Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Originally written and published: November 2011.
John heard the two men before he saw them, first through the open windows of the flat as they stood on the pavement in front of Baker Street and then in the stairwell. He heaved a sigh, and pecked out a few more lines for his latest blog post.
They were fighting. Again.
And from the sound of it, they were rehashing an argument that had made an appearance more times in recent months than John cared to count: money issues. Because while Sherlock understood that not everyone inherited money as soon as they came of age - and that not everyone had the British Government for a brother - it still baffled him when his offers of financial help were turned down.
Especially by his partner.
"Oh, for - fine! In that case, we are getting a joint bank account because I am tired of wasting my breath on this pointless argument," he heard Sherlock say just on the other side of the door. There came the scraping of a key in the lock, and then he walked over the threshold with Lestrade in tow. The DI nodded to John; Sherlock ignored him, his face tight with anger, and went into the kitchen.
"Like hell we are!" Lestrade snapped, closing the door and pursuing Sherlock. "You can't just force people into getting joint accounts, Sherlock, it doesn't work like that."
"It does when you're related to the British government!" Sherlock strode back out into the living room and stood over by the fireplace, hands on his hips. Lestrade followed, but stood a few paces away from his lover.
"Are you threatening me?" Lestrade asked incredulously. "If I don't get a joint account with you, you're going to have your brother set one up anyway?"
"I don't see any other way of convincing you," Sherlock snapped. "Shall I ask nicely? Would you accept then?"
Lestrade snorted and crossed his arms. "I doubt it, but you can always try. It's always a pleasure to see you have to ask for things, at any rate. Makes a nice change."
"Fine. In that case, Lestrade, would you get a joint - "
"Hold on," John interrupted suddenly as the conversation finally penetrated his concentration. "Sherlock, are you proposing?"
"Of course not, John, don't be -" He ground to a halt, and his gaze flicked from John to Lestrade, who had suddenly gone very white. For several moments there was no sound apart from the ticking of the clock on the mantel. John broke the silence first with a laugh that sounded manic to his ears.
"You are!" he said gleefully. "Oh, brilliant. I wish I had a camera. Your face, Sherlock!"
"I'm not -" Sherlock tried weakly, glancing at his flatmate and then back to Lestrade. "Am I?"
Lestrade cleared his throat. "Actually, Sherlock, it - rather sounds like you are."
"Right," Sherlock said, quickly coming back to himself. He tugged at the front of his shirt, straightening it, and lifted his chin. "Lestrade, would you like to get a joint back account?"
"No, no, no," Lestrade said, holding up his hands. "We're not doing it like this."
"What? Why not?"
"Why - Sherlock, we first slept together the night Moriarty tried to blow you up -"
"Lestrade!"
" - sorry, John. You first asked me out two weeks after that - while we were hanging onto the back of a van that was speeding through central London. Our first proper kiss happened in the middle of a gunfight, and the first time the word love ever graced your lips was while you were in hospital, having your shattered arm pieced back together - and you were so hopped up on morphine, I could've told you your mother was a cabbage and you'd've believed me. So no, Sherlock, we are doing this one properly."
He crossed the room to Sherlock in two quick strides and took the man's face in his hands. Sherlock looked startled at the sudden contact but didn't pull away; instead, he reached out reflexively and placed his hands on Lestrade's hips. John realized that he was inadvertently intruding on a very private moment - he was quite certain the two of them had forgotten he was still in the room - but leaving now would be too conspicuous.
"Sherlock," Lestrade said in a low voice, "will you marry me?"
Again, the room was filled with the sound of the lazily ticking clock, and John found himself gnawing on his lower lip.
Say yes, you idiot!
And then, finally, Sherlock gave a jerky nod. He looked as though he were beyond speech - not that it was needed, because at his assent Lestrade drew him in for a deep kiss and John made his escape, slipping out the door and up the stairs to his room. His first text was to Sarah.
Looks like Mrs. Hudson's getting married ones after all.