221B Fic: Fractal Flowers
Title: Fractal Flowers
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: If John indulges in some fanciful thoughts about flowers now and then, there's no need for Sherlock to know.
Word Count: 221
When he was a boy, John Watson read a tale in which flowers bloomed wherever a princess walked, springing in her footsteps, a carpet of petals and leaves. A sign of her purity, a gift from some benign fairy.
A highly impractical gift, Sherlock murmurs over his shoulder with his lopsided smile as he spots John reading it one day. Unless she wants work as a gardener. So John merely smiles and nods and agrees, and never tells him that he thinks of Sherlock as that princess. Oh, not with the flowers, of course (the image is absurd, it makes John snort with laughter), but with something more priceless.
For meaning unfolds where Sherlock Holmes treads, and purpose, and order: fractal flowers spreading outward in his wake, intricate and bewitching. He cares nothing for it, striding forward with his eyes fixed on his ever-receding truth, but John (a step behind, always a step behind) walks forever on an unfurling tapestry of perfect patterns, of life given weight and direction. John sees what Sherlock cannot: the way structure and revelation bloom in his footprints, more beautiful than any earthly orchid, more precious than any mundane lily.
John Watson gathers Sherlock's deductions like roses, understanding like violets, and significance like the brightest daisies, and the arms of his heart overflow with illuminating blossoms.
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: If John indulges in some fanciful thoughts about flowers now and then, there's no need for Sherlock to know.
Word Count: 221
When he was a boy, John Watson read a tale in which flowers bloomed wherever a princess walked, springing in her footsteps, a carpet of petals and leaves. A sign of her purity, a gift from some benign fairy.
A highly impractical gift, Sherlock murmurs over his shoulder with his lopsided smile as he spots John reading it one day. Unless she wants work as a gardener. So John merely smiles and nods and agrees, and never tells him that he thinks of Sherlock as that princess. Oh, not with the flowers, of course (the image is absurd, it makes John snort with laughter), but with something more priceless.
For meaning unfolds where Sherlock Holmes treads, and purpose, and order: fractal flowers spreading outward in his wake, intricate and bewitching. He cares nothing for it, striding forward with his eyes fixed on his ever-receding truth, but John (a step behind, always a step behind) walks forever on an unfurling tapestry of perfect patterns, of life given weight and direction. John sees what Sherlock cannot: the way structure and revelation bloom in his footprints, more beautiful than any earthly orchid, more precious than any mundane lily.
John Watson gathers Sherlock's deductions like roses, understanding like violets, and significance like the brightest daisies, and the arms of his heart overflow with illuminating blossoms.