Johnlockary - Flowers for Valentines
@scribuary prompt #5 is flowers and their meanings, so I wrote this little scene with John, Mary, and Sherlock! It’s a bit of my personal headcanon, where John and Mary move in downstairs after Mrs. Hudson retires, and Sherlock and John continue their slow exploration of ~feelings~ for each other.
From the living room, Sherlock’s ears tracked John’s footsteps as he came in off the street, strode past the stairs - bounce in his step, good mood - and entered the first-floor flat for a few minutes, before clattering up the stairs. Sherlock, by the window, and Mary, knitting in John’s chair, both turn towards him.
“Happy Valentines Day, love,” John said, presenting Mary with a bouquet roses - red, symbol of romantic love, almost certainly a traditional dozen - with a flourish.
“Oh John,” said Mary, beaming up at him. “They’re beautiful!”
Sherlock let his eyes slide away as they kissed. His catalog of ticket stubs was due for an update. He’d have to go out, collect some samples.
“I’ll go put these in some water,” he heard Mary say, and then she was moving towards the kitchen.
“And, well,” John turned and held a hand out to Sherlock. “For you.”
This was… unexpected. Sherlock put out his palm, and received... a very small, purple flower.
Sherlock stared at it.
“They were on sale,” John said, shifting his weight.
“John!” cried Mary, roses now bursting from Sherlock’s largest erlenmeyer flask.
“Of course not,” Sherlock said, quite in agreement with her tone. “No flowers are on sale this day, of all days. Even a very small one - consumerism at its best. Did you steal it?”
John laughed.
“No! No, I did not - I didn’t buy them today. I bought them months ago, as a plant. Been growing in a pot on the windowsill. They actually… they’d been with Mrs. Hudson, she got more light in her window. Our window, now.”
Sherlock held it up, level with his eyes. Five lobed petals on a slender stalk, 2.5cm in diameter, no specialty garden stores along John’s commute, so fairly common houseplant. “African violets.”
“Yes.”
Sherlock frowned. This felt important. Why would John hand him a flower?
John shifted his weight. “I was… going to plant them. By your grave.”
Sentiment. “Why?”
“As a symbol. To help me… move on. But I chose the wrong flower for that.”
“Violets…” murmured Sherlock. “They symbolize.... loyalty. Devotion.” The small flower in his hand felt soft. Delicate.
He hadn’t thought John was delicate, when he’d… left. Good, sturdy John, always dependable, always ordinary. The punch he'd thrown when Sherlock revealed himself had felt like the weight of the world, crashing him back down into solid earth.
Strong, but not immune to hurt, his conductor of light.
Sherlock studied John’s face, now a bit flushed. Embarrassment.
John shifted his weight again. “I...didn’t think you’d keep that sort of information. Flower meanings. You can see why it didn’t exactly help me getting over… well.”
He cleared his throat. “Not the right climate for them anyways, out of doors.”
Sherlock lightly twirled the flower in his finger, unsure how to respond. His default off-hand sarcasm would have to do. “And what am I supposed to do with this? Shall I press it dry between two pages of my diary and then encase it in a locket to clutch at my next funeral?”
“I think it’d look quite lovely in your hair,” Mary suggested, with a little smile. She’d returned to her knitting. “Purple’s a very fetching color for you.”
Sherlock tucked it behind his ear, and John smiled.
“Thank you, John,” said Sherlock. “It’s beautiful.”