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It’s not that John doesn’t trust Sherlock.
Well, stop. Okay. Scratch that.
It’s not that John doesn’t trust Sherlock about this. About them.
Ask him about some of the stranger things he gets up to now that his lab is firmly situated in 221C, and ventilation is safely quarantined from any possible contamination of the flat upstairs, and John would tell you a different story.
Point is: it’s not that John’s suspicious, exactly. Or jealous or worried or seething with imminent betrayal like some people might be at the discovery, because honestly, he isn’t.
And that was part of the deal, between them. If they were going to give this a go, if they were going to try to be this, them: if they were going to step toward becoming something not beyond what they’d always been but different, deeper, intimate—if Sherlock was going to embrace family and John in turn was going to find and keep home, like this, then they had to be honest.
As best they could be, at least. They’ve done a fair enough job so far, to be honest—given who they are. John’s fairly proud of them.
In any case: point being, John’s not jealous. Because John does trust Sherlock. And just as much, John trusts his own instincts, at least in situations such as these. He trusts that there’s no shift in the mind, the heart he rests his head on some nights, or the body curled against him whenever it deigns to think to sleep: and that’s more often than it used to be, as a matter of fact. Far more often.
John’s fairly proud of that, too.
Here’s the thing, though: the bits of thin paper, clearly from a pad, pen-filled lines in duplicate ink with the dark carbon bleed around the edges—if they were a secret, Sherlock would never have kept them anywhere they could be found. And if they mattered, in themselves, Sherlock would have done more than leave them in his pockets to be run through the wash when John forgets to check. But they’re handwritten: local shop, then, and Sherlock could have ordered this sort of thing online, so two conclusions: personal, and private.
And the fact remains, regarding the receipts in evidence: they are kept.
And John had maybe had the strange suspicion that it’d be for him, and just a pathetically-hid surprise because sometimes Sherlock tries so hard with one thing, one normal, socially-acceptable bit of what it means to ‘be in a relationship’ or somesuch—sometimes he’s so single-minded about that that he forgets some of the simple bits. Like keeping it from the recipient before the big reveal.
And the 14th was close enough, so it could have worked. Out-of-character, but Sherlock’s changed, been changing, for longer than John’s been paying attention, and John’s guilty for it, John aches for all those lost moments and all the missteps that almost sent them both tumbling over a ledge they’d never surface from: but still.
Could have been, y’know. Just that.
Flowers for Valentine’s Day, from one partner, one lover to the other.
Not particularly likely, but not entirely unheard of. Improbable—not impossible.
But the day came and went, and John received no flowers (though he did receive the snog of his life and a shag for the record books). And odder still: the receipts from the florist continued to float in the laundry in the days that followed.
He’s managed to pluck the one in his hand from the Belstaff, dated yesterday.
No mention of the sort of flower in the 16-stem bouquet; no recipient information: just the total, and Sherlock’s clear signature for a card payment—so again, not trying to be inconspicuous.
And John’s not worried, because it’s not that he doesn’t trust Sherlock. It’s not like he thinks Sherlock’s got a bit on the side that he’s trying to romance in such a way—if he was, it’d be for a case, and at best John would just be put out that Sherlock didn’t tell him about it. Because he loves his daughter, more than life, but if he can’t be there for all the running about and solving of crimes, he at least likes to live vicariously through the stories.
And his readers do expect updates on the resurrected blog, after all.
So it’s not that John’s mulling over some torrid affair or whatnot. Really? He’s just desperately curious.
And it’d be strange if, after all this time, he wasn’t fundamentally attuned to the need to take the case; to solve the mystery.
He’s been googling flower shops in an increasing radius of the flat that seem old enough or quaint enough to still write out the orders by hand, given that there aren’t any identifying marks on the receipts themselves—no number, no logo, nothing—and even when John’s scribbled down a list of possible suspects, he doesn’t feel fantastic about his chances.
“My!”
