From Which Love Grows 22: Trials
Title: From Which Loves Grows 22: Trials
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 2764
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, John, OFC, Lestrade, Sally, Mrs Hudson
Three weeks, seven botany professors, twelve museums, four botanical gardens, three football matches, one terrarium, four plant lights, six houses of worship, seven John Food formulations, two cases, and forty-five disastrous minutes of trying to pull in the local pub later, Sherlock and John entered a nursery-one that carried only live, potted flowers and shrubs.
The shop keep-52-56 years old, spinster, avid reader (probably romance novels), preparing for a holiday in Kent, prone to rheumatic attacks during weather changes-smiled when they walked in and gave a cheery, ‘Anything I can help you with, just let me know.’ John returned her smile and began looking around. Sherlock walked straight to her, pulling out his mobile on the way.
‘Have you ever seen a flower like this?’ Sherlock held out the phone, showing her several shots of John in his natural state.
She considered the images as he flicked through them, then lightly took hold of his hand, angling the phone closer.
‘Oh- Well… I don’t think I have. The flower itself looks like something in the Hyacinthoides family’, she said, releasing his hand, ‘but the foliage is more like that of the Violaceae.’ She looked up at him. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m not certain. I’m looking for suggestions on how best to preserve it. Keep it blooming.’
‘How long has it been in bloom?’
‘Since May.’
‘That’s rather productive. Typically a plant, particularly something this size, wouldn’t bloom for more than maybe two or three months. But you might be able to force it this winter’, she continued. ‘Cut it back, put it into-’
‘That’s not an option’ Sherlock stopped her. ‘I want to keep it blooming, keep it alive. I want this blossom’-he struck the image on the phone-‘to continue.’
She looked again at the image. ‘It’s had this flower all that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hm. Very unusual. And it’s been the only flower?’
‘Yes. And the seed was the size and shape of a bean and it responds well to standard plant food, prefers slightly acidic soil, has never lost a leaf, and likes full-to-partial sun.’
She looked up at him and grinned. ‘I take it I’m not the first person you’ve asked about it.’
‘No. I’ve tried everywhere:University of London, Kew, Angers. No one knows anything.’
‘And you’re asking me? When the experts didn’t know anything?’
‘I, unlike many, am perfectly happy to work with so-called amateurs, when they are useful.’
‘Oh, well.’ She could have been pleased with his attitude toward amateurs if not for his emphasis on their-and obviously her lack of-usefulness.
‘However, since you can’t help me- John.’ When he turned to collect John, he saw him staring halfway across the shop at a flower near the register in back. ‘John?’
‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’ John began to move, but Sherlock was already at his side.
‘What is it?’
‘Not sure, but she’s beautiful.’ John turned back to gaze again at the plant.
‘Yes, she is, isn’t she?’ the woman said, joining them.
‘She?’ Sherlock asked.
‘Well, not technically a she-few flowering plants are dioecious’, she informed them. ‘But it has a female name; it’s a Mary variety Streptocarpus. Come have a closer look.’
They all walked to gather around the stand where it sat, Sherlock apart and angled just so, that he might examine John’s response to this please, let it be life-saving plant.
The woman began discussing the thing with John, seemed to be assessing his level of interest in and knowledge of plants, but Sherlock barely heeded their words. His focus was solely on John’s face, his expression, his stance, the tone of his voice when he gestured to the blossom before him. Is this it? He wondered. Is this what love looks like? He tried to summon an image of love, compare it to what he saw, but when he concentrated on the word, on what it must feel like, he got only waves of dark, soft hair, murmured bits of lullabies, tea and toast and rain on window panes, and sad eyes above a ridiculous umbrella-print tie-none of which had anything to do with John, so he turned his attention back to the here and now.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘£18.20.’
‘We’ll take it.’
‘We will?’ John interjected.
‘Of course we will. You like it.’
‘Yeah, but…’ And then he noticed the look in Sherlock’s eye. He turned away from the confused florist and spoke low. ‘Sherlock, I don’t feel…any different. About her, me. Anything.’
