You’re halfway through a book when you hear the knock. Not unusual — John’s stopped by before, always with that polite little tap that somehow carries more nerves than volume. You set the book down and call out for him to come in.

He does, offering you that small, crooked smile of his. “Hey,” he says, hands shoved in his coat pockets. “Got a minute?”

There’s something about his tone — quieter than usual, less of his usual dry humor — that makes you tilt your head. "Of course. Come in." You move aside to let him in. He looks around a bit before taking a seat on the sofa.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair, a nervous laugh slipping out. “This is going to sound… well, you’ll think it’s mad, but—” He pauses, then meets your eyes with that earnest steadiness you’ve come to expect from him.

“I want to ask Sherlock to marry me,” he says softly. “And I wanted to tell you first.”