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John couldn't exactly pinpoint the exact time that the flowers started dotting around his and Sherlock's flat, but if he had to guess, he would say it was only a month or so after he had initially moved in, and to say they had been a bit of a shock would be an understatement. The purple and yellow pansies were lovely, and Mrs. Hudson always hummed appreciatively whenever she saw them, but at first it had been...almost bizarre, to see something so bright and so seemingly out of place admits the chaos of crime-scene speculations and chemistry experiments that their flat had become.
The most peculiar part of it all was that even though he never mentioned the flowers, it must have been his flatmate that put them there. He had asked Mrs. Hudson, but it hadn't been her, and it hadn't been him—so unless they had a slowly unravelling mystery that Sherlock seemingly wasn't interested in (impossible), it must have been him.
But not a word was said. Most of the time, the detective didn't even acknowledge their existence.
Though one day, John had caught him in the act.
He had just arrived at Baker Street after a frankly long and exhausting shift, and with a heaving sigh, had thrown open the door to the flat. He made it nearly halfway across the living room before he realised that Sherlock was stood in the middle of it with the vase in his hands, the recently dead flowers nowhere to be seen, and a bright new bouquet already replacing them.
For a while, the two stood staring at each other—one surprised, and the other far too tired to even attempt a conversation at the moment.
Besides, what was there to say? So Sherlock liked putting flowers in the flat, what more was there to discuss? If anything, John found it...endearing, in a way. Like it was just one more thread in the utterly human tapestry of Sherlock. Like he could drag every person that ever claimed Sherlock was nothing more than a machine over and prove them wrong.
So John left it, and as the silence lasted, so did the flowers.
Slowly, the bright things started popping up all around the flat. First only pansies, then lavender bunches, and a green one John didn't know the name of until he asked Mrs. Hudson.
"They're green carnations, dear."
With a smile, John thanked her, and made a point to remember them. Pansies, lavender, green carnations.
He wasn't entirely sure why he was so insistent to remember Sherlock's favourite flowers, but something about it felt important. John hardly got to see these glimpses of Sherlock—the softer, goodness have you always looked that way in that light? sort of way.
John paused, hand hovering on the vase. He had just picked it up to refill the water—it had gotten a little low and he had to admit he had grown fond of them too—when his mind had drifted. Though snagged would be a better word, he supposed; catching on that thought (the warmer light of spring in the window and a mop of curly dark hair to cradle it).
Feeling...just a bit odd, John shook his head, blinked hard, and brought the vase over to the sink, pointedly ignoring the scrutinising look Sherlock gave him as he did.
He was nearly finished when his flatmate rose from his chair and wandered over to the kitchen.
"They're green carnations," the other stated in a voice that to most, might have sounded monotonous and cold, but to John, sounded oddly shy, if Sherlock could ever be categorised as such.
He hummed. "They are, yeah," he answered simply. "Mrs. Hudson told me. They're your favourites, aren't they."
"Brilliant deduction, doctor."
With a sound between a chuckle and an exasperated sigh, John glanced at the brunet from the corner of his eye. "You've flooded our flat with them for months. I hardly think that counts."
The other man shrugged, carefully taking the vase from John and placing it back on the table in its carefully curated spot away from test tubes and microscopes.
"Quite history in them, you know," he mumbled.
"Sherlock Holmes? Caring for history?" he raised an eyebrow. "Think you need a doctor, mate."
"One's plenty, thank you."
There was a pause, and an odd question of where to look, before Sherlock spoke again. "History is...dull, yes. Mostly. But sometimes it can provide...insights, is all. Context and factual background for something that otherwise may have simply..." Sherlock trailed off with a vague gesture.
A question nearly made it off his lips before there was a notification on Sherlock's phone, and before anything else could be discussed, the two were whisked away into the throng of their work and all questions of flowers and odd pauses were replaced with questions of what was the motive? and how did they accomplish it?
* * *
Another few weeks passed, and as the new pansies started to wilt, John's memory caught up with him.
That, paired with the other few 'out-of-character' moments by Sherlock, led to a curiosity in him. So, one night when Sherlock was God knows where, he opened up his laptop and did a bit of research, finding that...
Oh.
John's eyes flitted across the articles and pictures of Oscar Wilde.
In a slight rabbit hole that was, surprisingly (surprisingly? What did that even imply?) more so led by genuine curiosity than anything. Pansies, and...
Hm.
And lavender...
Huh...
John sat back in his chair, eyes on the screen but not reading much as a strange—though not particularly horrible—feeling settled on him.
Though, mostly, he was stuck thinking that he might just be the most oblivious bloke in the world.
* * *
While he didn't remember ever falling asleep, John was woken up the next morning to the hiss of a bunsen burner being turned on and a blanket draped around his shoulders.
With a groggy, still-waking-up sort of heaviness in his bones, John blinked, half-squinting in the morning sunlight that danced around the flat.
"Sherlock?"
The brunet only briefly glanced at him, focused instead on the experiment in front of him.
Relatively used to the other man's silence (and maybe just unsure of how to act after last night's realisation), John stretched.
"Any interesting developments last night?" he asked, standing slowing and almost frowning as the blanket fell off his shoulders.
"Hm? Oh, yes. Quite."
John nodded, waiting one, two...three seconds of silence before he prodded. "Alright, what is it then? Do we have a new case?"
Sherlock paused. "No."
"Right..."
For a while, Sherlock went back to his work, content to continue in the relative peace as John put the kettle on—but only that long.
"You were doing research last night," he stated.
Feeling somewhat caught, John froze. "Oh, uh...yeah. 'Suppose so."
Sherlock hummed. "Anything of note?"
John blinked. "Don't..." He sighed. "Sherlock, I told you. It's all fine, yeah?"
"I know."
"Right...this is feeling a bit like we've already had this conversation then."
Abruptly, Sherlock stood. "I think I've missed something."
John blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I've missed something. I can't for the life of me figure it out. I even asked Molly's advice. Did you like the flowers?"
"Sherlock what are you—"
"The flowers, John. Did you like them?"
"Yes, Sherlock, I like the flowers."
"And you have now come to the realisation of their meaning."
"I...yes? What is this about, Sherlock?"
"I...gave you flowers, with queer connotation..." Sherlock stated, tone boarding what John knew to be the one that teetered on the edge of exasperation. "John, you cannot tell me that you suddenly believed I had an affinity for botany."
Brows furrowing, John huffed. "I can't read your mind, Sherlock. And frankly, for all I know it could be an elaborate experiment."
"It wasn't an experiment, and it was not a developed care for flowers, John. It..." The detective paused, only a breath, but it was enough for John to see something rare in Sherlock's eyes: fear. "It was a sudden care for you."
Ah...
Well...
"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" he muttered.
Sherlock glanced up, and, apparently noting the lack of hostility, disgust, or whatever the other man had seemed to fear, relaxed into an easy smile. "Occasionally," he agreed, "but unfortunately I've become rather fond of you."
Despite the intensive wave of emotions bombarding John at the moment, he couldn't help but smile back.
The moment was interrupted when, behind them, something popped, and the pungent smell of smoke drifted through the kitchen as the neglected bunsen burner once again made itself known.
The two men shared a glance before dissolving into a fit of laughter.
Forget smiling, John couldn't help being utterly amazed and awed by Sherlock Holmes.