‘You might; give it time’, Sherlock urged. ‘Look, there’s no reason not to buy it. Her’, he corrected, turning back to the florist and reaching for his wallet.
‘Who’s going to take care of it?’ John asked full-voiced.
‘You are, obviously.’
‘And when I’m gone?’
Sherlock looked back at him. John held his gaze for a long beat, his face as calm as the words had been, then walked away. Sherlock took a deep breath, turned, and said again, ‘We’ll take it.’
As she rang up the sale, the woman asked quietly, ‘Cancer, is it?’ When Sherlock looked his displeasure down his nose at her, she added, ‘I’m sorry. None of my business.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘I just heard him saying-and I thought.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, it’s good to have something to take care of, I suppose. And flowers are good company. I’ve always found them so, anyway’, she added with a shrug and a small smile. Lifting the pot to settle it carefully into a carrier bag, she offered in a rush, ‘Look, if you find you can’t take care of it after, or you just don’t want it round the house, you can bring it back.’
Sherlock took the bag, considered her a moment more, and murmured a reluctant ‘Thank you’, then headed outside to where John waited on the pavement.
That evening, after John had spent a considerable amount of time making sure that their new addition was ‘comfortable’, Sherlock called him to the kitchen and held up a test tube for his inspection. He had filled it with lightly packed dirt and bored a hole through its rubber stopper.
‘It’s already moist and I added some of your food with the water. Climb in.’
John looked uncertain, but he did as Sherlock asked. He was working so hard to find ways to keep John alive, to keep him mobile and with him; John couldn’t not try. So he shrank down, placed one miniature foot into the hole through the stopper, and changed to a flower shape, rooting himself into the soil in the process.
‘Well?’ John didn’t move and Sherlock waited impatiently through the few minutes that it took for John to make his assessment. Finally, the flower moved and morphed, becoming John once again.
‘It feels alright’, John allowed. ‘I guess we can give it a try.’
‘Excellent’, Sherlock said. ‘Now we just need to devise a secure fastener.’
John still felt somewhat queasy about what they were doing. When Sherlock had first explained buttonholes and how they might hide John in plain sight, John had been shocked. ‘You want me to play dead on your lapel?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. I simply want you to look like a typical buttonhole flower while you’re in a vial of enriched soil fastened to my coat.’
John could not see the difference, but he had agreed to give the plan a try. He, too, wanted to find a way to continue helping Sherlock on his cases, although how he could help while stuck to Sherlock in flower form remained to be seen. It wasn’t the best solution-John was still morphed from his natural flower state-but he didn’t expend nearly so much energy this way, they’d found, and he could absorb some nutrients while plant-shaped.
So John took a patch of fabric from an old dark shirt and sewed it to the back of Sherlock’s coat lapel, putting to use the lessons he’d had from Mrs Hudson a few months back when he’d decided to see what could be done about keeping Sherlock’s active wardrobe in better repair. His stitches weren’t neat-good thing he wasn’t supposed to be a surgeon-but they were strong and functional. The slim pocket held the test tube firmly in place, the lapel itself hid the slightly ragged stitches, and the vial’s presence interfered only minimally with Sherlock’s habit of turning up his coat collar.
Their first test of the arrangement came late the next morning. Lestrade called Sherlock seeking help on a questionable death. Lestrade’s instincts told him he had a murder inquiry-indeed, the case had initially been investigated as suspicious, but evidence pointed to it being an accident. Unwilling to let go and running out of time to justify further police effort, the DI called on his consultant.
Sherlock had no more than walked into Lestrade’s office when Donovan stopped in her conversation and exclaimed, ‘What is that?’ Sherlock followed her disbelieving eyes to his lapel.
‘Buttonhole, obviously.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a lady friend?’ she taunted.
‘You think I have a lady friend because I’m wearing a flower on my lapel? Yet another of your trademark and incorrect assumptions that take the place of the logic and reason a true detective would use.’
Stung, Sally tried to sting back. ‘Gentleman friend, then?’