Nor about his promptness in investigating, either, if Rosie’s emphatic demand for her stuffed koala bear, which has found itself outside the confines of her frankly palatial playpen—Sherlock, she doesn’t need—” John had protested, to no avail, as Sherlock had left the room, hell, left the flat, muttering about the crucial moments of a vital experiment downstairs.
John’s trying, these days, to better learn how to pick his battles.
“My my my my my,” Rosie babbles, doe-eyes on John as she reaches out, hands making a futile grasping motion as the toy sit just out of reach.
“Yes, yes,” John says, grabbing the plush and handing it to his girl. “Here.”
And the grin she gives lights John's whole world as she snuggles it, and sighs happily.
“My.”
“Yes, yours,” John ruffles her hair gently, soft and wispy still but not for long, he knows. He considers her in her playden, looking content but not particularly settled, and makes his decision.
“What say we go for a bit of an adventure, hmm love?” he asks, gathering her things up and taking to the hall for her jacket.
“My!” she squeals enthusiastically, and John takes it as a yes.
__________________
They make it through about a fourth of the list, John making purchases only when he can’t spot the receipt booklet otherwise, or prove it comes from a machine by watching someone else in the queue before him; he ends up with an armful of single pink carnations, one which he pops into Rosie’s hair to her delight, and the rest.
Well.
That’s how he ends up at the morgue.
“John, these are lovely, really,” Molly gushes, just a little. “You shouldn’t have.”
The way she buries her face in the blooms for a second makes him think he really should have. Long ago.
“Couldn’t have made it through the last months, hell,” John shakes his head, breathes out slow—feels guilty, more than a little, that he hasn’t thanked her the way she deserves, for everything; that he’s only doing it now by accident, for the sake of convenience; “the last years, without you.”
“Well,” Molly flushes a little, but doesn’t argue. John feels that much more guilty. He’s going to buy her a hell of a lot more flowers, or something.
Sherlock could probably give him tips on that, with the number of receipts that John’s aimlessly tracking down, as a matter of fact.
“I’ll just pop these into some water, here,” Molly says, taking the flowers to the tap and filling a spare beaker, which is apparently all she has as she sets them next to a proper vase, with over-bloomed lilies in a rainbow of shades. John follows her just enough to see the card—
Happiest of Heart-Days, Love. —Justin
John looks away before Molly can tell he was snooping, but he smiles to himself: they’ve met Justin. Sherlock shook his hand without hesitation, and kissed Molly on the cheek—something they had to work up to, and that Sherlock had to earn again, and another thing John’s proud of? The care and intention Sherlock had put into that endeavour—and John had been able to read his lips at her ear as he embraced her:
Horrible sense of humour, but one of the few remaining romantics. He almost deserves you.
And Molly, for the first time, had kissed Sherlock’s cheek in return.
“My?”
They’re both jolted back into the moment by Rosie’s question.
“You’ve already got—” John starts to correct, as her koala drops from her hand at just that moment. “Right,” John sighs, trying not to dwell on what’s on the morgue floor, and reasoning that it can’t be much worse than anything else his daughter’s come across thus far. “Sorry love.”
He hands her the bear, turns back toward Molly, only to be pelted with something soft against the backs of his knees just as he opens his mouth to continue an adult conversation.
“My!”
John turns, bends, and picks up the toy, holding it out to Rosie’s expectant hand warily.
And right on cue, she tosses it again.
“My!” she shouts. “My my, my!”
“Oh, Sherlock’s going to love you unlearning that one,” John smirks, because Sherlock had worked that angle hard with Rosie, and had been chuffed as hell when it’d finally paid off.
“Shhhooo-lah,” Rosie says, excited in that way she only gets when Sherlock’s mentioned, or present, or just… Sherlock.
John understands that effect.
“Yes,” John sighs, dusting off the koala. “Shoo-lah.”
“My, my.”
“Yep, that’s what he’ll say,” John mutters as he hands the toy back, already preparing to grab it from the floor again. “My, my, dear Watson. Must we start at square one again? Tedious, don’t you agree?”
“Mmm-lah.”
