I was going to leave this one on tumblr (it's been some time since I posted it there), but it has been receiving more attention than expected and thus it deserves to be shared here too. Hope you like it, please forgive any mistake, it was made in a rush, no beta. Also, you know I don't own anything, so please read and enjoy!
The thing was subtle, most people wouldn't be able to see it. John had seen it, Mary had commented on it, and Greg had sometimes been annoyed by it.
It was in the way Sherlock looked at her when she was explaining a cause of death, without interrupting, listening closely to every word she said. Pretending that he was only interested in the facts to finally be able to solve a case.
It was in Molly's smile whenever they arrived at the morgue with some unsolved clues that needed her expertise, or in the way Sherlock complimented her when they stumbled upon the final fact required to solve the case.
It complemented their relationship, where there could be a romance there was admiration… or so it seemed.
It had been suggested to be present in the ever changing color gaze of Sherlock, or in the light shade of pink on Molly's cheeks.
It was also in the way he listened to her, focused completely on whatever thing they were working on, like the depth of a wound and how it had produced the death of a person, to the reactions of different chemicals in combination with substances in the body, to the composition of some agent that had contaminated the crime scene.
John just knew it was going to burst someday though the resistance of said thing had proved to be almost unbreakable. The strength of it having been tested by both with discussions and anger - and sadness - and misunderstanding.
But that day, while listening to a long a brilliant speech from the pathologist, with the thing happening right in front of him, John witnessed it.
Sherlock's eyes were fixed upon her, his expression close to awe. Molly was talking confidently, giving details about the weird cause of death of the victim on the table, papers filled with results in front of her, stating numbers and name of the poison administered to the poor man.
It was when she finally lifted her gaze from the papers to look at him that Sherlock sighed. He stayed silent for a moment, his hands pointing at her as if he were looking for the perfect word to compliment her.
Instead of that, a full phrase - one that John had never thought he would ever hear again from his best friend's mouth - escaped from him.
"Would you marry me?" he asked, and his cheeks turned red and he visibly shook after saying that.
But he held her gaze firmly, almost challenging her to ask him if it was a joke.
Her smile could have been interpreted wrong, had it not been for the tears in her eyes and the way her arms found their way around his neck a moment later.
John didn't need to hear the conversation that followed, in muttered questions and shy kisses, he knew what the answer would be. So, without being noticed he walked out of the morgue, he knew just who would be glad that the thing was finally official.