"John, this is a commercial district. There hasn't been a battle here since… well, possibly ever."

"Not a real battle, The Battle of Canary Wharf, against the Cybermen and – "

"The what?" Sherlock asked, collecting two hot chocolates from the bar and handing the smaller one to his companion. "Wait… is this from that absurd show, Doctor Strange?"

"Doctor Who."

"Whatever." Sherlock sipped his cocoa, walking absently toward the edge of the ice rink and furrowing his brow. "Then what's Doctor Strange?"

You are, John thought, shaking his head. They leaned on the rail, watching the skaters. It was mostly families, but there were also a considerable number of cheerful couples holding hands. "Nevermind that. Fancy a go?"

"I will assume that was a failed attempt at humor, John."

"Fine." The doctor hunched forward on his elbows, trying not to be disappointed. He hadn't really expected Sherlock to say yes, but it would have been nice, especially considering –

"We would like to offer our heartfelt congratulations," the loudspeaker boomed over the sappy pop music, "to Craig and Danielle, on their engagement!" The crowd began to applaud as a young couple in the center of the rink kissed.

Sherlock turned, ready to explain exactly why the pair would never make it to the altar, when the words caught in his throat. John was staring straight ahead, his lower lip trembling almost imperceptibly, a look of defeat clouding the deep blue of his eyes. The detective inhaled, but before he could decide how to proceed, John swallowed hard and walked away.

A couple got engaged. Despite the distasteful public display, it was rather to be expected; it is Valentine's Day. And John has me now, he can't still be upset about his own failed marriage. After all, that's been over and done with since last –

"Oh." Sherlock tossed his paper cup in the nearest bin and chased after his blogger, one gloved fist clenching and unclenching nervously in his coat pocket.

They walked silently to the small park nearby, the doctor's face unreadable as Sherlock searched his mind desperately for something to say.

"John, I…"

The older man turned suddenly, fighting the anxiety coursing through his veins with squared shoulders and a raised chin. He needs to know. It's time.

"Sherlock, there's something I need to say to you. A few years ago, I met the person I wanted to dedicate my life to, the person I wanted to share my future with. At the time, I was certain I would never want that with anyone else. As it turns out…"

He breathed out slowly in the cold air, hands fidgeting in his pockets. He forced himself to look his partner in the eye. "I was right. There has only been one person I have wanted to give all of myself to, to grow old with, and there will only ever be one. God, Sherlock, I'm sorry for not telling you this sooner. I'm so sorry..."

John's left fist pressed against his mouth as he steeled himself for what he had to say next.

"Sherlock…" he opened his palm, the pale gold glinting as it caught the winter sun, "Sherlock. Will you please marry me?"

Sherlock froze. Will you change your mind when you know the truth?

"John, I… there's something you need to know. I never intended for you to find out. I… knew you would search the flat, so I kept it here."

As he reached into his right Belstaff pocket, John's eyes grew wide. No. This wasn't possible. All of the times John had seen that motion over the past year came flooding into his mind. It was just a nervous tic… no. No no no.

Sherlock slowly extracted the black box and handed it to his friend. John didn't realize he was crying until a tear splashed onto the object inside.

"How long?" He choked out.

"I never… it was just a reminder, John, I – "

"Sherlock. How long?"

"The first day…" he looked into the distance, struggling to maintain his calm. "The day you moved back home."

John stared disbelievingly into the box and carefully lifted it out. Just a reminder… but he had even had it engraved: Always Two.

Their tears mingled as John pressed their lips together, pouring everything into the kiss that he couldn't find words to express, and laughing at the shock on Sherlock's face when they finally pulled apart.

"You… don't… mind?"

"Mind? Sherlock!" A brilliant smile lit John's face just as the younger man's mobile buzzed.

"What." He snapped into the phone, the momentary look of annoyance giving way quickly to one of intrigue. "Oh, well, I don't…" He raised an eyebrow at John, who chuckled and nodded his ascent. "Text me the address."

"You never answered my question."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock replied, slipping the gold band onto his right hand and moving briskly toward the street to hail a taxi. He'd move it to his left after the ceremony. John jogged to catch up, distracted by the silver ring shining on his own finger.

"Oh, please do give me some credit," Sherlock shouted over his shoulder. "It's platinum."

John Watson was a romantic. That made this moment standing on the doorstep to 221B Baker Street, admiring the thin band of metal on his hand as he unlocked the door, all the more perfect. Valentine's Day. A day he would never have to spend alone again. Fool, he now thought to himself. Pathetic, romantic, insanely lucky fool.

Lestrade's phone call had brought a day of murder, mayhem, and back alley chases; exactly how one would expect to celebrate an engagement to Sherlock Holmes. Returning home late and exhausted, John had volunteered to pick up dinner, which he placed on the kitchen table before slipping down the hall to their bedroom.

Captain Watson licked his lips at the sight of the purple satin. We're starting to think alike, he realized, as he laid the box of gourmet truffles in the center of the bed. He ventured into the flat to find his fiancé, but stopped on the threshold to the sitting room. Stretched out on the sofa, dress shirt half unbuttoned, was the soundly sleeping form of the world's only consulting detective. John stood, admiring the effect of the roaring fire on porcelain skin.

Yes, John was "not gay." And yes, John was in love with a man. And he should have known (how had they not known?) that this ending was inevitable. Once it came out, he knew he was truly his partner. Soon a priest, an official document, a ceremony before friends and family would reflect the reality in his heart. Like Sherlock's unwavering resolve to recover, this bit of magic was indeed what it seemed. Besides being a doctor, a soldier, a blogger – John was a Watson. And as of early this spring, after signing one more official document, Sherlock would be too.

John knelt by the mantle, the pain in his hip noticeably absent, and added another log to the fire. He finally understood how it could feel so much like home after everything that had passed. Then without thinking, without considering his movements, he stepped into the center of room and sat down. In his chair.