This time, she cuddles her bear like she cuddles Sherlock, who John grins softly in remembering that he’d indeed been dubbed ‘Mmm-lah’ before Rosie’d figured out the ‘sh’. She seems content enough, so John finally turns around to Molly, who’s looking on with warm amusement.
“Better get to this one,” she nods to the body under a sheet at her left. “But thank you, John. Really. For the flowers.”
“Right,” John agrees, recalling the list.
Only about 35 more shops to tick off.
__________________
They’ve only made it to 4 more shops before the text comes in:
Drop by the Yard to get case file and I’ll make it home for dinner.
SH
Going to eat said dinner?
...
John smirks at the screen; of course Sherlock’s dithering.
Which: improvement, really. So that is that.
What’s on?
SH
John huffs a laugh.
What would you actually eat?
Another pause, and a ping:
Drop by the Yard to get case file and I’ll bring Angelo’s.
SH
John won’t pretend that doesn’t make him particularly happy; it’s been ages since they did Angelo’s, and they only do Angelo’s when Sherlock’s in a particularly good mood; when Sherlock’s feeling notably affectionate.
But hell if John will cop to it; Sherlock already knows it anyway.
Fine.
Which is how John makes it, pram in tow, to NSY and into Greg’s office with his single purchase thus far of some random succulents: poor choice. Much harder to cart around, to be frank.
“My, my, my, my,” Rosie says as Greg grins and rises from his chair, reaching for a single leftover donut and breaking it in two, taking an ample dollop of cream from the center before he crouches down to Rosie and grins at her, an invitation.
Rosie’s eyes widen and she takes both hands, smearing the custard in her hands and then over her face: she doesn’t much care for the taste, they’ve found, but she does love to make a mess of it. John’s beginning to wonder if Greg keeps an untouched filled-donut on his desk, just in case he gets visitors.
“Oh, that’s a masterpiece you’ve done there!” Greg says proudly positioning flattened hands so as to make a frame around Rosie’s face-painting; she’s learned to laugh raucously at that and Greg taps her affectionately on the tip of her nose before reaching for his desk to grab a packet of wipes to clean her off.
“Grrr,” she hums her version of Greg’s name, squirming under his quick tidying of her fingers and face of any sticky residue. Soon as he’s done, though, she’s back to her mantra: “My, my, my, my.”
“Rosie, sweetheart,” John’s starting, a bit impatient now as he sets the succulents on Greg’s desk without preamble, to Greg’s apparent, and rightly understandable confusion. “You’ve not got anything else—”
“My!” she near-screams, fixing her gaze on John in a way that’s way too familiar for John’s liking: piercing. Imploring him to not be a moron and observe.
He sighs, clenching his jaw against the fact that his daughter’s learned that so quick, and—
“Oh.”
It hits him, swift and hard. And yes. Probably, he is a moron. “Oh.”
He straightens and glances toward Greg—who smiles, because it seems even Greg’s understood because he’s handing over a file and shooing them toward the lift.
“I forgot, darling,” John soothes as the doors close and they descend. “Let’s go find your My.”
__________________
They pass a rather incongruous flower shop on the way toward their destination, and John’s tempted to go, give it one more go, but Rosie’s insistent.
He should have made the stop.
“My!” They’re not held up in their approach, not anymore, and so Rosie’s flapping her arms wildly only moments later, grinning broadly, and John sets her on her feet and lets her try to toddle toward the object of her affections, who rounds the desk in a heartbeat to make sure she doesn’t topple, doesn’t come to any harm, and if Sherlock was a surprise, in his own way?
This is what never ceases to defy the laws of physics when John watches it unfold, and sees in it only perfect, honest truth.
“My My!”
“Hello, pet,” Mycroft says as he finally reaches to take her in his arms after she mostly-successfully manages to reach his toes and fall into his calves, wrinkling the knees on his trousers, absolutely ruining the lines of the suit with the scrunch of her fists in the fabric.
“John,” Mycroft nods, though it’s almost a warm thing, oddly. There’s no outward indication of it, of course, but John knows the way a Holmes works by now, and it’s as much a fact as a smile, or a over-quick embrace would convey—and frankly, much less disturbing, given the context and the man in question, than other alternative. “A pleasant surprise.”
