#proposal!lock

For the fifth time, he checked his pocket.

A drop of sweat beaded his brow and he glanced around. She wouldn't have climbed out the loo window, would she?

"Sorry, there was a bit of a queue."

He breathed a sigh of relief when she sat down across from him. In the romantic candlelight, she glowed with contentment. Her smile was wide and carefree, the lingering shadows of their past gone.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock shook himself, realising he had been staring. "Yes. More than alright." He reached for her hand across the table and she happily complied. "That is actually what I wanted to discuss with you. How...alright I am."

Molly's eyes narrowed in good-natured suspicion. "Is that so?" She dimpled and bit her lip.

He started to reach into his pocket.

A shadow fell over their table. "Would ze lovely couple care for some wine?"

Sherlock glanced up and did a double take. Blonde hair slicked back and sporting a ridiculous pencil-thin mustache, Mary Watson grinned at him, her blue eyes dancing with mischief.

Across from him, Molly covered her mouth to stifle her laugh.

Sherlock growled and hissed through his teeth, "What. Are. You. Doing?"

"My job?" In that ridiculous French accent, Mary feigned confusion. She sent a wink toward Molly then made a show of pouring them both a glass of wine. "Compliments of ze table over there."

Sherlock followed her gaze to the table on the far side of the room. He paled in horror at seeing John and Rosie, Mrs Hudson, Mummy and Father, Lestrade, and Mycroft of all people, watching them unabashedly. Mycroft raised his glass in toast, a smirk on his fat face, the git.

Sherlock dropped his head into his hands. "God," he drawled.

"Sherlock?"

He grimaced and peered through his fingers. Molly smiled at him sympathetically and reclaimed his hand, purposefully ignoring their audience and not-so-subtly shooing Mary away with her free hand.

"You were telling me about how 'alright' you are?"

He hadn't intended to do this with everyone watching. It was supposed to be a romantic evening with just the two of them, a swoon-worthy proposal that she deserved, followed by a night of passion to celebrate.

But with her smiling at him, her cheeks rosy and eyes twinkling in the candlelight, he suddenly didn't give a toss about his carefully laid plans. All that he wanted was to put that ring he had been carrying for two months on her finger because if he had to wait one more day, he would be driven insane.

"Then do it."

He blinked.

Molly held out her left hand and he stared at it for far longer than it should have taken him to realize he had said all that aloud.

He smiled ruefully and pulled out the box, deftly slipping the ring out.

"I love you," he said as he slipped it onto her finger.

The dimples were back. "I love you, too."

He leaned across the table to kiss her, grinning when she placed her hand on his cheek and he could feel the cool metal of her engagement ring.

The other patrons politely applauded when they realized what was happening. But the table of their friends and family absolutely erupted with cheers and the loud tinkling of glass as they celebrated.

Sherlock huffed and rested his forehead against hers. "Are you sure you want to marry into this circus?"

When Molly awoke she was surprised to find she was alone. She’d been living at Baker Street for several weeks, since her flat was undergoing important repairs. For the most part, Sherlock was the perfect flatmate - there was the occasional four in the morning violin concerto but she couldn’t quite bring herself to hate it. He’d also insisted on sharing his room since John’s old attic room was cold and damp; Molly knew better than to argue.

Yawning, Molly rubbed her eyes and kicked away the covers; she wrapped his old dressing gown around herself and stopped to admire the Periodic Table on his wall. Several days ago, Sherlock had circled several of the letters - Molly thought nothing of it and assumed it was something for a case. She smiled, leaving the bedroom in search of a fresh cup of coffee; she found Sherlock fiddling with something on the fridge.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped, turning around and pressing himself against the fridge, “nothing.”

Molly raised an eyebrow, but decided not to worry about it too much; he’d been on edge the last few days. This case was really taking it out of him.

“Okay. Can I get the milk?”

Sherlock briefly glanced out of the corner of his eye before he shook his head, “no. We’re...out.”

Black coffee it was, then.

“Erm, alright,” she shuffled over to the kettle, aware of his gaze on her the entire time she filled and boiled the kettle. She turned in time to see him look away quickly, “what’s the matter with you?”

“Hmm?” He looked back at her then, scurrying over to join her at the sink. he waved a dismissive hand, “nothing. Let me do that,” Sherlock took the mugs from her hands and began directing her towards the bathroom, “you go have a shower...”

