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Searching his desk for something else entirely, Sherlock opened the second drawer down and stopped at the sight of a small wooden box.
It was an antique, irises carved fine into the lid — a present from an aunt, long ago. Inside it lived the things he had never quite managed to throw away: a trilobite fossil dug up at summer camp, a toy gold coin stamped with a skull.
On a whim, he opened it. On top of the clutter, quiet as anything, lay a single rose, dried brown with age.
He had lifted it onto his palm before he knew he was doing it. And as he looked at it, a remembered racing of the heart came back through him — something between pain and gladness, impossible to file as either.
◆ ◆ ◆
The case had been a level eight, seriously difficult, and solved beautifully. Sherlock and John left the scene still riding the height of it.
It wasn't far from the flat, and John — who had things to say about the brilliance of the deductions — proposed they skip the cab and walk. His praise landed, every time, exactly where Sherlock most wanted to be praised; it was very like music, and walking fast side by side, Sherlock couldn't quite keep the corners of his mouth down.
Their route cut through a market. John spotted a little flower stall, said "Wait here a moment," and — with a naturalness that simply flowed, the whole thing taking perhaps three seconds — bought one white rose and came back with it.
"Here. For you, if you'll have it."
"—What is this, John."
"It's a rose. Never seen one?"
"Obviously I have—"
"You were something else today. Thought you'd earned a present. Is it weird?"
"No — thank you."
John laughed, easy and open, put an arm round Sherlock's shoulder, and they walked on.
To hide his face, Sherlock bent to the pure white rose. The scent of it — green, young, drenched with freshness — filled him to the top of his breath, until his chest ached with it.
◆ ◆ ◆
"Hey, Sherlock — did we have batteries?"
A knock, the bedroom door opening, John coming in.
Sherlock moved to get the dried flower back into the box. Too late; John's eyes were quicker.
"What's that? A dried flower?"
"Nothing."
"Let me see — hang on. Is that the one I gave—"
"It's nothing!"
John reached for it, grinning. Sherlock twisted out of reach, laid the dried rose back in the box, and shut the clasp.
Carefully, carefully, gently — so that it would keep, unbroken, for ever and ever.
fin.