And John knows he’s just an accessory to that estimation, a facilitator. Rosie is absolutely the pleasant surprise.
“Someone’s been wanting her ‘My’ all day,” John shakes his head with a shrug. “Took me a while to cop on.”
Mycroft tuts and pouts a bit dramatically for Rosie’s amusement.
“Mere mortals,” he laments.
John snorts. “Prick.”
Mycroft gasps theatrically and holds a hand to the side of Rosie’s head protectively. “Impressionable ears!”
Rosie simply cackles and wriggles in his hold, and John rolls his eyes because, well.
Being a bit of a cock runs in the family, obviously.
Watching Mycroft settle himself in his chair again, Rosie balanced in his lap, he allows himself to investigate the trace of damning evidence that had assaulted him in the periphery, pervading his senses upon so much as stepping into the office: sweetness. Overbearing. Everywhere.
And he registers more than idly, now, that the entire room—ordinarily so stately and traditional in its decor—is presently rendered day-glo, impossibly bright.
Every possible surface—as well as some questionably-possible ones—are utterly oversaturated with the presence of flowers.
“Biscuits, sweetling?” Mycroft’s asking over the crinkle of a packet of something; probably those impossible shortbreads that have a rose design stamped into each of them, because Sherlock takes after his brother, or perhaps the other way around, in only pretending not to toy with sentiment.
“Don’t tell daddy, now,” and John rolls his eyes again, but grins to himself at the conspiratorial tone; grins broader as he chances a glance and catches Rosie looking positively entranced, solemn like she properly understands a pact being made between the two of them to keep a vital government secret of sweets-eatings from John.
“Or your Shoo-lah,” Mycroft adds, and John snorts, doesn’t bother to hide it, because Mycroft with sweets is indeed something to keep from Sherlock, upon pain of mockery. “They’ll get very cross we didn’t share.”
Rosie nods gravely, John sees in his peripheral, before taking one biscuit delicately from Mycroft’s fingers and chewing on it, Mycroft watching her carefully even though she’s mostly beyond the threat of choking.
“But these are just for you, isn’t that right?”
Rosie mouths at the treats happily, leaning contentedly into Mycroft’s chest as John glances around, eyes settling on an ostentatious heart made of roses, a target of buds in the middle and an actual arrow in the bullseye—cupid’s by intention, John assumes, but in these circumstances, something darker, more truthful.
Meaning something so very much bigger, like this, here.
“That was from Valentine’s proper,” Mycroft comments idly, eyes never leaving Rosie’s as she eyes another biscuit, a little sly. “Cheeky,” and it’s unclear, for a moment, whether he means Rosie or his brother, until he hands Rosie a shortbread and nods to the arrangement under John’s scrutiny. “I’ve honestly no idea how they’ve lasted so long.”
John doesn’t have to say accurate, because he knows better. Because it’s more than just implied, it’s obvious.
The heart of a Holmes, it seems, is doomed to be bigger, softer, possible of so much more than meets the eye; like their minds, so much broaded and deeper and swifter and full than the rest of the world, and just so—that much more wild, more fragile, more in need of care in easing down to root in boring, workaday life, to love without fear of melting, of shattering on impact.
So yes, accurate—true.
Though, John admits: also a bit cheeky.
“Fake ones?” John asks, though as soon as it’s out of his mouth he regrets it.
“That would be rather obvious as to the how, I think.”
Again: bit of a cock.
Though John really just ends up fighting a bit of a grin, lips quirking just so, but Mycroft doesn’t notice, is tapping Rosie’s nose and watching her shake with peals of giggles with a smile so wide John thinks it has to hurt, somehow—the same he often thought of Sherlock, too, before that expression become practiced on his face.
Oh, yes. Very accurate indeed.
John turns his attention back to the flowers: all sorts, really, colours across the spectrum, but mostly—
“Daffodils,” Mycroft says without looking up. “They’ve always been my favourites.”