Molly had never been so confused in her life but she allowed him to lead her to the bathroom; she shrugged away his odd mood, choosing to worry about it later.

Molly left the bathroom twenty minutes later to find Sherlock in his chair, typing away on his phone; she retrieved her lukewarm coffee from the table, taking a sip.

“if we need milk, maybe I should get some,” she said casually, opening the fridge and peering inside - this action seemed to interest the detective greatly. Molly frowned; there was barely enough for breakfast, “is there anything you need?”

When he didn’t answer, she peered around the fridge; she was met with an intense stare, one she hadn’t seen on Sherlock’s face in a long time. It actually made her feel rather uneasy.

“What?”

He sighed, returning his attention once again to his phone screen, “home delivery. It’s on the way.”

“Oh,” Molly tried to mask her surprise although she was sure she didn’t do a very good job, “right, good,” there was another awkward pause where Molly stood in the kitchen awkwardly before she asked, “er, do you need any help with the case?”

“Yes!” Sherlock looked relieved, jumping to his feet and tossing Molly her phone (which she only just caught), “an internet search, if you don’t mind.”

Molly nodded, deciding to keep her mouth shut about the fact he’d just been on his own phone. She brought up her Internet, noticing the flashing bar at the top of her phone - of course he changed the wi-fi password again.

“Whats the new password?”

“w1ll y0u m6rry m3?” Sherlock spelled, pacing anxiously in front of the fireplace. There was a heartbeat in which Molly typed on her phone; after a moment he looked up to find her staring at him expectantly.

“What did you want me to search for?”

He stared at her for a long while, blinking incredulously - just as Molly was about to question whether he was having a stroke, he invented a random subject for her to seach and proceeded to stare at her until their food delivery arrived late that evening.

He was examining on of the crime scene samples in the lab when she finally twigged it. Apparently, she’d spent all morning correctly arranging the letters on the Periodic Table and locating the post-it proposal that had been sitting on their fridge for two days. Molly burst in the morgue, brandishing her phone frantically.

“Y-you proposed to me?” She squeaked as if waiting for him to deny it, that she’d made it all up. When he didn’t, she continued, “wha- why would you want to get married? We’re not even dating!”

Sherlock merely chuckled, “yes we are.” When Molly’s response was to stare at him blankly, he frowned - of course they’d been dating! They lived together, shared a bed and even ordered takeaway to share. Unless...

His eyes widened, “oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.”

Sherlock abandoned his experiment, turning to face Molly and flashing her a smirk, “so, will you marry me?”

Molly blinked. Although she was slightly stunned, there was no way she was going to reply with anything other than, “...yes. Of course I will.”

AN: Apparently we all love a little adorable meddling Rosie. 😏 Part 1

How hard could it be?

John had done it.

Lestrade had managed it. Twice.

Even Anderson, the blithering idiot, had somehow done it.

So why was he, Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest detective finding it so bloody difficult?!

"I can't imagine my life...?" No, he shook his head in disgust. "Would you do me the honour-oh, that's worse."

He ruffled his curls in frustration. Agony, that's what this was. Months of agonizing. Since they'd gone public with their relationship (since Rosie, and subsequently her big blabbermouth of a father, outed them), he had been trying to put the damn ring on her finger. But his plans kept getting foiled along the way. Not to mention, he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Pacing in his bedroom, he filtered through hundreds of possibilities, every potential phrasing he had come across in his research. None of them were right.

Maybe he was just overthinking it.

Kneeling done on one knee, he closed his eyes, imagining she was before him, in this room, their room, dressed in his favourite yellow dress, beaming down at him with tears in her eyes when she realised what was happening.

Yes, this would be the perfect moment.

He pulled out the box he'd been carrying all these months. He flicked it open, imagining Molly's gasp of surprise.

"Molly Hooper, I love you. Will you marry me?"

Simple. Perfect. Unfoilable. He smiled.

Until he heard a tiny eek.

Sherlock froze.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Rosie stared back at him from the doorway, still in her jacket and hat, her eyes round with delight as she looked between him and the glittering ring in his hand.

He grimaced at himself for missing the sounds of them returning from their trip to the shops.

Not again.

