Work Text:
Our clients stare in disbelief as Holmes speaks of flowers and the goodness of Providence that provides such extras in our lives. This is not the sharp-minded detective they have read in the STRAND, their confused faces tell me, the precise and cold-blooded reasoner of my stories. Reputations and careers are at stake, two great nations might be preparing for war even as we speak – and my old schoolfriend Watson has brought us a poet who stands at windows holding roses!
They are bewildered. Not I.
For I have seen the man close to tears with despair, and it was in my arms that he found sanctuary. He has whispered prayers for my safety, murmured words of love, and coolly notified me that his death will be within the hour of my own because the alternative is unthinkable.
True, I have witnessed the brilliant brain that graces my tales, sharp and precise, wounding wrongdoers. But I have also seen the tender petals where the world only reads of the thorns, and I know how fragile and lovely is that blossom which I keep cupped in the palm of my hand, secure from all outsiders that would tear and destroy.
So I can only watch Holmes beside Tadpole and his fiancée, and I agree: A rose is such a thing of beauty.