It’s a gift Sherlock has - knowing what people want before they know what they want. He knows the arrangement. He knows the colour. He even knows what it’s for, perhaps the most perturbing of all. Graduations, weddings, funerals, hospital visits… He knows down to the diagnosis or the cause of death. It wards some off. It baffles most, leaving them passing him pounds with dropped jaws as he calmly wraps their blossoms in plastic and asks if that will be everything.
When a man walks into his pollen- and dust-filled shop just before close, Sherlock studies him with one glance, then looks away and returns to his roses. He plucks off a dead petal. Doctor invalidated home from Afghanistan. Single, not necessarily looking but wouldn’t mind an encounter. No close relatives. No recent deaths. No cause for celebration or mourning.
Sherlock scrunches his face up and plucks another leaf. There isn’t any reason for him to be there that Sherlock can find. It’s upsetting. He keeps his composure and opens his mouth to calmly mention that the shop closes in five minutes, but the man beats him to speaking.
“It’s a lovely shop you have,” he says quietly, admiring the hanging flowers opposite Sherlock’s rose bunch. Sherlock looks behind him. He can only see the man from behind.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, bemused. It isn’t an unusual compliment to get, but coming from this undemanding, unrustled, unhurried man, it’s oddly charming.
“I like the roses the most, but I guess that’s a cliche,” the man continues.
Humming in agreement, Sherlock sniffs and begins to go back to his task. “Yes, it is. Roses are among my most popular selections. It gets predictable.” He can’t help but glance at the very unpredictable person floundering around behind him.
“I can imagine,” the man sympathises with a chuckle. “Must get tedious. But you still put everything into this place.” Still keeping his face hidden, he reaches up to hold one of the delicate snapdragons. “I pass by on my way to work. You’re always out watering your plants and fertilizing them at six forty five in the bloody morning; even on days when your shop isn’t open.” His smile is soft and contemplative. “I usually get off work after you close. I never get the chance to stop in and tell you how amazing all this is. I had a chance to, today.” The man turns and smiles at Sherlock. “So, here I am,” he says, hands clasped behind his back.
He has a tired face that looks like it would be stern, if not for the smile and the kindness in his eyes. He’s certainly handsome, strikingly so to Sherlock, who stands dumbstruck and speechless. His shop was typically one of desperation without repetition filled with one-time guests - forgotten anniversaries, sudden deaths in the family, emergency surgeries, second cousins twice removed graduating. To have his shop, his talent, his life complimented and admired from afar for so long by the same person is beyond touching.
Sherlock clears his throat to try and summon words, to no avail. Instead, he turns and gently teases one of the roses up and out of the bouquet he has prepared. He offers it to the other man and says, voice soft, “The store closes in five minutes,” which is absolutely not what he meant to say, but it’s said nonetheless, and a slightly panicked look comes to his eyes when his admiring client takes the rose, clearly confused by the mixed signals.
“Right,” he says, turning the rose over in his hands. “Thanks for, ah. This. It’s nice.” He smiles awkwardly and begins to shuffle towards the door, mentally kicking himself for sounding like a stalker. A gurgled noise stops him, and he looks behind him to the shop owner, whose hand is outstretched as if to try and stop him from going.
“That is,” Sherlock stammers, putting his hand down, “I meant to say… I get here every morning at six thirty. Shop opens at nine, as you likely know. Should you pass by earlier than your usual time, feel free to knock. You’ll know I’m n.” He gestures to the left towards the store next door. “Mrs Hudson makes a strong cup of coffee. The scones are good, too. She gave me a spare key in exchange for watering her begonias.” He put his hands behind his back. “If you ever want a coffee, it would be on the house.”
Blinking, the soldier narrows his eyes. “You would break into a coffee shop to have a cup and chat with me at six thirty in the morning?” he asks with a raised brow.
Sherlock doesn’t falter when he corrects him. “I have a key; it wouldn’t be breaking in. But otherwise, yes, you are correct. All so you can compliment my shop some more, of course.” When the other man grins, Sherlock smiles, pleased with himself. He extends his right hand. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says formally.
“I guessed as much,” the man acknowledges, nodding to the large window with the words ‘FLOWERS BY SHERLOCK HOLMES’ painted elegantly on the glass. It embarrasses Sherlock. Still, he holds his hand out as well and shakes Sherlock’s. “John Watson,” he greets with a smile.
Sherlock doesn’t let go of his hand - John Watson’s hand - for a few seconds, and John doesn’t let go of his either. They simply look at each other as pollen and dust gently dance around them in the sun’s evening rays. The silence is old and familiar and something clicks into place among the ferns and roses. John wheezes a delightful little laugh and ducks his head, embarrassed. Sherlock lets go of his hand but remains smiling. “Let me know if you’re ever in need of my services,” he offers. “I am reputed to know the intention of every client who walks through my door, but you are the first to stump me. May need some guidance.”
A proud smirk comes to John’s face. He hums and twirls the rose in his fingers, admiring its bloom. “You’ll be the first man I turn to,” he promises, sincerity in his tone that makes Sherlock smile.
Both John and Sherlock glance at the wall clock, noting the time. John turns to the door and smiles as Sherlock hastily jogs to open it for him. With a quiet ‘thank you’, John passes through the door and turns to face him through the threshold. “How’s six thirty on Thursday sound?” he asks, confident and unabashed.
Sherlock doesn’t bother muting the grin on his face. It wrinkles his eyes, flattens his lower lip, and makes him feel as warm as the sun looks around John. “I’ll have it brewing,” he promises.
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