John blinks. He’s never thought about Mycroft Holmes having a favourite flower.
“You’ve kept them,” John notes, seeing the wilting, slightly-browning petals on a number of the arrangements. “Until they die, you’ve been keeping them.”
“Hmm,” Mycroft hums, just a little bit thoughtful, though he doesn’t shy from admitting: “Yes.”
And a Holmes, John learns, speaks in riddles, but he’s lucky enough to have learned a few of their tells. And John remembers, more than he wishes he could, what transpired that day, on that island. The way they all knew that Mycroft’s heart was more than just somewhere but so close to the surface it could almost be felt in the air, honest and true in a way John had never expected; the way they all knew that Sherlock had aimed a gun but would never have fired; the way they all knew that as soon as that gun was under Sherlock’s chin Mycroft would have moved the cosmos to keep the bullet from making headway had his sister not done the job for him.
Just as John knew that Sherlock, in the aftermath, had been nearly sick with worry for his absent brother, even once Greg had assured him of Mycroft’s status.
John knew, but maybe Mycroft hadn’t.
No flowers, he’d said. My request.
And Sherlock had always been rubbish, by coincidence or design, at listening to his brother.
And Sherlock loved deeper than any man, John had thought. But maybe it was a family trait, too, in the end.
Of course this was his way of saying it, best he knew how.
And John had obviously only seen a sampling of the receipts.
“My My,” Rosie interrupts John’s musing, pointing at some of the brighter, newer buds closest to Mycroft’s chair and straining to reach.
“Yes, pet,” Mycroft nods, grabbing them to hold so Rosie could smell their aroma, could touch them with a delicate hand that was far beyond her age as Mycroft held her all the closer, somehow, in what John could only fathom was a response to Rosie’s words—unintentional, probably, but still: My my. “Yes indeed.”
John grins, and leans against the wall, crossing his arms and taking a moment just to watch.
“Dinner’s at 7,” John reminds Mycroft pointedly. “I’m not keen on two pouting children to put to bed on a Sunday, yeah? Don’t be late.”
“I’ll endeavour not to be,” Mycroft answers; it’s been fairly common that he joins them at Baker Street, or they all join Mycroft over at his for a meal or two a week, whenever they can. None of them are quite over what happened between them at Sherrinford. John honestly kind of hopes that, when they finally do come to proper terms, they’ll still see as much of one another. They’re building a little family, and John’s growing rather attached.
Rosie’s already enamoured of course, and Sherlock, well.
There’re the contents of about ten flower shops surrounding them to speak on his account.
“Let me know if Lady Smallwood’s going to be accompanying you,” John jibes, just a little. Mycroft rolls his eyes, but stays focused on Rosie.
“No witty comeback?” John pushes, while Mycroft only sighs.
“No desire to encourage you by dignifying nonsense with a response.”
John snorts. It takes a good few more minutes of doting on Rosie alone before Mycroft acknowledges his presence.
“Staying for tea?”
“Can do,” John shrugs, though secretly he’s rather pleased; “if you’re inclined.”
“You know I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
“Dunno,” John banters back; “you Holmes boys, starting to let show a bit of feeling these days,” he shakes his head, daring to tease. “Letting a little accidental politeness out isn’t beyond the realm of the possible anymore, I reckon.”
“I can retract the offer,” Mycroft arches a brow, at John, but quickly looks away when Rosie makes a noise that might sound a little like protest. Mycroft’s demeanour immediately softens, and his voice brightens:
“Though not for you, love, of course.”
He kisses Rosie’s head softly before taking her in his arms and moving to rise, but John waves him back to sit.
“Nah, you two stay there,” he says and pushes away from the wall. “Two sugars, don’t tell Sherlock, we both know he already knows but etcetera, onward, kitchen’s through here.”
Mycroft tilts his head consideringly before he replies, words dripping saccharine with sarcasm.
“And you’re not even my housekeeper.”
John pauses as he passes Mycroft’s desk, and lowers his voice just enough to avoid being heard by impressionable ears as he restates the obvious, moron that he is:
“Prick.”