"Rosie," he warned, slowly closing the ring box, as if sudden movements would spook her, and holding out his other hand in the universal signal of don't you even think about it.

Her surprise turned into a Mary-like knowing grin and before he could say another word she bolted for the door.

He scrambled to his feet and raced after his goddaughter.

Sherlock: I presented my position in a logical manner, outlining all the benefits of our union, complete with presentation slides and references.

I have a dozen thumbs, unclaimed. Interested? -Mxx

Molly had not even had a chance to set her phone back on the counter when it buzzed. She opened the message and smiled at his thinly-veiled exuberance.

Indeed. Please deliver post-haste to Baker Street. SH

My shift ends in 2 hours. Buy me dinner and I’ll bring the thumbs. -Mxx

Extortion, Dr Hooper? I expected better of you. SH

She giggled when a second text immediately followed.

I’ll have Angelo deliver your usual. SH

She could almost hear him sigh. She was still laughing about it when she walked up the steps to 221B later that day, thumbs in hand. Well, not literally; they were packaged quite neatly in an unmarked cooler.

The enticing aroma of her favourite meal drifted down toward her and she let out a happy moan as her stomach rumbled. Not bothering to knock (taking a page out of Sherlock’s book), she walked right into the kitchen and zeroed in on the still steaming takeaway box.

“Ah, Molly. Good, you’re early-” Sherlock blinked in surprise when she shoved the cooler into his hands and gathered her food with a gluttonous eye. She shoved a breadstick in her mouth and tore off more than half of it, barely able to chew it, her mouth so full.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and she stopped chewing.

“Wa?” She asked around her mouthful.

A fond smile tugged at his lips and he leaned over to peck her cheek. "Thank you for the thumbs.“

Molly’s eyes crinkled as she attempted to smile. Gamely, she finished her bite and swallowed hard. "Thank you for the food.”

Sherlock snatched the rest of the breadstick from her and shoved it in his mouth before she could do anything more than gape in offense. Swooping down, he gave her a quick, garlicky kiss and inwardly smirked as she scrunched her nose.

“I see we are at the stage in our relationship where we don’t care about oral hygiene before kissing,” she teased.

He laughed softly and kissed her again. “What’s the next stage?”

Molly pretended to think, turning away and unpacking the rest of their dinner, making herself a plate. “Hmmm. Next would be keeping the loo door open. At all times.” She laughed as she imagined his aghast face at the very idea.

“And which step is marriage?”

She nearly dropped her heaping plate. Spinning around, she looked up at him, trying to keep her heartrate at human levels.

His eyes were focused intently on her.

Forcing herself to breathe deeply, she took her plate and walked past him into the sitting room, and tried for a casual, breezy tone as she said, “Somewhere between moving in together…and adopting a dog.”

He stood in thought, brow furrowed, before he nodded and filled his own plate.

The subject was dropped and they dug into their meal. But it was another hour, before Molly’s hands stopped shaking.

oOo

Three Months Later

“I never want to see another packing box again,” Molly declared as she put the finishing touches on the mantle and broke down the last box of her belongings. Sherlock smiled as he bent down so he was eye-level with a particularly interesting knick knack.

“An odd choice for a companion to Yorick,” he commented.

Molly slipped her arm around his waist and tilted her head as she considered the little skateboarding mouse. “Don’t mock Lil’ Sebastian. I’m very fond of him. Much like I am of you.”

He looked down at her and quirked an eyebrow. “You’re fond of a stuffed mouse?”

“Mmmhmm. It was the first present Toby ever brought me.” She smiled proudly and looked over her shoulder where her old-man-of-a-cat was curled up, having laid claim to Sherlock’s chair the moment they moved in.

“And the skateboard?”

Her dimples popped out as she turned back to him. “You don’t remember?”

Sherlock frowned in thought. “No….”

She laughed. “I’m not surprised. It was the toy that came with the kids meal you brought me the first time you asked me to work through lunch. Eight years ago.”

“Is it?” He narrowed his eyes at the blue plastic toy, vaguely recalling the meal he’d brought her. In all honesty, he didn’t remember why he’d needed her to stay, but he remembered that that day was the first time he’d considered her feelings. Albeit, he’d still interrupted her lunch. But how her eyes had light up when he tossed her the bag lunch was burned into his memory.

