sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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The graveyard is dark. It’s dark enough so no one can see the grief etched in John’s features. The wind is whipping through his greying hair, encouraging him to make this quick. Get it over with. He’s always visited Sherlock on nights like these.

John kneels in front of the grave, the freshly cut grass prickling his knees. He closes his eyes briefly, and opens them again.

He notices something next to the grave. Bundled in plastic and tissue paper, is a bouquet of satin petaled roses. Not the ordinary kind of roses, either. These roses are vibrant and bright and...yellow. For God’s sake, it isn’t even spring. Why would someone bring such radiant flowers to a grave?

Sherlock would hate them. He didn’t even like the color yellow, so why the hell did someone put them there? John hates how happy they look, the way they contrast completely to the dull grey slab of the headstone.

He picks up the flowers and stands up. His limbs feel like they’re tied to bricks, but he forces himself to keep moving. He drags his feet passed the rows of stones and wrought iron fence. The flowers in his hands feel like stolen jewels, but he refuses to leave them at the graveyard.

By the time he gets to 221B it’s quieter than a ghost town, and every creak of the steps makes him wince. John glares at the bouquet of flowers in his grip. The only place they would look suitable would be in the rubbish bin. He holds them over the rubbish bin, tissue paper crinkling, before a scrap of paper flutters to the ground. John pauses to examine the piece of paper, squinting as he scans the meticulous square writing.
It reads,

"To my truest friend, you'll always be my conductor of light. -Yours"

The card crinkles in his fist, and he clenches his jaw.
Who considers Sherlock his truest friend besides himself? No one. Sherlock was his best friend, and as far as John knew, Sherlock didn't have anyone else. His stomach churned as he thought of the possibilities. Wouldn't Sherlock have mentioned him or her to him? Irene Adler was dead, and Molly Hooper had moved on. Nobody else would sign it, “Yours.”

John lets the flowers drop in the rubbish bin with a satisfying thunk. Sherlock had called him a conductor of light.

“You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable!”

John had supposed it was his way of saying sorry at the time.

He scrubs a hand over his face, leaning against the counter. Damn yellow roses and Sherlock Holmes. For the sake of his sanity, he’ll go on believing he was Sherlock’s only best friend.

He’ll go on pretending he hadn’t made the most important man in his life jump to his death.

A!A: This turned out to be a bit more angsty than I intended. I promise more fluff and happiness in the future. This is just a short snippet for now, I'll be doing a few different rose colors. I hope you enjoy!

Oh god, my heart! Poor John. :( Eagerly awaiting more!

Awesome start! Can't wait to read more!

I love this so much!

amazing! I love it so far

John’s making his way down a narrow aisle of Tesco’s. He’s come here for the shopping, but his mind keeps wandering. He’s stuck on the times he used to have, and the little memories he tries to push away. They’re creeping in through the concrete walls he’s put up. He’s living, though not alive. Days like these are when he has to check his pulse, to verify his body's actually functioning.

He’s drifting on an endless lazy river, where there’s tranquility and safety, but he wants off. He’s never been able to live his life in serenity, and certainly not after he experienced the crashing waves and tempestuous storms of Sherlock Holmes.

He sighs, shaking his head at the persisting thoughts. There’s no point in mulling over something already gone.

It’s then when he thinks he sees a flash of curly hair and a dark swirling coat.

“Sherlock!”

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he’s rushing towards the baked beans with a flutter in his stomach.

There’s no Sherlock.

There’s only an elderly woman who gives him a sympathetic smile, as though he was a child who had lost his mother.

John presses his lips together, his cheeks heating at his delusion. He should’ve known. Even if it had been Sherlock, he wouldn’t have been so careless and let John catch him alive.

Sherlock’s dead, he’s known that for ages. When would he finally learn to accept it?

