John buys Sherlock flowers.
It’s on a whim; he walks straight past the florist on the commute home every other day, doesn’t he? Only today the gaudy Easter arrangements and strands of faerie lights are something like a siren song, and he stops in front of the shop and bites his lip and stares at the window, and something in him says that this is a thing he ought to do.
He never bought his girlfriends flowers. They wilt and die, after all, and there’s all that awkward scrambling for water and a vase to put them in. Always seemed a sad waste of ten quid. Wine was a far more sound investment for an evening.
Sherlock won’t expect flowers, though, and there’s something about that that makes the idea infinitely more appealing. There’s no generic flowers-chocolates-wine-jewelry progression with Sherlock. There are instead ‘here, I saw this book on people who’ve been killed by their exotic pets and thought you’d enjoy it’ gifts and ‘here’s a Lucky Cat because I love making you laugh’ gifts, and he thinks flowers might be just the thing for a ‘here, I think you’re lovely and wanted you to have something lovely’ gift. It might even be a surprise, and it’s not often John gets the pleasure of surprising the World’s Most Observant Man.
He goes inside and stands there awkwardly, tries to browse casually and feels more awkward still. Eventually the shop-keep takes pity on him and strolls over and gives what sounds like a prepared sales pitch for straight blokes. Which is fair enough, John thinks, but he still appreciates how the man’s demeanor loosens up considerably when he tells him he’s looking for something for his partner, emphasis on the not-a-wife-or-girlfriend.
He leaves the shop with a recommendation for a pub he ought to check out, several enthusiastic well-wishes for his and Sherlock’s relationship, and a dramatic bundle of irises wrapped up in soft green paper.
They’re tall, and curly, and vibrantly purple. They make him smile.
He jogs up the stairs back at 221b to the bellow of Sherlock’s voice telling him he’s late, and that he shouldn’t have bothered stopping for bread on the way home because Mrs. Hudson already brought some.
John wears a small, knowing smirk that grows into a grin that grows into a wide, joyful smile at the sight of Sherlock’s furrowed brow and sudden, surprised silence. This is good; this is very good.
John clears his throat and ducks his head slightly, holding out the flowers and watching Sherlock as he stands there quietly in his pajamas. John thinks he can feel his face go red. He tells Sherlock the flowers are for him. He tells him he saw them and thought of him. He tells him lots of things, talks about the supportive shop-keep, makes a few awkward jokes, realizes he’s rambling nervously, and shuts up after a minute.
Sherlock takes the flowers.
He stares at them, blinks a few more times, then shifts into John’s space and leans down and gathers him into a hug with his free arm, dropping his face into the space between John’s neck and his jacket collar. There are muffled words spoken into his skin, something like ‘thank you, they’re beautiful’ and ‘no-one’s ever.’ John brings his arms around Sherlock’s waist and breathes into the curls at the nape of his neck. They smell dusty and warm, like an unwashed day spent in the flat.
He feels suddenly nauseous with how much he loves him. He does. He’d buy him flowers every damn day if it would make him happy, fill the flat with them; sod his pollen allergy.
He watches a few minutes later as Sherlock clatters through his lab supplies and rifles through the kitchen cupboards before finally holding up an enormous beaker with a triumphant flourish and filling the thing carefully with water and irises and the little packet of plant food that came with them, and John thinks the awkward scrambling for a vase didn’t turn out to be that bad after all.