Sherlock looked to the file Lestrade was handing him.
‘I have a carnation, that is all.’
‘Actually, that’s a bachelor’s button’, Lestrade interjected.
‘What?’
‘Your flower. It’s not a carnation; it’s a bachelor’s button.’
‘And what would you know about flowers?’ Sherlock scoffed.
‘I know enough to know the difference between a carnation and a bachelor’s button.’ He shrugged at Sherlock’s look. ‘My gran had a garden. Used to play there when I was a lad.’
Sherlock began spreading the contents of the file over Lestrade’s desk, effectively displacing the detective. Lestrade sighed and motioned Sgt Donovan to follow him out so they could finish their discussion elsewhere. When they returned, Sherlock was smirking over a series of statements and pictures lined up before him.
‘Congratulations, Lestrade; you were right for once. Well, almost’, Sherlock qualified, holding out two of the photos. They were the ones in which John, leaning over and clutching to Sherlock’s lapel, had spotted a crucial bit of evidence. Sherlock had noted it, too, but he was always just a bit pleased when John showed himself to be paying attention. He hadn’t even told John that he’d certainly already noticed the broken half teapot lying in the corner of one photo, the date and time stamp of which proclaimed it to have been taken moments before another in which the teapot stood intact and serving as a planter to some small flowering thing. ‘Narcissus’, John said. ‘Flower-not-John’, Sherlock registered.
Sherlock described the inconsistency, the ease with which the deceased’s wife had undoubtedly reset the time on her camera, and the implications for her lack of honesty in relating the events surrounding her husband’s death. While Lestrade, wearing a satisfied grin, called his Superintendent, Sherlock made a quick exit to get John back home and into his pot.
That evening, Sherlock received a text from Lestrade to thank him for his help on the case, informing him that the wife had already been arrested and made a full confession. Immediately following were two photos of flowers confirming John as a bachelor’s button.
Not a week had passed when Mrs Hudson was descending the steps from 221B as Sherlock was bursting through the front door. She paused to take in the sight of him: a swirl of blue coat, normally-pale cheeks reddened by the cold, scarf already half off and about to be flung around the newel post. Although the last few months had given her ample opportunity to see Sherlock in his dormant state, it was this version of him that most often came to mind: the frenetic, manic blur of brilliance and sometimes charm that so easily drew a person in, his very presence an anticipation of something amazing about to happen. It was the same energy that had drawn her to her husband, grabbed her up and-well, that hadn’t turned out so well, had it?
‘Have you ever entered a building quietly, Sherlock?’
‘Plenty of times’, he stated, flipping his scarf over the finial. ‘When necessary.’
‘You might try being quiet around here sometimes’, she suggested, finishing her descent. ‘Have a bit of consideration for your flatmate. You’ve been running him positively ragged, haven’t you?’ she accused. ‘Poor thing. He didn’t even wake up when I was in dropping off some biscuits. Just laid on the sofa sleeping like the dead.’
Sherlock’s eyes widened and his breath caught, and he was dashing up the stairs before she had finished speaking.
‘Sherlock’, Mrs Hudson complained as he thumped away above her, ‘that’s-’ Her grumbling ‘Ohh’ was lost beneath his footfalls.
He flung the door wide to find John just sitting up in surprise. But for the exhaustion clear in his face and movements, it could have been the first moment Sherlock had seen John, and he blinked to resolve one image from the other: the fresh new wonder from the familiar and worn.
‘If you’re going to rest, do it on your plant’, Sherlock admonished.
‘I just sat down for a minute.’
Sherlock huffed, kicked the door shut behind him, and hung his coat on the rack. ‘And when was that?’ he asked. He turned back to see John looking at his watch, clearly surprised.
‘Not long’, John started. At Sherlock’s look, he conceded, ‘A couple hours ago.’
‘A couple of hours during which you could have been soaking up nutrients.’ Sherlock stopped short of the full litany he had settled into over the past few weeks, omitting the energy that John could have both saved and replenished and the time he was potentially cheating himself of.