John’s lost all interest in doing the shopping by now, but he scans the aisle one more time for any sign of Sherlock. There’s a bit of purple stuck between two cans of Sherlock’s favorite baked beans and he yanks it out. It’s an extremely odd coincidence.

His eyes roam over the thorns, the soft petals, the brilliant lavender of it. He doesn’t think twice when he clutches it close to him and exits.

The rose has something that reminds him of Sherlock. Maybe it’s the accident of finding something so precious. Maybe because it's intricate and protected towards the center, like Sherlock and his emotions were. Or maybe it was the way that the thorns coated the stems, protecting their true beauty and sensitivity above.

“A genius like you, I thought you’d find a way out of suicide. Those rumors could’ve been proven wrong. We could’ve sorted it out together.”

John laughs softly to himself as he fits it in a small vase. He’s becoming a sentimental old man, turning roses into Sherlock Holmes. When it’s adjusted straight and correctly, he nods, reclining into the back of the sofa.

The single rose fills the room with a heady, rich scent that would make most people sneeze.

Nevertheless, John thinks its the best air he’s breathed in while.

In fact, it almost smells like Sherlock.

Thank you so much for your sweet comments, they keep me writing! :) I hope you enjoy this next installment.

I didn't think much of this prompt but I'm glad I started reading regardless. I am really enjoying this story and can't wait until the next chapter!

John’s paces in his room.

He doesn’t understand. Not one bit.

At first it was irritating, and then a bit amusing, but now it’s just creepy. Two dozen white roses on his doorstep?

He’s debating throwing them out and never thinking about them again since the last rose had lost all of its petals and died. He doesn’t need another thing in his life that just dies.

John sighs, and finally decides to give a bouquet to Mrs. Hudson and throw the other one out somewhere.
John makes his way to the sitting room, where he picks up one of the bouquets with pursed lips.

Is Sherlock’s admirer stalking him? Is this some kind of sick joke?

He taps on Mrs. Hudson’s door, and she swings it open after some bustling and clanking of pots.

“Oh! Hello, John. Those are lovely roses, are they for me?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

John clears his throat. “Erm. Yes. They are, actually. Someone delivered them to me this morning, and I had an extra bouquet. I thought you might like them.”

Mrs. Hudson grins, knowingly. "Oh, and have you seen this special someone?"

John shakes his head and sighs, "No. It could possibly an old enemy of Sherlock's stalking me or something of the sort. I'll have to ask Mycroft to look into it."

Mrs. Hudson nods, taking the flowers and squeezing his forearm. "It could be someone who fancies you, you know. You'd be quite the catch for some men." She winks, gesturing for him to come inside the flat.

John doesn't bother telling her he isn't gay. He knows he and Sherlock had something, even if he kept claiming he wasn't interested. He had said that for ‘Sherlock-married-to-his-work-Holmes.’ But God, if confessing everything he'd ever felt about Sherlock would bring him back, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

He sinks in a seat at the homey wooden table, running his hands on the smooth surface.

"I can't..think about that, at the moment.” He closes his eyes briefly. “It's too soon after Sherlock."

It's been two years, but it will always be too soon. It's an open wound covered by a thin scab, that will leave a scar no matter how much time passes. He'll never get over those lively eyes and tangled curls and swirling coat. The thought makes his heart ache and a heavy lump in his throat he tries to swallow. Time does nothing to end the pain, it only finds new distractions to help forget.

Mrs. Hudson smiles sadly at him and squeezes his shoulder. She understands his pain, the soft suffering that goes on behind the scenes when he's all alone.
There's a steaming cup of tea on the table when he blinks again, and he nods gratefully. He takes a slow sip as Mrs. Hudson putters around the kitchen and gets a vase for the flowers.

"Oh! They're stunning!" She exclaims. "Do you know what white roses mean, John?" Her eyes sparkle with youth, despite the wrinkles in her skin displaying her age.

"No, I don't. What do they mean?" He takes another tentative sip, testing the temperature.

