A Study in Honesty
Look. I know you, alright? I know what you’re like. And I know you’ll think this is boring, or overly sentimental and ridiculously romanticised, but I’m doing it anyway, because above all, it’s true. So here goes. I’ve brought you here, tonight, because this was where I realised I was in love with you. Actually I—well, I fell in love with you a long time before this point, but I just didn’t know it yet.
A sudden, barely audible sound, an involuntary catch of air in his throat escaped his previously silent, and somewhat bemused audience. He glanced up, frowning slightly. His audience shifted on his feet, looking down apologetically.
This is just as terrifying for me to say (out loud and not just in the comparative comfort of my own mind) as it is for you to hear, so just...please. You were, uh, you were walking off a crime scene, the one with the woman who’d poisoned her father-in-law with her pound cake—The Ricin in the Raison, remember? You’d just ducked under the police tape, and Lestrade was hanging off your arm, hassling you about something, last minute details, I don’t know—whatever. But then you turned and saw me and I...wow. Your whole face lit up. And I was just amazed that you’d look at me like that—Lestrade was too, if the way he broke off and rushed away was any indication. And the lights from those great halogen police spotlights were behind you and—. Oh God. This all sounds so corny, I know. I’m sorry! I swear, it sounded much more sincere in my head. If I start rambling about bird flying out of the trees or an angelic chorus, feel free to stop me, but for now...just...bear with me, please?
But it’s just that, you know, it’s true. Right then, knowing that your smile, that look of complete joy, love and yes, that look of smug self-satisfaction—you had just deduced the hell out of that crime scene—was all for me? It was...overwhelming. I couldn’t believe it. The thought that a guy like you—scarily intelligent, talented, dedicated and (though I know you’d love to deny it) compassionate (you don’t just solve these cases for the love of it, you know...although, yes, it certainly plays a huge part, but when those foster kids were being murdered, don’t try and say you weren’t completely indifferent), not to mention completely gorgeous—could love someone like me? It was terrifying. Because I am in no way deserving of you. But I realised, then and there, that I wouldn’t have it any other way. I wanted to see that smile every day for the rest of my life. I wanted to be the only one who could evoke that kind of reaction. I know, I know! Before you start in on how selfish and possessive that sounds....well, I know it kinda does, okay? But please...just...give me this one? Right? Thanks.
It’s just, in that moment, I realised that you were who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. So, uh—.
Shakily, he knelt to the ground. Fumbling a little in his pocket, swearing slightly under his breath when his fingers became entangled in a loose thread of his jumper, he produced a small velvet case, one which threatened, with his nervous, unsteady fingers, to fall at any moment. He looked up. Seeing the look on the face of the man above him, his breath faltered. Pale face unusually flushed, eyes wide and bright—looking vaguely terrified, if truth be told—but with a small grin tilting the corner of one lip, looking like he could hardly believe what was about to happen—looking like he didn’t know what to think at all—he was as breathtakingly uncomposed as he had ever seen him. He swallowed hard. Once. Twice.
I know this isn’t particularly traditional, but considering well---it’s us, so nothing about anything we do is even close to traditional but—.
Sherlock. Will you marry me?