‘Cold out?’ John asked. ‘I’ll make you some tea. Warm you up a bit.’
Sherlock didn’t tell John to sit and save his strength-they’d had that argument enough times. Instead he went to the window to watch as the late afternoon sky rapidly darkened, the sun giving up its futile fight against the clouds that had hung louring over London most of the day. By the time John handed him a steaming cup, the predicted storm had arrived.
It wasn’t a real snow, not even by recent London standards, just a few odd flakes coming down with a traffic-halting wall of sleet. But it was snow, there, just on the other side of the windowpane, held at bay by nothing more than a thin sheet of glass. Occasional gusts brought ice pelting against the window, the brittle tap-tap-tapping like a skeletal hand trying to break through. It was as if Nature itself were trying to force its way into the flat, reaching deathly claws into the warmth they maintained there, trying to grasp John and steal him away. Was this the winter I’d hoped for, only for the sake of a pair of gloves?
John stood just behind him, arms wrapped around his pot as he watched the storm, too. Sherlock closed the drapes and moved to adjust the thermostat. John continued to stare at the window.
‘Thank you', he said quietly.
‘Save your thanks until I find a way to hold winter at bay’, Sherlock groused. ‘So much for global warming.’
John moved slowly to place his pot on the coffee table. ‘I owe you so much’, he said. ‘If you’d never planted the seed, I wouldn’t be alive. Or if you’d tossed it out, fed it to birds, I could have come up through some crack in the pavement, been trampled before I’d even flowered.’ He faced Sherlock. ‘I’ve lived because of you.’
‘And you’re dying because I can’t think of a way to save you.’
‘I don’t expect you to save me. You’ve already given me one life.’
Moments, Sherlock thought. I’ve given you moments. And that simply wasn’t enough for John, who wanted to really be a doctor, who wanted to see the world, wanted to solve crimes and write stories about them and live. Just live. I haven't given you nearly enough.
‘Get some rest, John. You’re turning blue.’
Master Post 21: Resolve 23: The Impossible
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 2764
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, John, OFC, Lestrade, Sally, Mrs Hudson
Three weeks, seven botany professors, twelve museums, four botanical gardens, three football matches, one terrarium, four plant lights, six houses of worship, seven John Food formulations, two cases, and forty-five disastrous minutes of trying to pull in the local pub later, Sherlock and John entered a nursery-one that carried only live, potted flowers and shrubs.
The shop keep-52-56 years old, spinster, avid reader (probably romance novels), preparing for a holiday in Kent, prone to rheumatic attacks during weather changes-smiled when they walked in and gave a cheery, ‘Anything I can help you with, just let me know.’ John returned her smile and began looking around. Sherlock walked straight to her, pulling out his mobile on the way.
‘Have you ever seen a flower like this?’ Sherlock held out the phone, showing her several shots of John in his natural state.
She considered the images as he flicked through them, then lightly took hold of his hand, angling the phone closer.
‘Oh- Well… I don’t think I have. The flower itself looks like something in the Hyacinthoides family’, she said, releasing his hand, ‘but the foliage is more like that of the Violaceae.’ She looked up at him. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m not certain. I’m looking for suggestions on how best to preserve it. Keep it blooming.’
‘How long has it been in bloom?’
‘Since May.’
‘That’s rather productive. Typically a plant, particularly something this size, wouldn’t bloom for more than maybe two or three months. But you might be able to force it this winter’, she continued. ‘Cut it back, put it into-’
‘That’s not an option’ Sherlock stopped her. ‘I want to keep it blooming, keep it alive. I want this blossom’-he struck the image on the phone-‘to continue.’
She looked again at the image. ‘It’s had this flower all that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hm. Very unusual. And it’s been the only flower?’
‘Yes. And the seed was the size and shape of a bean and it responds well to standard plant food, prefers slightly acidic soil, has never lost a leaf, and likes full-to-partial sun.’
She looked up at him and grinned. ‘I take it I’m not the first person you’ve asked about it.’