"They're used at weddings, John. Someone wants to marry you!"

John sputters and nearly chokes on the bitter liquid.
"What?! Mrs. Hudson, you've got this all wrong. They can't marry me if they haven't met me. Besides, I'm not interested."

"You'd be surprised, my ex-husband-" John stands up and firmly places the mug on the table.

"Yes, erm. Sorry, I've got to get going. Work and all."

"Oh yes, sorry for keeping you, dear. When you find this man of yours, introduce us. I'd love to meet him. I'm sure he's charming." She winks.

John swallows and forces a nod.

"We'll see about that."

Thank you for all your comments and reading. I know this isn't the best chapter but I'm working on it! I'm writing the next installment now and it should be up by the end of the week, if not, a bit later! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy! (Sherlock is coming soon. I promise :D)

Lovely update! It does make sense that Mrs Hudson knows all about the meaning of roses.

It's a day later before John realizes the coincidence. Three different color roses on three different days. Each one had something to do with Sherlock except the last one. So what the hell did they all mean? Was someone taunting him?

He hears a pounding on the front door and swears under his breath.If it's another rose bouquet, he's going to slam the door in the delivery person's face. Why is this..stalker such a coward that they can't talk to John face to face? If they want to kill him, why don't they just try? It isn't even close to Valentine's day, or spring, or any other time of year roses would be acceptable. This person clearly went out of their way for him. Christ, he could use a Sherlock in these situations. He would be able to deduce whoever it was in a matter of seconds.

The knock is heavier and louder the second time, and John sighs, making his way down the stairs. "Alright! I'm coming. If you have another bunch of roses, I don't-" He pulls open the door.

There's a man standing there. He's tall and he's wearing a long coat, and he has curly hair and.. he's holding bright pink roses.

"Hello, John."

John's head jerks back, a sudden coldness hitting his core.

There's so much he wants to say. He wants to punch him, he wants to kiss him until neither of them can breathe. He doesn't even know what he wants. He's spent all of this time wishing for his return, making up things he could say. Now that he's here, right here, he loses every train of thought. He forgets that Sherlock has this effect on him. He sucks in a breath.

"It was you!" He sputters, before he can stop himself. "You sent me those bloody roses!"

Sherlock's brow wrinkles, before a small frown appears.

"You didn't like them?"

"It was creepy, honestly. I mean, that note? What was that all about? I saw you in Tesco's. And the white bouquet was overkill." He rambles for a bit, his mind bumbling about things that he could care less about. "Jesus, Sherlock, you're a bastard." His stomach churns, remembering all the times he's wrapped himself up in Sherlock's sheets, running his hands along his old science equipment before it was all donated. The nicotine patches he's kept for an eternity. "God, I could kill you."

He can see Sherlock thinks he's joking. He wants to dull the sparkle in his eyes, give him a taste of his own medicine. He remains silent, frigid fury building in his stomach.
Sherlock holds out the flowers towards him. "Here."

"You think you can give me a bouquet of roses, and everything will be fine? That I can grieve for two fucking years, and a damn bunch of roses will fix everything?!" He yanks the bouquets from his hands and flings them to the ground. "Here's one thing you didn't deduce, Sherlock. I. Hate. Roses," He sneers, lip curling. "You wouldn't know though, would you? Being away and all."

Sherlock fiddles with his scarf, wincing.

"John. I'm sorry. I didn't intend to be out so long. I had to disassemble-" John holds up a hand.

"There's nothing you can tell me that won't make me angry with you."

"I was saving your life! Moriarty had snipers on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. If I didn't pretend to kill myself, they'd shoot all three of you." John sucks in a breath, closing his eyes.

"One word, Sherlock. That's all I needed. You couldn't have left me a note? Reassured me you're at least breathing?" Sherlock shakes his head.

"John, we both know you're a dreadful liar. I couldn't take that risk. I did give you signs."

