1. There was an empty space where Sherlock tended to leave his coat.
2. There wasn't a note saying that he'd be back later.
3. Everything seemed to be a bit askew, even when talking about Sherlock
Dawning on John, was the creeping feel of danger, seeing that these were abnormalities
In the middle of the night when John had merely padded out of their bedroom to get a glass of milk.
Many, many times he'd awoken to an empty bed, but the note had always been there waiting.
Either explanation jumping into John's mind wasn't pleasant. Something had happened, something…
New. Something alarming enough for John to find his gun while chucking on his trousers in haste.
Somehow, he'd track Sherlock down, find him, hopefully in one piece. John had said there was,
Indeed something seedy about Sherlock…No, their new client. Something dangerous. More than usual.
On his way out, John hid the gun, always at the ready, and headed out with Sherlock's scarf (his scarf!)
Neatly wrapped around his neck against the chilly nighttime breeze of the Spring.
All it took was a few steps, a corner headed to Barts (his best guess when knowing not where to look.)
…Like a ghost in the night, Sherlock loomed over a bridge, holding something in his hands, his coat..
Hanging open, only his button down protecting him from the cold, his hands clearly trembling.
Another few steps and John was beside him, glancing Sherlock worriedly. 'Penny for you thoughts.'
Sherlock turned to smile at John awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
'Ah, fancy meeting you here… My thoughts… In for a pound?"
Brief, fleeting examination revealed nothing out of order, sans the fact that Sherlock was out here.
In those moments, Sherlock turned to face John fully, an inexorable expression on his face, pondering.
'Ready.' John gathered Sherlock's hands in his own, warming them and the small box the best he could.
'Then brace yourself, John Watson, for this is all your doing. You.'
Heady with the tone of Sherlock, which was nothing if not reassuring, dark, and devouring John's heart,
Dawn of the glimpse of sun flickered, battling for room in Sherlock's eyes as he bowed gentlemanly.
'Am I to blame for something very unsettling?' Trepidation crept up his spine. 'Or shall I be forgiven?'
'You only have to accept my offer, and were even,' deadpan, Sherlock opened the box.
The insides revealed two identical platinum bands, shining the light of the moon and the cautious dawn,
Of all thing imaginable. John could but to swallow hard, his mind reeling on the possible connotations.
Did this really mean the commitment, that ultimate one? Was this where they began to bleed together.
Allowing the edges of their personalities to stitch together so that nothing could separate them?
'Your birthday's', Sherlock paused, checking his watch 'today. Thought, well, since… Will you, then?