‘No. I’ve tried everywhere:University of London, Kew, Angers. No one knows anything.’
‘And you’re asking me? When the experts didn’t know anything?’
‘I, unlike many, am perfectly happy to work with so-called amateurs, when they are useful.’
‘Oh, well.’ She could have been pleased with his attitude toward amateurs if not for his emphasis on their-and obviously her lack of-usefulness.
‘However, since you can’t help me- John.’ When he turned to collect John, he saw him staring halfway across the shop at a flower near the register in back. ‘John?’
‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’ John began to move, but Sherlock was already at his side.
‘What is it?’
‘Not sure, but she’s beautiful.’ John turned back to gaze again at the plant.
‘Yes, she is, isn’t she?’ the woman said, joining them.
‘She?’ Sherlock asked.
‘Well, not technically a she-few flowering plants are dioecious’, she informed them. ‘But it has a female name; it’s a Mary variety Streptocarpus. Come have a closer look.’
They all walked to gather around the stand where it sat, Sherlock apart and angled just so, that he might examine John’s response to this please, let it be life-saving plant.
The woman began discussing the thing with John, seemed to be assessing his level of interest in and knowledge of plants, but Sherlock barely heeded their words. His focus was solely on John’s face, his expression, his stance, the tone of his voice when he gestured to the blossom before him. Is this it? He wondered. Is this what love looks like? He tried to summon an image of love, compare it to what he saw, but when he concentrated on the word, on what it must feel like, he got only waves of dark, soft hair, murmured bits of lullabies, tea and toast and rain on window panes, and sad eyes above a ridiculous umbrella-print tie-none of which had anything to do with John, so he turned his attention back to the here and now.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘£18.20.’
‘We’ll take it.’
‘We will?’ John interjected.
‘Of course we will. You like it.’
‘Yeah, but…’ And then he noticed the look in Sherlock’s eye. He turned away from the confused florist and spoke low. ‘Sherlock, I don’t feel…any different. About her, me. Anything.’
‘You might; give it time’, Sherlock urged. ‘Look, there’s no reason not to buy it. Her’, he corrected, turning back to the florist and reaching for his wallet.
‘Who’s going to take care of it?’ John asked full-voiced.
‘You are, obviously.’
‘And when I’m gone?’
Sherlock looked back at him. John held his gaze for a long beat, his face as calm as the words had been, then walked away. Sherlock took a deep breath, turned, and said again, ‘We’ll take it.’
As she rang up the sale, the woman asked quietly, ‘Cancer, is it?’ When Sherlock looked his displeasure down his nose at her, she added, ‘I’m sorry. None of my business.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘I just heard him saying-and I thought.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, it’s good to have something to take care of, I suppose. And flowers are good company. I’ve always found them so, anyway’, she added with a shrug and a small smile. Lifting the pot to settle it carefully into a carrier bag, she offered in a rush, ‘Look, if you find you can’t take care of it after, or you just don’t want it round the house, you can bring it back.’
Sherlock took the bag, considered her a moment more, and murmured a reluctant ‘Thank you’, then headed outside to where John waited on the pavement.
That evening, after John had spent a considerable amount of time making sure that their new addition was ‘comfortable’, Sherlock called him to the kitchen and held up a test tube for his inspection. He had filled it with lightly packed dirt and bored a hole through its rubber stopper.
‘It’s already moist and I added some of your food with the water. Climb in.’
John looked uncertain, but he did as Sherlock asked. He was working so hard to find ways to keep John alive, to keep him mobile and with him; John couldn’t not try. So he shrank down, placed one miniature foot into the hole through the stopper, and changed to a flower shape, rooting himself into the soil in the process.
‘Well?’ John didn’t move and Sherlock waited impatiently through the few minutes that it took for John to make his assessment. Finally, the flower moved and morphed, becoming John once again.
‘It feels alright’, John allowed. ‘I guess we can give it a try.’
‘Excellent’, Sherlock said. ‘Now we just need to devise a secure fastener.’