"Signs? What signs? Bloody roses two years later?! Right. That'll convince any sane person," He says, bitterly.

Sherlock looks like he's shrinking under John's words, his hope of a happy welcome home shriveling up like the dead rose John disposed of. John presses his lips together and watches him. He knows he can't hurt Sherlock, even now, after all of this time.

Okay so I couldn't fit everything I wanted to in one installment, but this'll have to do for now. I think I'll update again tomorrow. Thanks for reading and your kind comments. :) Enjoy!

"Look. Why don't you come in, have tea, and we'll talk about what's happened. I'm not going to forgive you. Not yet, at least." He gestures for Sherlock to come inside and bends over to pick the roses up from the floor, the fragile pink petals scatter on the ground. Sherlock follows him with sullen eyes, looking more tired than John had ever seen him.

They make their way up the steps and into the sitting room, where a large bouquet of white roses are dying on the table.

"I..didn't get a chance to throw them out," John explains with a shrug.
He slumps down into his chair, rubbing at his temples. He's supposed to be happy, isn't he? He's spent so much time missing Sherlock's presence he hasn't even thought about the betrayal of his return. He's thrust into the storm without preparation, forgetting all recollections of the turbulence and the violent weather.

"Okay, Sherlock. You start from the beginning, and explain everything. I've been out of the loop for two years, and if you even think about leaving something out now.." He shakes his head, the threat losing its bite. Sherlock should already understand the risk of betraying John's trust a second time.

Sherlock averts his gaze, his face paling. "They were going to kill you, John. Faking my death, was the only way to prevent three other deaths." He clears his throat, beginning to pull himself together. He knew facts, he could state simple facts. "Molly knew, selected people from the homeless network knew. It was only a show, John. You played a major role. If Moriarty's men saw that you believed it, they'd leave you alone. I could hunt them down, kill them, and I'd be able to return. Unfortunately, it took longer than I had originally anticipated and it extended your grieving period." His stomach knots, but he continues. "I was, nevertheless, able to send hints at the end of the job. Each rose represents something." He waves at the ones on the table.
"Clearly, you did not think to look up each meaning. Though not a surprise considering your intelligence level is not above average."

"Sorry, were you just apologizing?" John interrupts, raising his eyebrows.

"I was getting to that part, yes. Although it wasn't an insult. I was merely stating the facts," Sherlock says.

"Even better," John mutters. "Anyway, you were saying?"

"I sent you a rose when I could, hoping you would get the message. I even went to the extent of attaching a note to the first bunch that defined the message of the bouquet. Friendship, loyalty, etc." Sherlock swallows and shakes his head.

"But that's beside the point. I truly am sorry, John. I owe you an infinite amount of apologies. If there's anything I can do to ease your pain, I'll do so without hesitation." He meets his eyes. "Those years without you were difficult for me too. Being separate from you is not anything I'd like to repeat. If anything at all, they made me realize how important you are to me." He gestured to the light and dark pink roses. "That's what those are for. They convey my gratitude for tolerating me and teaching me the value of companionship, friendship, and perhaps even sentiment. The light pink roses express my sympathy to the time I was away, while the dark pink represent my thankfulness." He runs a hand through his hair, pausing.
"I know if I don't say this now, and I lose you again, I'd regret it more than anything.” He takes deep breath. “Pink roses also symbolize poetic romance. More personally, they represent how much I've come to love you.” Sherlock gazes at John with earnest eyes, soft around the edges.

John bites the inside of his cheek. He feels warmth trickling back into his stomach, soothing the sharp corners of his grief. There's still a tightness in his chest, and he can do nothing but blink at Sherlock.

Sherlock sees John’s trembling hands and takes them in his own. He squeezes them.

“John?”

Hope you enjoy this! Thanks again for all your kind words! :) There were some issues with posting last time, so I'm sorry about the delay. Again, I wasn't able to fit everything I wanted, but this should do for now.

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