He always made sure to have something for her after that, even if it was just a bag of crisps or a bar of chocolate.

Speaking of which…

“Hungry?” He asked and let her go with a quick kiss before moving into the kitchen. He’d cleaned beforehand, with a little help from Mycroft’s MI-6 level clean up crew, and now it resembled a kitchen more than a makeshift laboratory. Except for the contents of the crisper. He’d have to move that to the new fridge in 221C; his new home lab.

“Let’s just get some take away,” she called, ending on a yawn.

Sherlock smirked and closed the fridge. “Angelo’s?”

“Angelo’s!”

He quickly pulled out his phone and sent their usual order off, knowing one of Angelo’s boys would be at the door with a steaming bag within 30 minutes.

As he looked around, a warm feeling spread across his chest. It still looked like Baker Street. But suddenly it felt more like home.

Home. Molly. He smiled and leaned against the table, taking out the ring he’d been carrying for a month in his pocket. Waiting for this moment.

He was ready.

Slipping it back into his pocket, he strode into the sitting room where Molly had collapsed on the sofa. He jostled her lightly until she begrudgingly sat up, appeased when he sat down and tugged her into his side, essentially letting her use him as a pillow. Her little arm wrapped around his waist and she hummed happily.

“I think I’m going to like living with you.”

He smiled. “I certainly hope so.”

He could feel her grin as she nuzzled his neck. He took a deep breath. This was it.

“Molly, do you recall a conversation we had on the evening of March the third?”

After a moment’s thought, she said, “Nope.”

He pursed his lips. “You, being the more experienced of the two of us in regards to romantic entanglements, informed me that of the proper stages of a relationship, a legal union of romantic intent comes after the two subjects have moved into a shared residence but before a canine companion is adopted.”

She hmmed sleepily.

“Therefore, as we have just today combined our homesteads, I see no reason to wait any longer.” His heart was racing. “Will you marry me?”

He braced himself, expecting a surprised gasp or a joyous shout or a suspicious barrage of questions, followed by a night of, erm, celebration. What he didn’t expect was absolute silence.

Had he shocked her speechless? Concerned, he looked down.

Only to find Molly had fallen asleep on his chest, her lips parted slightly, her breaths deep and even. Apparently, she hadn’t been caught up in his heartfelt proposal, but had rather found his voice soporific. 

With a measure of disappointment, he resettled her more comfortably on his lap and wrapped his arms around her. 

He needed to reevaluate his plan.

oOo

Two Months Later

Dinner had been an absolute nightmare. 

First, Molly had been delayed due to a tube strike. Irritated that she still refused to take a cab, Sherlock had been short with her over text. To anyone else, he would have sounded like his usual self, but he knew that she knew he’d been particularly cold in their text conversation.

And when she finally arrived, looking so beautiful and tentative, his irritation faded and he kissed her sweetly to start the evening right, a bottle of the finest wine shared between them and a ring box in his jacket pocket.

Only for it to go so wrong, so quickly.

How was he to know Molly's previous mistake (he refused to use the b-or f-words in reference to the man) decided to dine at the same restaurant that evening? And propose to his new girlfriend, to boot.

Meat Dagger, with all the subtlety of a sledge hammer, had made quite a scene when he went down on one knee. His girlfriend d'jour had shrieked in that grating squeal of forced surprise, causing a nearby waiter to whip around and stumble, dumping his tray of hot soup down Meat Dagger's back.

From their vantage point across the restaurant, Molly gasped while Sherlock did nothing to hide his amusement. He quickly sobered when Molly rushed to Meat Dagger's aid and stripped his soiled jacket and shirt off him. Mild burns, Sherlock had grumbled when Meat Dagger cried out in pain. Big baby.

Molly glared at him as she helped Meat Dagger and his bumbling bimbo of a fiancee into a cab to take them to hospital.

The evening was officially a lost cause.

oOo

The universe was officially against him. Three more tries. Three more failures.

First, his mother interfered. Unknowingly, of course. He had planned to surprise Molly with a weekend holiday to a "Murder House" in hopes of not only solving a century-old crime, but bagging himself a bride in the process. Only for mummy to drop in unexpectedly and steal Molly away for a girls weekend of shopping and musicals.