John still felt somewhat queasy about what they were doing. When Sherlock had first explained buttonholes and how they might hide John in plain sight, John had been shocked. ‘You want me to play dead on your lapel?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. I simply want you to look like a typical buttonhole flower while you’re in a vial of enriched soil fastened to my coat.’
John could not see the difference, but he had agreed to give the plan a try. He, too, wanted to find a way to continue helping Sherlock on his cases, although how he could help while stuck to Sherlock in flower form remained to be seen. It wasn’t the best solution-John was still morphed from his natural flower state-but he didn’t expend nearly so much energy this way, they’d found, and he could absorb some nutrients while plant-shaped.
So John took a patch of fabric from an old dark shirt and sewed it to the back of Sherlock’s coat lapel, putting to use the lessons he’d had from Mrs Hudson a few months back when he’d decided to see what could be done about keeping Sherlock’s active wardrobe in better repair. His stitches weren’t neat-good thing he wasn’t supposed to be a surgeon-but they were strong and functional. The slim pocket held the test tube firmly in place, the lapel itself hid the slightly ragged stitches, and the vial’s presence interfered only minimally with Sherlock’s habit of turning up his coat collar.
Their first test of the arrangement came late the next morning. Lestrade called Sherlock seeking help on a questionable death. Lestrade’s instincts told him he had a murder inquiry-indeed, the case had initially been investigated as suspicious, but evidence pointed to it being an accident. Unwilling to let go and running out of time to justify further police effort, the DI called on his consultant.
Sherlock had no more than walked into Lestrade’s office when Donovan stopped in her conversation and exclaimed, ‘What is that?’ Sherlock followed her disbelieving eyes to his lapel.
‘Buttonhole, obviously.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a lady friend?’ she taunted.
‘You think I have a lady friend because I’m wearing a flower on my lapel? Yet another of your trademark and incorrect assumptions that take the place of the logic and reason a true detective would use.’
Stung, Sally tried to sting back. ‘Gentleman friend, then?’
Sherlock looked to the file Lestrade was handing him.
‘I have a carnation, that is all.’
‘Actually, that’s a bachelor’s button’, Lestrade interjected.
‘What?’
‘Your flower. It’s not a carnation; it’s a bachelor’s button.’
‘And what would you know about flowers?’ Sherlock scoffed.
‘I know enough to know the difference between a carnation and a bachelor’s button.’ He shrugged at Sherlock’s look. ‘My gran had a garden. Used to play there when I was a lad.’
Sherlock began spreading the contents of the file over Lestrade’s desk, effectively displacing the detective. Lestrade sighed and motioned Sgt Donovan to follow him out so they could finish their discussion elsewhere. When they returned, Sherlock was smirking over a series of statements and pictures lined up before him.
‘Congratulations, Lestrade; you were right for once. Well, almost’, Sherlock qualified, holding out two of the photos. They were the ones in which John, leaning over and clutching to Sherlock’s lapel, had spotted a crucial bit of evidence. Sherlock had noted it, too, but he was always just a bit pleased when John showed himself to be paying attention. He hadn’t even told John that he’d certainly already noticed the broken half teapot lying in the corner of one photo, the date and time stamp of which proclaimed it to have been taken moments before another in which the teapot stood intact and serving as a planter to some small flowering thing. ‘Narcissus’, John said. ‘Flower-not-John’, Sherlock registered.
Sherlock described the inconsistency, the ease with which the deceased’s wife had undoubtedly reset the time on her camera, and the implications for her lack of honesty in relating the events surrounding her husband’s death. While Lestrade, wearing a satisfied grin, called his Superintendent, Sherlock made a quick exit to get John back home and into his pot.
That evening, Sherlock received a text from Lestrade to thank him for his help on the case, informing him that the wife had already been arrested and made a full confession. Immediately following were two photos of flowers confirming John as a bachelor’s button.
