John settled quietly into her chair, a steaming mug of tea in her hands. It had been a very long day, and even though it was almost midnight now, she needed a little time to think before she even tried to sleep.

"Sherlock . . ."  She thought sadly.

Just a little while ago, Sherlock, after three years of being 'dead', had just walked into the restaurant where she was eating with a friend, and tried to propose to her. " 'Tried' being the key word." She said aloud, her ponderous brown eyes looking up at the ceiling.

Even though Sherlock, with his general clumsiness with relationships and emotions could move on quickly from betraying her trust, how could John? After all, while Sherlock was off in foreign countries dealing with criminals and nefarious villains, she was left at home all alone thinking that the love of her life had died. Many nights she had stayed up late, wishing desperately that Sherlock would come back to life. Now, he had, but John wasn't sure if she had been more hurt by his death then, or his lack of trust in her.

Looking down into the mug, John watched the steam rise up, then sipped slowly, settling back into the soft armchair. Yes, it had been a stressful and tiring day, but she wasn't quite ready to sleep yet.

She reached into her pocket, and pulled out her cell phone. Her fingers shook hesitantly for a moment, then she pushed aside her reluctance and dialed Sherlock's number.

I have to talk to him. She thought resolutely. At the very least, I need to figure out how I feel about him, and how he feels about me. Over these last three years, we've both changed a lot, in very different ways. I don't know if we can even stay together anymore.

Sherlock slowly walked up the familiar stairs to 221B, Baker Street, his feet dragging on the worn carpet. He pushed open the door, then threw himself down into his chair. "I blew it." He said aloud, holding his hands over his face.

In his head, everything had worked out perfectly. He had found out where John would be dining from his elder brother, Mycroft Holmes. He had scraped together his money, and had actually managed to buy an engagement ring. Then, he had pretended to be a waiter until he could reveal himself to John.

In his head, John was shocked and speechless, both at the proposal and his seeming resurrection from the grave, but without a moment's thought said yes. After that . . . well, he hadn't exactly been sure, but he thought he would figure that out when the time came.

Much to Sherlock's surprise, John was more angry and shocked then happy and shocked. He hadn't meant to cause a scene at the restaurant, but that couldn't be helped now. He sighed heavily, then stood up and started pacing, trying to relieve some pent-up energy.

"This one time in my life." Sherlock said to the empty air. "This one time I decide to let my heart rule my decisions, and not my head. The one time I try to say how I feel to someone that I really love." His voice rose in intensity and hopeless anger. "The one time I let down my walls enough to fall in love, and all that happens is she ends up hating me, when I tried to tell her that I loved her!"

He sank to his knees, hands clutching the air. "Why?" He yelled at the ceiling. "Why does it have to be like this?"

A noise interrupts him, just on the edge of hearing.

The noise of a vibrating phone.

Sherlock stood up, striding over to the door where his coat hung. Digging into the pocket, he took out his cell phone, his heartbeat rising as he saw who the caller was.

"John?"

John held the phone to her ear in one hand, pouring  herself a second mug of tea with the other as she waited for Sherlock to pick up. Opening the fridge, she half-contemplated spiking her tea with a little bit of rum she had left over, but decided against it.

The phone rang one more time. John fidgeted nervously. "Come on." she muttered, "Pick up already."

A second longer, and the deep voice she knew so well came into her waiting ears. "John?" But something was definitely different. It took John a moment, but then she realized why.

Gone was the harsh, bragging, arrogant, highly-functioning sociopath. The man now talking to her on the phone was a changed man -- very different from three years ago, different even from a few hours ago when they met at the restaurant.

"Hi Sherlock." John smiled slightly. "It's, um, me." She immediately began  cursing at herself.

Idiot. Of course it's you! Who else would it be?

Before Sherlock could make a snide remark about the obviousness of the statement, John plunged ahead. "I wanted to call you to talk about . . . us."

"Us? That's a pretty broad subject." The words that usually would be filled with venom and sarcasm were now gentle and caring. For once, Sherlock had something to lose.

"Yeah, I guess so. But I want to talk to you about, um, well, when you faked your death."

There was no noise from the other end of the phone for a long moment. Then, a single word dropped from Sherlock's lips. "Oh."

John took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts. "Sherlock, before this whole business with Moriarty, and the fall, and everything, I loved you more than anything else in the world. All I wanted to do was live with you forever, until the very last day of my life." She felt tears welling up in her eyes, and she dashed them away angrily.

Geh; why am I crying? There's nothing to cry about!

"But then, I watched you jump off that building, and I thought that it was the end. My perfect life had ended, and in a single second, everything changed." There was no stopping the torrent now. The tears flowed freely down her face, and John couldn't hold them back anymore.

"You were gone!" She choked out. "Gone, gone forever. But not just dead, you actually killed yourself. Do you know how I felt? I thought, I thought," she gulped for breath, "I thought that it could have been my fault, for not being there for you enough. I thought that, 'Maybe if I had done this or that, he wouldn't have died'. Sherlock, I lay awake for hours, crying and wishing and wondering, just for you! And that whole time, you knew I didn't know, you knew  you would be away for a long time. And you just let me cry and wonder, for a whole three years, 'ls it my fault?' "

John sobbed into the phone for several minutes, Sherlock not saying a word. "Well?" John asked when she could finally speak. "What do you have to say?"

The door to her flat flew open, and Sherlock stood there, hair awry, phone held against his ear, not even wearing a coat.

"What?" John gasped. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock ended their call, slipping his phone into his pocket. "What I have to say . . . I don't think I can say it on the phone."

The cell phone slipped from John's shaking fingers to the floor, bouncing twice. She took no notice of it. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock swept his arms around her, encompassing her slender frame in an embrace so tight she could barely breathe. "John." He said quietly. "I am so sorry. I never even thought about how you would react to my death looking like a suicide. I was such an idiot. I'm sorry for all those times you've been afraid, and lonely, and crying all alone at night because no one else could understand or help you."

"We've both become different people now, a little older, a little sadder, but maybe a little wiser. We've seen that a fairy-tale ending can't always happen." Sherlock flicked the little red box out of his sleeve where he had concealed it, clutching it tightly  in his hand. "I know things have changed, and I have been the absolute worst jerk that you could ever have the bad luck to meet. I do not deserve a beautiful, incredible woman like you, but maybe, if you would give me a second chance, I will change again, this time for the better, and I'll become someone who you can always trust, no matter what."

John felt his arms slip away around her, and Sherlock, for the first time in his life, knelt down on the ground. "O my -- Sherlock?" John's voice wavered, and she couldn't speak.

"John Henrietta Watson," Sherlock's eyes beamed up at hers. completely serious but incredibly happy. "Will you marry me?"