The city awakens at five.

A blood-soaked sky blankets its inhabitants scurrying home, the pulse of rush hour thrumming through the streets. The roads are clogged and arteries are blocked and trains thunder underneath, life crammed into tunnels. Rivers of red and gold flow between spires of glass, weaving around monolithic slabs as it flees toward the highways. Among it all: drifting snowflakes, settling; on the brink of sending London into a screeching halt. Masks the grime and dirt underneath pure white, if only temporarily.

Sherlock stands at his window; sweeps his violin up to his chin. The bow glides across silver threads, delicate and quietly abrasive, a wistful melody piercingly gentle. Behind him, John sits on the sofa, clutching a mug of hot chocolate. Listening intently, eyes closed, steam licking his brow. The hearth smoulders away, basking the room in a warm glow as it flickers and leaps. Sharp, velvet highs; rich and sultry lows permeate the flat, sweeping from its corners to its heart. The notes recede with a crescendo and a flourish, bow lifting from the strings and returning to his side. He glances at John, meeting his gaze with a smile, then drops down beside him and drapes an arm across his shoulders. Sherlock pulls a woollen blanket over them, John's hand on his thigh as he listens to the rise and fall of his breath.

When he wakes, he's strewn across John's lap, evening glimmer fading into dusk.

"Morning," says John, running his hands through Sherlock's silky hair. With a grumble, he pushes himself upright, lightly kissing his cheek.

"Dinner? I'm starving."

A hush has fallen with the snow, smothering the clamour of traffic, the racket of errands, the everyday bustle. It muffles their footsteps as they walk in step, arms linked, Sherlock matching his pace to John's. Snowflakes brush their coats, dusting them in a pale sparkle; little touches of frost.

"Bit cold," says John, his breath clouding in the air.

"Astute observation. Perfectly sound, as well."

"Christ, should've known you'd say that. Any point in asking where we're going?"

"Nope."

One cab ride later, John stares up at the towering curve of glass and steel; looks back at Sherlock.

"Sky Garden, huh?"

"Apparently it's quite a romantic location, not that I'd know."

"I think you just like to look down on people."

They enter the building, take the lift to the thirty-seventh floor and are shown to a table by a window. Sherlock produces a candle from his pocket and places it on the side, lights it. Outside, snowflakes continue to swirl from the heavens, coating the city in a quilt of lavish white.

"It's lovely."

"Does its beauty stem from the inherent rarity of snow in London or is it merely sentiment based off of a projected ideal?"

"You're lovely."

"The sentiment, then."

Wine is poured, a deep, luscious red; starters served. The glow of the lights outside is muted by the falling snow, the lone candle dances, burning bright. Reflects off the glass, igniting the Thames. John watches the pedestrians as they hurry by, collars up and scarves fluttering, hands shoved into pockets. The last remnants of daylight have disappeared beneath the horizon, and yet the city defies the dark. Platters are placed in front of them: fillets of cod, perfectly steamed, turnips and smoked mackerel. Sherlock's incessantly drumming the table, expression impassive.

"You alright?" asks John.

"Thinking," he says, reaching for his fork.

"Right, then. Any progress on the gutted surgeon?"

"Transparent. Former patient with a vendetta; I do hope you've got a better title than that."

"I could make it worse."

"Dear God." He picks up his wine glass and takes a sip, balancing the stem between his thumb and forefinger. Then holds it in the air for a minute before putting it back down, watching the liquid settle.

"Someone's about to get shot, aren't they," says John, peering at Sherlock over the rim of his glass.

"Now that would be exciting," Sherlock grumbles. He stabs at the fish, missing completely.

"I'll take that as a no, then. Dessert?"

"Please."

He orders a chocolate fondant, setting his empty plates aside. It's dark and creamy, mellow with a suggestion of hazelnut, slightly earthy, mostly sweet. Sherlock steals the last bite.

The vibrant hum of the city has given way to the weather, tranquillity ruling underneath the billowing snow. Sherlock guides John through the streets, sending up small flurries with every step. They soon reach the riverbank, turn onto London Bridge. The water below is inky black, Tower Bridge a rippling illusion upon it.

"How does one get married?" Sherlock asks, leaning over the railing and staring intently at the Thames.

"Sorry, who's getting married?"

"Us."

"I...I don't understand."

"We're getting married."

"Did I miss something?"

"From your demeanour at dinner, I've already deduced the most probable outcome from a proposal, you saying yes. Accordingly, there's no need to concern ourselves with trivial formalities."

"And if I don't?"

"John—"

"Ask me, Sherlock."

He pauses.

Sinks down onto one knee, raises his head.

Holds a carnation aloft.

A breath.

"John Watson, will you marry me?"

The silence hangs for a split second; the city ceases to stir, the ever-present cacophony of life, mute.

"I'd love to," he sighs, taking the scarlet blossom and helping him up. Pulls him closer, whispers.

"Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?"

"Yes. Yes, I'd be delighted. Though I—"

"Shut up." He cups his cheek and trails a finger down his back, gently pushing him against the railing; kisses him. Sherlock's arm encircles his waist, the sparkling touch of snowflakes on his brow. He buries his head into Sherlock's chest, laughing softly.

"You expected this, didn't you. That's why you have a flower," John says, looking up at him.

"I have to account for—"

"Actually, don't answer. I can pretend to be right, for once." He lifts his head; kisses him again.

"You were right, though. You were right about me," says Sherlock, almost to himself.

"Course I was," John murmurs, "Sherlock, the only person you can't observe is yourself. You really can't. But I...I can. And I can see for myself how much you care, despite your own protests. I love how you can deduce someone's life from the way they wear their shirt. I love how my life is never boring around you, I love every moment. You're marvellous, and I love you. I really do."

"I know. Thank you, John. For everything. I love you, too."

A/N: The end! Thank you so much for reading, it really means a lot. I'd love to hear what you think, both good and bad ️