Not a week had passed when Mrs Hudson was descending the steps from 221B as Sherlock was bursting through the front door. She paused to take in the sight of him: a swirl of blue coat, normally-pale cheeks reddened by the cold, scarf already half off and about to be flung around the newel post. Although the last few months had given her ample opportunity to see Sherlock in his dormant state, it was this version of him that most often came to mind: the frenetic, manic blur of brilliance and sometimes charm that so easily drew a person in, his very presence an anticipation of something amazing about to happen. It was the same energy that had drawn her to her husband, grabbed her up and-well, that hadn’t turned out so well, had it?
‘Have you ever entered a building quietly, Sherlock?’
‘Plenty of times’, he stated, flipping his scarf over the finial. ‘When necessary.’
‘You might try being quiet around here sometimes’, she suggested, finishing her descent. ‘Have a bit of consideration for your flatmate. You’ve been running him positively ragged, haven’t you?’ she accused. ‘Poor thing. He didn’t even wake up when I was in dropping off some biscuits. Just laid on the sofa sleeping like the dead.’
Sherlock’s eyes widened and his breath caught, and he was dashing up the stairs before she had finished speaking.
‘Sherlock’, Mrs Hudson complained as he thumped away above her, ‘that’s-’ Her grumbling ‘Ohh’ was lost beneath his footfalls.
He flung the door wide to find John just sitting up in surprise. But for the exhaustion clear in his face and movements, it could have been the first moment Sherlock had seen John, and he blinked to resolve one image from the other: the fresh new wonder from the familiar and worn.
‘If you’re going to rest, do it on your plant’, Sherlock admonished.
‘I just sat down for a minute.’
Sherlock huffed, kicked the door shut behind him, and hung his coat on the rack. ‘And when was that?’ he asked. He turned back to see John looking at his watch, clearly surprised.
‘Not long’, John started. At Sherlock’s look, he conceded, ‘A couple hours ago.’
‘A couple of hours during which you could have been soaking up nutrients.’ Sherlock stopped short of the full litany he had settled into over the past few weeks, omitting the energy that John could have both saved and replenished and the time he was potentially cheating himself of.
‘Cold out?’ John asked. ‘I’ll make you some tea. Warm you up a bit.’
Sherlock didn’t tell John to sit and save his strength-they’d had that argument enough times. Instead he went to the window to watch as the late afternoon sky rapidly darkened, the sun giving up its futile fight against the clouds that had hung louring over London most of the day. By the time John handed him a steaming cup, the predicted storm had arrived.
It wasn’t a real snow, not even by recent London standards, just a few odd flakes coming down with a traffic-halting wall of sleet. But it was snow, there, just on the other side of the windowpane, held at bay by nothing more than a thin sheet of glass. Occasional gusts brought ice pelting against the window, the brittle tap-tap-tapping like a skeletal hand trying to break through. It was as if Nature itself were trying to force its way into the flat, reaching deathly claws into the warmth they maintained there, trying to grasp John and steal him away. Was this the winter I’d hoped for, only for the sake of a pair of gloves?
John stood just behind him, arms wrapped around his pot as he watched the storm, too. Sherlock closed the drapes and moved to adjust the thermostat. John continued to stare at the window.
‘Thank you', he said quietly.
‘Save your thanks until I find a way to hold winter at bay’, Sherlock groused. ‘So much for global warming.’
John moved slowly to place his pot on the coffee table. ‘I owe you so much’, he said. ‘If you’d never planted the seed, I wouldn’t be alive. Or if you’d tossed it out, fed it to birds, I could have come up through some crack in the pavement, been trampled before I’d even flowered.’ He faced Sherlock. ‘I’ve lived because of you.’
‘And you’re dying because I can’t think of a way to save you.’
‘I don’t expect you to save me. You’ve already given me one life.’
Moments, Sherlock thought. I’ve given you moments. And that simply wasn’t enough for John, who wanted to really be a doctor, who wanted to see the world, wanted to solve crimes and write stories about them and live. Just live. I haven't given you nearly enough.
‘Get some rest, John. You’re turning blue.’
Master Post 21: Resolve 23: The Impossible