Sherlock drabble
For Maxilmillian.
John tried to keep calm as the meals arrived. He was certain that his secretive (but-not-in-an-obviously-secret-way) manner had kept this secret - well, secret. The only thing that could give it away now was if Sherlock noticed that he was sweating slightly more than was normal - though it was rather warm in the restaurant - right? Right.
John wasn't nervous. Not at all.
Sherlock smiled politely at the waiter as he placed their meals carefully on the table and, after directing that smile at John and letting it soften his eyes for a moment, he picked up his fortune cookies. John too reached out and grasped blindly for his cookie, his eyes trained on Sherlock as he cracked it open. The man read the note quickly, his expression unchanging, before eating the cookie and starting in on his Kung Pao chicken.
John sat in silence, mouth agape as his stomach dropped to the floor.
What the hell? Why hadn't he- it must be in another-
"Aren't you going to open yours?" Sherlock asked, arching one delicate eyebrow and nodding at John's now visibly trembling hands, which still held his own fortune cookie.
John nodded, feeling ill and lightheaded (itwasmeanttobeperfectwhathappenedohgodwhathappened?!) before cracking open his cookie and reading his fortune.
A startled, slightly hysterical laugh escaped him and he glanced back up at Sherlock, who was determinedly eating his meal and not looking at him. John felt the tension leaving his shoulders and he looked back down at the tiny slip of paper in his hand.
Of course I'll marry you, idiot.