John wasn't allowed to go to work anymore, according to Sherlock. He was determined to keep John cooped up inside until Moran was either captured or dead, and that left John feeling dissatisfied. He hated to be left behind when Sherlock was on a case, especially if the case was relevant to him. What was even worse was that John had nothing to do in the meantime; he just lazed around drinking coffee and tea, cup after cup like a chain smoker smoked.

Sherlock had been trying to completely relieve John of all traces of PTSD over the course of the past couple of weeks, but John didn't remember, just as Sebastian had said. John really wanted to help Sherlock, but he couldn't whilst hints of his stress disorder still remained. His therapist had agreed to come over once a week until the problem was sorted, but John was doubtful that she could help him any more than she already had. It had been so long since he'd been shot that John was sure that whatever had gone had gone for good.

The wind was bitterly cold outside, even though it was nearly midsummer, and John started to think about how Sherlock was out there somewhere with his collar up and his scarf trailing in the wind. He'd worn the striped one that day, with his black suit and white shirt combination. His partner had been out for hours, and John could only wonder what he was doing, because he couldn't go to Lestrade's office any longer and Mycroft was temporarily unavailable as he was sorting out some crisis in French politics.

John went over to stand at the window, a sigh upon his lips as he watched the people in the street walking by, completely unaware that there was a man, stood behind a pane of glass with a mug of tea in his right hand and a death threat hanging over his head. It made him remember the old saying: Ignorance is bliss. And surely it was, as these people didn't know what would happen to him, and if they did then they would be in distress. John did not wish for ignorance, but he envied those who didn't have to bear the burden of knowing when they would die.

It wasn't difficult for John to accept the possibility that Moran would soon kill him. It was just like the time he'd spend in the war, never knowing which day might be his last. John wasn't worried about himself; all his apprehension was a result of knowing how Sherlock would suffer when he was gone. It would be like those three years all over again, but for Sherlock. And worse, as John wouldn't be coming back. Sherlock was more fragile in the way of mental health, or that was how it seemed to John. If losing Sherlock had driven him to the extent where he slit his wrists in an attempted suicide, John had no idea where it would lead his companion.

All of a sudden, the subject of his thoughts fell through the door, having leaned onto it, but it hadn't been fully closed. Sherlock lay in a startled heap on the floor, his eyes wide with the most baffled expression. John couldn't help but laugh.

Sherlock clambered to his feet, attempting to be as graceful as he could, but unfortunately for him, his coat got caught under his foot as he tried to stand straight, and he fell onto his face, planting his nose painfully into the floor. John's hysteria grew as the genius detective scrabbled into standing position, holding his nose and wincing.

"Alright, John," Sherlock said tiredly, his voice distorted as he held his bleeding nostrils shut. "You can stop that now and get me an ice pack."

John was still giggling as he went into the freezer for the bag of frozen peas Mrs Hudson had picked up from the supermarket the previous week. It was still unopened, so John didn't need to fear the peas rolling out of the bag and creating a mess he would be cleaning up for at least a fortnight afterwards.

"Not broken," John established as he passed the bag over. Sherlock gave a resentful grunt in return as he gently placed the peas on his face, then gasping at the cold.

"Why were you leaning on the door?" John asked as he went to sit down in Sherlock's chair so that he could watch his injured significant other as he tried to stem the bleeding. "Why didn't you come straight in?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He held the bag of peas with one hand, but his other stroked the velvet box in his right pocket uneasily. John didn't notice that Sherlock was using his non-dominant hand to do the more important job of fixing his face and having his dominant hand somewhat uselessly in his pocket. John often missed things like that. Missed almost everything of importance.

He'd spent so much time that day picking out exactly the right one, and having it adjusted had been a nightmare. Apparently you had to have bought it before you collected it so that they had time to make it the right size. Fortunately, the man there had owed Sherlock a favour, and the job had been pushed forward very quickly indeed. It hadn't been easy at all, though, despite all the aid he'd been given. This was a life-changing moment, and Sherlock had already made enough of a mess of it, all his careful planning gone to waste due to a dodgy door handle and the disadvantages of having a long coat. As much as he knew it had gone wrong, Sherlock couldn't wait any longer. John had very little time left, and Sherlock wasn't prepared to waste that time.

He waited for his nose to stop bleeding, and then he handed the ice pack back to John, who cleaned the packet before shoving it into the freezer once more. Sherlock waited for him to approach, John very visibly checking his nose for any slight change in shape or a skew, then Sherlock took a step back, and began the scene that he had pictured so visibly for many more years than he'd wanted to.

"John," he said, holding a finger up to stop his partner's interruptions as he spoke. "John, I… erm…"

John's eyes widened in realisation, his mouth dropping open.

"Since I've been back, there have been times where you and I have fought, and there have been times when… I've felt… Inadequate, and times when I got the impression that I was all you'd ever need."

Sherlock's feelings were overwhelming him, covering him in a rising tide of flushing waves and making it difficult for him to continue. All he saw was the beauty of the man in front of him, and it was enough to make his heart race and squeeze with devotion. It wasn't that John wasn't particularly attractive in a physical sense, but then he was all that and more. The softness of him was elegant is it masked his underlying grit with a flawless façade. Against his body's wishes just to stop and hold John incessantly in an eternal grip, Sherlock continued, the back of his throat burning.

"But now I am useless to you. I can't hold on to you forever, because there is someone who will take you from me at all costs and will never stop trying. If it takes a week, two weeks, a year, twenty years, he will get you. Eventually," Sherlock's voice became a weak murmur as his eyes dropped to the floor. "I will have to lose you, one day. And what I've realised is that I want to spend all the time we have left together. And when I say together, I mean…"

John was thunderstruck, unable to do or say anything as his Sherlock, his Sherlock Holmes, dropped to one knee and drew out a small blue box from his right trouser pocket. Tears burned his lashes and dripped down his cheeks as the little box was opened.

"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock said with absolute sincerity and raw emotion. "Will you marry me?"

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered as he pulled his friend to his feet and then into a long, sweet kiss. The box dropped to the ground, the simple silver band falling out onto the floor, but neither man paid it any heed.

When their lips finally parted one another's, John breathed lightly into Sherlock's ear as he clung on tight: "Of course I will, my dear Sherlock Holmes." And their kiss reinitiated, this time wet by the tears that fell down over both of their faces.