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When Holmes returned from his supposed death, I immediately suggested I sell my practice and resume residence at 221 Baker Street. Although I was still bitter from Holmes’s betrayal, I clung to every moment with him, knowing the pain that came with the alternative. As such, I tried everything in my power to pick up our lives where they left off before that fateful day at the Reichenbach Falls.
The matter of my lodgings was almost settled until I entered 221B one morning to find Holmes and his older brother waiting for me in the sitting room. Mycroft explained it would be in our best interest to postpone my move. With Sherlock’s name back in the papers, we were under constant scrutiny, and he feared what may happen if our true relations were discovered.
I knew by reason that his concerns were justified, but sentiment got the best of my emotions. Unresolved feelings towards Mycroft flowed from my mouth, still fresh from discovering his involvement with Sherlock’s absence. To me, he represented nothing but deception.
Sherlock sat in his chair without comment, his eyes fixated upon the floor in front of his feet. I noticed the lines above his brow which told a story much like the lines of book. He had aged beyond his years during our time apart, though I may never know the entirety of his trials. He said nothing, but I could hear him warning me against the dangers of putting my heart before logic. I relented.
Mycroft left shortly after our resolve, but his brother continued to sit motionless until I placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched at the contact before he realized to whom the hand belonged.
“Watson, how can you forgive me? You have done nothing to deserve this, but it is yours to deal with.”
I attempted to reply but found that I did not possess an answer. Without looking in my direction, Holmes rose from his chair, put on his coat and was gone, leaving me with nothing but the order that I was to resume life as normal and limit my visits to Holmes. Indefinitely.
Of course, there were those nights in which we faltered on our plan. On days when cases caused us to be out past dark and I wouldn’t be seen entering the flat, we felt ourselves safe to share Holmes’s bed. Exhausted from the recent influx of cases, he would curl himself into my embrace and trace the lines of my body until sleep took him away. He slept sounder now than he did before his absence, but he did hold me tighter.
On the morning after, I would rise before daylight and leave the flat before I could be spotted. Other times, I would forget about our promise to Mycroft and stay until the first client arrived. Holmes and I would simply lie in his bed and watch the rising sun through the windows, ourselves immune to its call.
On this particular morning, I awoke to the notes of a violin resonating throughout the flat for the first time since his return. I kept my eyes shut as I was accustomed to only hearing him play in my dreams. I feared that if I awoke fully, the sounds would decrescendo into disappearance.
Eventually, I coaxed myself into reality. Although the violin playing had dissipated, I was soothed to hear the rumbling of familiar voices down the hall. Just as I was entering the consulting room, Mrs. Hudson was placing our breakfast around a bouquet of roses that were not present the night before. Between Holmes’s return and the defeat of Moran, I had understandably lost track of the days. From the pocket of my vest, I pulled my watch which read February 14th.
Holmes sat on the sofa facing away from me. “You do think he’ll like it? It’s not too much too soon?” The fingers of one hand drummed against his knee which bounced rhythmically.
Mrs. Hudson looked at me in the doorway, and I nodded to her in greeting. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” She suggested and left with no more than a curt smirk.
Holmes bolted from his chair. “Watson! I wasn’t aware you were up.”
His lips uplifted into a genial smile. I admired their tint in which I could only compare to the pink that blends a sunset. However, whereas a sunset represents the end, Holmes’s lips portray the beginning. As such, I find myself preferring to admire the latter.
For a while, we stood awkwardly in our places. We were unaccustomed to gift-giving and neither of us wanted to be the first to engage.
I attempted to lighten the tone. “Gifts? On Valentine’s Day? Either our time apart has changed you or you have much to apologize for,” I teased.
His gaze fell from its fixation upon my own and his expression turned to shame. I moved to apologize but stopped myself, knowing I was not the one who needed forgiveness. Instead, I took one of the roses from the vase and turned it over in my hands, mindful of its fragility.
“‘We have much to hope from the flowers,’” I unknowingly mumbled. They were not words of my own, for I was simply repeating a line I had once heard Holmes say.
“Its smell and colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it,” Holmes whispered, finishing his own quote. “However, I would argue that the embellishments of life are somewhat conditional,” he handled the conversation as gently as I held the rose, conscious of the possibility of it crumbling in his control.
It was not often that I heard Holmes contradict his own words. “How so?”
“Although we could live without life’s few embellishments, would it all be worth it? For instance, you, my dear Watson, are an embellishment of my life. I proved recently that I could live and breathe without you, but did I want to?”
I could not reply as my throat was in too dry of a state to permit words. It was then that I noticed a glimmer from the flowers. Tucked within the blush-colored petals was a silver chain donning a matching key. Perhaps at another time and under different circumstances, Holmes would have commented on my shortcomings of observance. Instead, he took the necklace from my hands and stepped behind me to fasten it around my neck.
“I noticed you were without one of your own.” His words flitted against my ear and were later met with his lips.
“It only felt right to return it to Mrs. Hudson,” I said with a dry throat, careful to withhold the information about the pain endured when I would finger the key to 221B in the pocket of my trousers. During Holmes’s absence, the flat was as empty as the life I led.
“Although it took me some time and caused us both immense turmoil, I did return to you. Despite your name being attached to another place of residence, I ask that you always return home to me.” I heard him take a wavering breath before pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. “I know that I have no right in making such a request, but I hope you will at least always wear this constant reminder of my plea.”
“Sherlock, you know I am never truly home unless I am with you,” I turned to face Holmes and stroked his cheek with a wavering hand. “I spent years trying to find what only you could bring.”
He pressed a kiss to my lips. “Then stay home today, my love.”
We spent the day solving cases from the comfort of Baker Street as clients flowed in from all corners of the world. Their luggage contained problems that had long awaited the great mind of the recently returned detective. In these moments, Holmes seemed most relaxed and was even prone to outbursts of excitement if given a peculiar enough case.
It was long after dinner before we were alone again. Holmes puffed on his pipe in a heroic fashion, having conquered even the most complicated of the day’s headaches. I sat opposite and looked over my notes until my eyes grew weary.
“I suppose it’s best I be off,” I decided at last. The cloud of smoke across the room hummed in agreement.
I moved with leaden steps around the flat, collecting my things from the places where I dropped them without thought, forgetting that I was only a guest to 221B.
“Holmes, have you seen my-“
“Your bag, Dr. Watson.” At the end of his extended arm, my surgery bag dangled from the tips of his fingers. I exchanged a kiss for the bag and left the room, our departures always quick in order to be as painless as possible.
Once within the walls of my residence, I opened the bag to trade its contents for those more suitable for a doctor’s work. On top of the clothing from the prior day rested one singular rose, its colour a stark contrast to the bleak beige of the bag. I paused for a moment, then lifted the flower between my thumb and forefinger. Attached to its stem was a card with smudged ink and familiar handwriting. I admired it for a moment before placing the flower beside the note Holmes had left for me at the falls.
And so, I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers.