Angelo's truly outdone himself tonight. There are several candles on the table in the corner. The osso bucco melted on John's tongue and the tiramisu is absolutely decadent. But the good doctor's focused on other things. Sherlock's wearing a new shirt, a deep sapphire blue cut the same as the purple one he's so fond of, and it's making his eyes look warmer and bluer than their usual sharp grey. They keep darting back and forth though, like the genius behind them is apprehensive or nervous, causing John to wonder if they're on a stakeout and he's the last one to know.
He reaches across the table, twining his short, tanned fingers with Sherlock's pale, tapered ones. Sherlock looks at him, uncharacteristically startled.
Suddenly, Angelo comes out from the back, looking ridiculously happy and carrying a bottle of Perrier-Jouet Champagne. He sets it on the table, winks at Sherlock, and disappears. In one incredibly graceful movement, the taller man reaches into his jacket for a small box and gets down onto one knee in front of his love's chair.
John looks down at him and smiles, the emphatic Yes forming on his lips before Sherlock has even had the chance to ask. "John Watson, would you do me the immeasurable honour of being mine now, and forever, and becoming my betrothed?"