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“You know,” Sherlock says out of the blue on a sunny morning. “Mrs. Hudson used to tell me something funny.”
William hums without looking up from his newspaper to let Sherlock know he’s listening.
“She used to say,” Sherlock continues, “that if I ever found someone who could tolerate my living habits, I should marry them immediately.”
That gives William pause. He looks up from his newspaper.
“Oh?”
“Mhm,” Sherlock hums. “I’d laughed then, but…” He trails off. William desperately wishes Sherlock would turn around from where he continues to wash dishes, because these words—these words—
William is getting ahead of himself. Sherlock is saying these words in jest, of course, but a terrible, terrible urge in William wishes it anything but—if Sherlock would just turn so that William could see his teasing expression for himself, his terrible urge could be tamped down.
Sherlock does not turn.
“I was reminded of it,” he continues, “you know, after Billy…”
He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. William still remembers, quite well, Billy’s teasing remarks about their “wedding vows.” But that is all this really is, William has to remind himself—a call back to a simple joke.
But Sherlock still hasn’t turned, and William thinks, for a moment, maybe—
Sherlock laughs. The moment passes. When Sherlock turns, William is quick to school his own expression into something more placid.
“I hope I haven’t been too atrocious a roommate as Mrs. Hudson predicted, Liam,” Sherlock remarks, mirth dancing in his eyes. William smiles.
“Of course not, Sherly,” William murmurs. “You’ve been wonderful.” In more ways than one, he deigns not to add.
Sherlock beams. William takes a sip of tea. Their quaint, ordinary life carries on.
Except it doesn’t, really, because for reasons even beyond William’s knowledge, Sherlock’s innocuous words cannot leave his mind.
Marriage, to William, is a somewhat foreign arrangement. He knows what it is, naturally, and its subsequent benefits and drawbacks, but he has never before pondered it personally, simply because he never expected to have any use for it. His predetermined ending had already been written, with a bridge and a spectacle, a detective and a fall. But that very detective had rewritten the script, and now, William once again has his fingers poised over the typewriter. This time, though, there is no intricate plot to facilitate, no strings to pull and direct. This time, there is only William—
—and Sherlock.
Against all odds, Sherlock is here with him, too. William had thought, upon seeing Sherlock refuse to let go of his wrist that day on the bridge, that he had made a miscalculation. A critical error he had overlooked amidst his preparations—but now, all these months later, he knows Sherlock is anything but. He knows, all these months later, that meeting Sherlock just might have been the best thing to happen to him, and not a day goes by that William is not grateful.
Grateful, perhaps, is not the right word. Although William had, at one point, felt like he owed to Sherlock a debt he could never fully repay, Sherlock had long since allayed those concerns. Gratitude, then, is not exactly the correct moniker for this feeling gradually settling into William’s skin—
—might it instead be something like love?
It is a thought William has not even let himself entertain in the past—but now, Sherlock’s words ring in his mind. Sherlock is not the type to be careless or thoughtless with what he says, and when William considers what marriage really constitutes—he cannot help but wonder if there was ever a joke to begin with.
With such thoughts turning and turning in William’s mind, he cannot be blamed for his next blunder.
It is another sunny, unassuming morning in their apartment. William is nursing a cup of tea in his hands, and Sherlock is snacking on a crumpet. They drink and eat respectively in a comfortable sort of silence, with Sherlock as the first to finish. He leans back in his chair with a content huff.
“You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a good crumpet here,” Sherlock complains, and William smiles.
“I do appreciate your efforts, Sherly.”
Sherlock flashes him a pleased grin, then blinks.
“Oh,” he says oddly, and without further explanation, he ducks under the table. William can only watch, bewildered, as Sherlock wriggles around.
“What are you…” doing, William means to ask, but his words trail off into silence when Sherlock finally pops back up, holding—
—a ring.
Sherlock is on one knee. He is holding a ring. William, of course, knows what the gesture means, but before he can think for longer than a moment—
“Yes,” he blurts out.
Sherlock blinks at him. “What?”
William thinks for longer than a moment. His answer doesn’t change.
“Yes,” he says again, softer. “I’ll marry you.”
Sherlock’s not blinking any more. “What?” he asks again.
William frowns. Doubt is beginning to trickle into his previous convictions. “You…” he starts. “Are you not proposing?”
Sherlock’s mouth falls open. William is starting to realize that he has made a terrible mistake.
Sherlock’s mouth flaps open and closed a few times, blinking at William all the way, until he looks down to see his own posture—one knee on the ground, one hand extended towards William. With a squawk rather unbecoming of him, he quickly stands up and slides his ring back on his finger.
“Oh, Liam,” Sherlock starts, running a hand through his hair with a breathless laugh. “Err, no, I was just—I dropped my ring, see.” Sherlock flashes an awkward grin. “That’s—that’s all.”
William isn’t typically one for dramatics, at least in the confines of his own mind, but right now, he decides he wouldn’t quite mind if the floor below him were to drop out—if only he could spare himself this embarrassment.
William coughs. “Of course. That—yes. My apologies, Sherly, I…” He trails off. What else can he possibly say?
Sherlock watches him carefully, carefully enough that William suspects the embarrassed red of his face isn’t quite as discreet as he had hoped. “If…” Sherlock starts slowly, “if I had been, though…”
William swallows.
“If I had been proposing,” Sherlock says, “you would have said yes?”
William looks away. “Does it matter?” he murmurs.
A pause of silence follows.
“Yeah,” Sherlock says. “Yeah, it does.”
William is surprised enough to look up and meet Sherlock’s eyes again. There’s a determined flare in his eyes, and it makes William’s breath catch. William searches his gaze for a moment, then another, then takes a breath.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I would say yes.”
Sherlock blinks. Something in his eyes shift.
“Alright, then,” Sherlock says, and William can only watch in a stupefied sort of shock as Sherlock pries off his ring again. “I’ll do it properly this time,” he hears Sherlock mutter to himself. His eyes only widen more as Sherlock goes down on one knee, extends the ring to William, and asks: “Well, then, Liam? You’ll marry me?”
It’s William’s turn to blink rapidly. “You… you’re really asking?”
Sherlock grins. “I already promised to live with you and share my everything with you—this is just an extra step, right?”
His tone is lighthearted, but William can see the sincerity in Sherlock’s eyes, can tell the sincerity behind his words, and after all these months, William knows Sherlock. This is no callback, no jest, this is simply Sherlock.
This is simply Sherlock, so William takes the leap. He presses his lips to Sherlock’s in a brief, chaste kiss, then pulls back.
“Yes,” William murmurs. “I’ll marry you.”
This time, Sherlock’s response is a blinding smile. This time, when William leans in again, Sherlock meets him halfway, and William wouldn’t have it any other way.