Though irritated and disappointed, Sherlock took comfort in knowing one day he would be able to smugly tell his mother she pushed the proposal back even further. Though he suspected that wouldn't go over too well.

The next failure was, admitedly, his own fault. He should have known hiding a ring in a piece of cake was a mistake. People are idiots and their waiter proved that by delivering the ring-bearing dessert to the wrong table. What followed was a comedy of errors as he tried to catch the waiter's attention before finally throwing down his napkin and storming across the restaurant. Molly had called after him in bewilderment. He zeroed in on the oblivious man who had begun eating the cake. Sherlock shouted at him to stop, but only managed to draw everyone else's attention. As if in slow motion, he saw the man swallow a bite and make a funny face.

Well. Damn.

It took three days and an enormous cleaning bill before Sherlock got the ring back. Mycroft laughed so hard, he nearly cried. And Scotland Yard crossed off number 7 on their Most Wanted. Really, criminals could be so stupid. Molly had eyed him warily when he gave some half truth about planning it all along.

His third attempt was the last and final straw. A simple, elegant, nearly impossible plan to foil. An intimate dinner, in their own flat, no interruptions. Proposal during dessert followed by an entire weekend of private celebration.

He had the entire flat cleaned to within an inch of sterility and the delicious aroma of lasagna wafting through the building. The ring lay nestled safely in its box in his pocket. And nothing would stop him from finally, finally putting it on her finger that night.

Or so he had thought.

He had just lit the candles that flanked the steaming lasagna on the table when Molly arrived home. In the flickering light, she looked lovely, even in her rumpled work clothes. She gave him a smile, took one look at the food, and bolted to the loo.

Apparently, the stomach flu did not bow to Sherlock's wishes.

His proposal plans may have once more been obliterated, but the weekend was not a total loss as he took care of her for a change, bringing her tea and medicine, making sure she was comfortable, and letting her use him as a pillow when she slept.

As he laid there, her fever finally having broken, he bleakly wondered what sacrifice the universe would take to let him propose.

oOo

One Week Later

Sleepy-eyed and desperately seeking the hope of hot coffee on the kettle, Molly stumbled out of their bedroom, grumbling about being awoken by her alarm. She had grabbed the first item of clothing she could find on the floor, Sherlock’s blue shirt, and buttoned it up haphazardly (she’d learned to always be in a state of being at least semi-clothed after an unfortunate incident involving Mycroft and a certain un-named member of Parliament). The sleeves fell past her hands and she rubbed her disheveled hair as she yawned and padded into the kitchen.

“Morning,” she tossed out to the blur she assumed was Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table as she made a beeline to the kettle.

“Good morning. Sleep well?” He asked.

Molly grunted and gave him what she hoped was a dirty look over her shoulder. She couldn’t tell at this point, so focused on getting the coffee into what was hopefully a clean cup.

“I would have if someone hadn’t kept me up so late.”

She could practically feel his smugness. Bringing the cup to her face, she inhaled the curling steam of life-giving nectar and gave a happy sigh, already starting to wake up.

She turned around and leaned against the counter as she took a hearty sip and hummed contentedly. Her eyes closed in bliss.

“Ahem.”

She opened her eyes to find Sherlock had gotten up and was now kneeling in front of her, wrapped in their bed sheet and holding out a velvet box as he stared up at her, a question in his eyes.

"Molly." He pressed a button and the box opened. Her breath caught at the vintage engagement ring nestled in the bed of silk, no doubt a family heirloom.

theturquoisetrunk 

Vena Amoris: 

1. Vein of love

2. Traditional belief established that this vein ran directly from the heart to the fourth finger of the left hand. This theory has been cited in western cultures as one of the reasons the engagement ring and/or wedding ring was placed on the ring finger. 

"John, do you know why the wedding ring is worn on the ring finger on the left?" Sherlock asked. John looked up from his newspaper to look at the man sitting across him, a little confused, "No, I don't. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock ignored John's question and carried on to say, "People used to believed that a vein on the ring finger on the left ran directly to the heart and as a result, people put a ring on it to signify the bonding between two people which we know as marriage. I find that notion extremely ridiculous."

John frowned, not understanding where the conversation was going."And?" Sherlock stood up from his seat, knelt on one knee before John and reached into his pocket. He looked straight into John's eyes, speaking softly. "But for you, I wish to be ridiculous."