the one.

Mappin & Webb, posh place, really, too posh for his tastes, normally, but these aren’t normal circumstances, so John had decided that were he ever to splash out, it might as well be now. On this. Because this is going to be very -- huge, very important and if it weren’t going to cost a whole lot of money, he just doesn’t know what would, honestly.

Walking through the guarded door, a man in a suit that probably costs more than John makes in a month holding it open for him, he steps into the dimly lit room, large glass cases showing off a vast selection of fine jewellery and he’s really not here to look at necklaces or bracelets, no need for any of that…

“Can I help you, sir?” asks the pretty, ginger saleswoman in her skirt and blouse, nails done and a large diamond on her left hand, fourth finger. Engaged, then. Good, he’s allowed to expect that she’ll -- possibly understand what he’s on about in that case, right?

“Yes, I’m here to find an -- engagement ring,” he replies and she smiles politely, immediately sliding open the nearest case and taking out a display of diamond rings, clearly meant for women and John feels himself grimace, almost apologetically and he needs to stop doing that. Nothing to apologise for.

“Congratulations,” she says.

“Yes, well, don’t congratulate me too soon, he hasn’t said yes yet,” replies John, eyes searching the nearby cases for any glimpse of wedding rings for men. With his kind of luck, Sherlock will just scoff at the mere idea, marriage completely ludicrous to him or whatever might happen that definitely isn’t a yes...

The saleswoman, on the other hand, doesn’t bat an eyelash, simply says of course, sir and packs the diamond rings away, gesturing with one hand towards a glass case two stops down, saying: “The gentlemen’s selection is this way, if you’d please.”

And John would very much please.

The display she slides out from underneath the glass table features several rows of yellow and white gold bands, various degrees of -- well, decoration, a few of them featuring stones, some of them different textures, a mix of metals, thicknesses, all kinds of understated ornamentation, because no one actually just places a bloody rock on a guy’s finger. He frowns, looks the selection over slowly and the saleswoman whose name is Michelle, if her name tag’s anything to go on, gives him 15 seconds to himself, before gently inquiring:

“Do you have any particular wishes, sir? A price point, perhaps?”

“Eh, yes.” He clears his throat, eyes having already singled out a few yellow gold rings, very classic, very simple, but Sherlock wouldn’t like anything too elaborate, no funny textures or a stone to get his senses side-tracked while working. No, they need it luxurious, sure, but simple. “£1000 is my limit, preferably on some sort of instalment payment,” she nods politely and he can’t really gauge whether that just reigned in his choices to, what, two, because he knows stuff around this place is expensive as all hell, “and I’m -- really looking for something quite… No white gold, no -- textures, no gems,” she nods some more, starting to pick out a few bands from the display pillow, placing them exactly an inch apart on the glass tabletop and how does she do that, is it some kind of exam they have to pass, before being let loose in here?

John licks his bottom lip nervously. Looks over the now reduced selection, the rings all looking like something he’d have considered on his own as well. She’s good, is Michelle. 10/10, very impressed, would do again. Well, not do do, would -- oh, for God’s sake.

“What density are you considering, sir? We have 4 mm rings like this one,” she shows him a thinner band, slightly sharp around the edges, “or 7 mm rings like this,” another band, thicker, rounder, heavier. He likes the second one, but it’ll probably cost him an arm.

Okay, doesn’t matter, never mind. What are they talking, like, 20 quid a month. It’s fine.

“I like the 7 mm one,” he says finally, having deliberated in silence for another 15 seconds. It’s a -- good ring, it’s probably comfortable. “If I may --?” He holds out his hand and she places it carefully on his turned up palm, letting him feel it between his fingers for a bit. It’s very smooth and soft-edged, it won’t irritate him in any way which is really the important thing, if you expect Sherlock to wear anything on a crime scene. It just can’t be a distraction. John plays with it for a good twenty seconds, maybe half a minute, then breathes in deeply and decides. O-kay, he’s doing it, this is the one.

“I’ll take it.”

“Very good pick, sir,” she says and he’s willing to bet she says that to everybody.

They get the formalia out of the way fast, he states Sherlock’s ring size (size R for ridiculously big hands) before John signs the papers, giving his credit and contact information and finally, half an hour later, leaving with a small, velvet box in his pocket.

This is it, then.

This is the one.

Fuck.