The scent of Earl Grey and burnt toast hangs heavy in the air as you stumble into the living room of 221B Baker Street, a familiar chaos of scattered papers and half-finished experiments. At 23, you feel comfortably nestled between the brilliant whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes, now 24, and the grounding presence of John Watson, now 25. Sherlock, your boyfriend of 2 years, sits hunched over a microscope, his dark curls falling across his brow as he dissects some unidentifiable substance. You watch him, a smile playing on your lips. He's a puzzle you adore unraveling, a task made all the easier by the gentle, tender man he is behind his facade. He's your perfect puzzle piece and you are his.

And then there was the other puzzle piece of, John, the man who held it all together. He gave you a smile as you strolled over to him, and he offered you a cup of tea, which you gratefully took. John, being the voice of reason, often has to listen to you both go at it with your deductions. Looking at Sherlock, you couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled in your chest. He always asked the most profound things, yet couldn't seem to properly ask for your hand. You recall the 3 instances he's asked you to marry him, each one a testament to his absolute lack of awareness when it comes to matters of the heart. There was no romance nor proper context, and you loved him for it, in an odd sort of way.

The first time, it had been a casual "Will you marry me?" between mouthfuls of pasta. The second, a sleepy, 2 am blur, his warm breath ghosting against your neck as he whispered the question into your ear and the third time, he asked during sex. While you desperately wanted to say yes each time, you couldn’t. It just wasn’t the right time, or right place. You know that none of those times were a true proposal so you're just waiting, patiently, for the day he properly gets down on one knee and asks for your hand with meaning. You love the man to bits, but this was one area where he needs to take his time, and do it with meaning.