The twilight of a summer evening was slowly falling onto London as Sherlock and John took a break from their evening walk on the very same bench where Mike Stamford had first told John that his friend wanted a flatmate. After the last joggers and dog-walkers passed by, John knelt down and pulled out a small box.
“Sherlock, I know this might be a bit of a surprise, but I would be honored if —”
“Yes, I know, John. You’ve been working double shifts for months, clearly showing that you were trying to save up for something. The letter you so cleverly hid under the stack of bills yesterday said that your copy of Modern Weddings was overdue from the library. Molly has been smiling at me, much more so than usual, for the past four weeks. Your bottle of cologne was empty this morning, you’re wearing your I’ve-got-a-date-with-Sarah shoes, and you’ve got a queue of romantic comedies on Netflix that would last us until New Year’s. If you're going to try to hide something from someone, you shouldn't make your target the world's only consulting detective.”
John looked astounded. “Sherlock, how —”
“Don’t worry. Just because the proposal was astoundingly predictable doesn’t mean I’m not going to say yes.”