherlock correctly. Mrs. Hudson meets him on the way down.

"I think he's a little under the weather about something or other," she chirps, "John dear, please tell me you'll put him to rights."

"I'll do better than that," John assures her, not breaking his stride as he reaches the landing.

"Sherlock," he calls before he enters their rooms proper, "there's something I need you to do. Please, no questions."

When he walks in, Sherlock is seated, legs crossed, hands folded, absurdly picture perfect on the sofa, in whatever million-dollar name he pulled out of the closet today (well, maybe yesterday, he doesn't always change his clothes if he hasn't slept). Good, at least one of them is dressed for the occasion.

"Sherlock, the ring," he says, as if this explains everything. "Take it off."

Something shifts in those silver eyes, but Sherlock removes the azure-green band and places it in John's hand without comment. He looks intrigued, as if the happenings unfolding before him are all part of a fresh case, unintelligible but so potent. He flattens his palms together in a mockery of prayer.

John pockets the ring and plops down next to Sherlock. No, he's not doing the whole wine-and-dine, Paris skyline, one-knee thing. Sherlock wouldn't care for the banality. So instead, he leans comfortably against Sherlock's right side and takes his hand.

"This whole ring business wasn't the best idea, I think," he begins neutrally.

"True, I can think of dozens of better ideas than ring businesses," Sherlock says equally blandly. "In fact, I inherited a ring when Father died, a family heirloom. The only reason I kept it for myself was because Mycroft seemed to fancy it."

John is slightly thrown for a moment before he realizes he should have expected this. Old money, old family, rings worn by how many forebears, rings that do require the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop, oh dear—

"So, you still have it?" he says with forced calmness.

"Hm? Oh no, I don't. I melted it down for an experiment a few years ago. For a particularly interesting case involving spousal immolation. It didn't fit any of my fingers, anyways."

There should be something telling John to stop right there, something speaking with the voice of Sally Donovan, and if there was ever anything to kill a mood, it's the thought of her and her arsenal of unimaginative, psychologically and politically incorrect insults.

Earth to Watson. There's a task at hand.

"In that case, Sherlock, let me give you a better fitting ring."

He catches the possible innuendo two seconds after he utters it, but Sherlock has chosen today to be Good, miraculously. He curls his right middle finger around Sherlock's and takes a moment to consider his wording.

Will you marry me, Sherlock? Not for sure, John, even I can't deduce that far into the future. If the world ends anytime between now and our projected wedding date, I won't marry you. There are too many variables involved for me to give you a solid 'yes'.

No, John does not think he can deal with that kind of quibbling incertitude. So he says, "Please marry me, Sherlock."

When Sherlock smiles, John almost doesn't dare look, because he'd be reduced to the mental equivalent of a sixteen-year-old girl with a crush. But then he does look, and it's alright, because Sherlock's smile lights up, brighter than cigarettes and tungsten, and he says, "O-kay," and curls his fingers tighter around John's. They fit snugly, like they were made for each other.

"Good," John says. "But do you want a more permanent one? This one's a little hard to wear all the time." He raises their still-interlocked fingers.

Sherlock looks affronted at the mere idea of replacing John's finger with cold metal. "No thank you," he says with dignity. "Some traditions must be upheld, but this is unnecessary."

"Great," John says. "Wait, what other traditions?"

Sherlock smiles, and it's less brilliant and more ominous now. "Wedding at the manor. Mycroft will be miffed but perhaps not surprised that I've beaten him to it. Everyone is invited, although 'everyone' is defined by Mummy and not by us. Her list is likely to be much longer, unfortunately."

He sounds rather smug for misfortune, John thinks. Then, with dread, he recalls Mycroft's dramatic flourish.

You can imagine…

The wedding banquets.