Work Text:
Upon walking in to our kitchen I was met by a most peculiar sight. Though one might think I should be prepared for nearly anything after my time living with Holmes, I must say that my dear friend does, at times, still surprise me. This was one such occasion.
“Arranging flowers, Holmes?” I asked, taking in the riot of color which now adorned our breakfast table as well as our floor. Strewn petals, leaves and trimmed stems lay all about the tabletop, workspace and Holmes’ lap, as well as scattering atop his battered slippers.
“Ah, you are awake and indeed, your powers of observation are improving, Watson.” He smiled enigmatically, neither mocking nor truly amused. If anything he still looked almost melancholy.
“Are they for a case?” I inquired.
“Of a sort.” His hands stilled midair and he looked far away for a moment as he sometimes did when searching for words.
I raised a brow quizzically, moving closer to inspect the work. It was the largest arrangement of flowers I had seen in a private residence.
“We have no client. This is a rather personal case which has hounded me these last few years. I decided it would be best laid out in flowers. The process helped me think things through with utmost attention. I think it is very nearly finished. In fact, it needs only one more bloom.”
He gestured to my chair by the hearth where three stems awaited. “Would you choose which one shall finish this arrangement?”
I had been surprised to discover his knowledge of the language of flowers, but it had proved useful. The ladies of our recent case had been most resourceful in managing their smuggling of antiquities by sending coded messages through the floral arrangements they did in one of their finishing classes, allowing such things to pass undetected by their dorm mother and other school officials. I had not retained much of of the language, though in the arrangement before Holmes, I of course recognized the red roses of love. I spied blue monkshood flowers. I had occasion to watch Holmes work with their poisonous blooms at this table before as he documented the efficacy of common garden flowers as toxins, but I also recalled that the ladies had included it when it was not a good night to use the tunnels for their covert business. Holmes had said it was commonly used to signal a warning, danger may lie ahead. Interesting. Love and danger. What else was contained herein?
Holmes took out a small volume on the language of flowers and laid it on the arm of my chair. “I have some business to attend to. I shouldn’t be too long. An hour at the most.” He turned away, but not before I could see a single tear spilling over. I longed to reach out to him, but I felt as though my legs had been trapped by quicksand and my arms were numb with dread even as my heart beat double-time. Too dumbfounded to move or speak as he slipped on his coat and hat, he walked out without further word, leaving me looking after. I doubt he even realized, as I did later, that he had only slippers on his feet. I must say it was some minutes before I roused myself to look at the bouquet and the book.
Upon my next glance I recognized the green carnations nestled amoung the red roses, though I knew I would not find their meaning in any book. It sparked my interest, curiosity replacing the previous foreboding, and I settled in, searching by pictures and by name, when I knew them. I did not stop until I had worked out the contents of the entire bouquet. Honeysuckle, whose fragrance was surpassingly lovely, signified sweetness and the bond of love. There were camelias which signified admiration and perfection and were a common gift for a man, but some were pink in hue which meant longing for you. Red poppies made the carnal nature of that longing clear. There were blue and purple Iris which could mean any of a few things, all complimentary: Your Friendship Means So Much to Me; Faith; Hope; Wisdom and Valour. Trails of ivy often used for faithfulness or marriage.
In our discussion of the case Holmes had stressed that the totality of the blooms must be taken into account before any firm conclusion could be drawn, as certain flowers held multiple meanings. I did not always interpret things correctly, but he had faith in my coming to the proper conclusion in this and I sat pondering all I had seen for long minutes. The monkshood indicated danger, of course from the criminal nature of what he was surely suggesting, but more, I think, that our friendship was important to him and he feared the loss of it. He couldn’t even stay while I decoded this floral love letter. The camillas told me he admired me as I did him and clearly longed for me in a way I had never seen him express for anyone. He dared not speak it aloud even, leaving it hidden here among the flowers. A single purple hyacinth was left on the table, not quite in the arrangement but adjacent enough to have been considered. I looked this up too and the words beside this gentle bloom brought a tear to my eye- I am sorry, please forgive me, sorrow. Clearly an indication of nothing more than how he thought he was supposed to feel about such love as this, though the ivy was a clear signal that if this was a thing we embarked on together he meant us to be faithful and true, not a mere tryst.
Sure that I had interpreted it as close to his intended meaning as possible, I turned then to my choices: acceptance in the delicate white blossoms of the lily of the valley- you’ve made my life complete, beside what seemed to indicate a middle road to leave things as they have always been, a yellow rose of friendship. The last bloom on my chair- an orange lily- made my heart ache like unto breaking when I found the book indicated the significance as hatred.
Oh my dear man. Never could I hate you.
I stood and consigned that flower to the rubbish bin before returning and selecting the appropriate stem.
I penned a quick note lest he return. Though I have not turned my hand to flower arranging before, I can rightly say that no single bloom could fill this stunning arrangement rightly. I have gone out to seek the proper finishing touches. Will return forthwith. -JHW
I paused and tucked the lily of the valley in just so he could be most assured of my feelings before donning my own hat and coat and taking the book with me.
I hailed a hansom wanting to be there and back again posthaste. I sought a flower seller who specialized in rarer blooms as well as the more usual florist’s fare and gathered what I needed. Passion flower's name made its meaning quite clear enough, ambrosia for reciprocated love, heliotrope to indicate I am devoted to you, pansy seemed apropo for more reason than merely the indicated “you are ever in my thoughts”, a sentiment which could not be more true. A few violets to say ‘do not be sorry’. And of course an abundance more of red roses. I spotted one of Holmes’s urchins about and in my enthusiasm gave him a half crown to deliver a note to an artist of my acquaintance, asking him to stop by Baker Street on the morrow. If all went as I dearly hoped, I wanted a particular still life to adorn our wall for years after these blooms had faded to dust.
I fairly flew up the familiar 17 steps to find Holmes, staring wide-eyed at the arrangement, one long-fingered, white hand trembling as he reached out to brush the tender stalk of the lily of the valley.
I shut the door behind me and rushed to his side, thrusting the bundle of blooms into his hands.
He glanced it over and searched my face. “Truly?” he breathed.
“Always, my heart,” I answered, then fell upon him with kisses. His soft astonished moan was muffled by my lips. When at last I broke apart from him, breathless, I glanced towards his bedroom. “Please Holmes, would you retire with me? I find myself in need of a lie down after these revelations.”
He swallowed hard, nearly overcome, but nodded. He placed the bouquet in water and took care to latch the door before hurrying after me.
I drew Holmes to me and held him close. I had longed to taste his lips on innumerable occasions, but hid those thoughts from my dear companion. I wrongly thought him incapable of such impulses and certainly of tender feelings. I had been wrong in other things, but never so wrong as this. Holmes, far from lacking such inclinations, murmured sweetly to me between kisses of all the times he wished to confess to me, wished to reach out to me, and had been fearful to lose me.
I could feel the rise of his arousal and I was sure he could feel my need as well, but activities of a more carnal nature would wait until the cover of night, and possibly not even this night. The desire was keen and fresh, but not urgent. All that mattered to me was that Holmes knew the depth of my affection, my constant friendship and more were not to be swayed by the revelation of his heart, but that they found an answering call in mine. We would find our way in this together. After all, I knew we had the rest of our lives to explore all the ways we had yet to know each other.