Disclaimer: I don't own nothing. Not the characters, not the idea. In fact, it comes from a fanart I love and I would have sworn I saved but apparently I haven't, so if you know whose it is please let me know because I want to credit the amazing artist! A. N. So….this is not me being back to full steam writing. This is me realising that I was stopping myself from writing until I could update ALL my pending stories regularly, to avoid disappointing my readers. But not writing won't stop people being disappointed. So I'll just follow the Muse and write – and publish – whatever I feel like. Oneshots, just one of the many pending stories, randomness…I need to get back into the pleasure of writing. I hope this will give you pleasure, too. And yes, there is literally an orchid species discovered by a Mr. Reichenbach that's called Dendrobium Johannis (John's orchid), and it has a nigrescens (black) variety. This had to happen.

Always

They always find each other. The Faun and the Roman soldier. The dragon shifter and the knight. The pirate and the Navy captain. And again, and again, and again…Not that they last long. There's a constant, after all. Sherlock is, at best, strange…if not a downright abomination, in most people's eyes. John is stronger than people assume. Which isn't conducive to a long life, joined as it is to a tendency to fight for what he loves…what with what (whom) he loves being someone that many loathe.

Sherlock's latest life was his favourite, but apparently he must have done something very wrong. Personally, he suspects that it was the playing dead for 3 years bit. Normally, he doesn't remember his former lives…But normally, he's busy thinking of many, many things. This time…the past is all he has to think about. Frankly, he's shocked he still can think somehow. Then again, who ever bothered with the inner life of plants?

Because that's what he is. Gone from consulting detective to beekeeper to…flower. There's some irony in this. But it's also the closest thing to a hell Sherlock can imagine. For one, there's no John. For another…Mycroft is here, instead. As his own personal tormentor.

Oh, not literally, of course. But things match. Obsessive keeping of a precise routine? Check. A rotund figure? Very check. In fact, if Sherlock cared about his former brother, he'd be honestly worried for his health. Not even the Diogenes' ample armchairs could contain the man who leaves the elevator every day. Nor any other armchair Sherlock remembers, either.

But even the four hours a day this man spends with him and the others are paradise in comparison with the rest of the day. Because otherwise? Complete loneliness, nothing to observe but his blossoming companions. At other times, with or without his owners, he's subject to Theodore's delicate, somehow fretting attentions. Because of course he refuses to do what they're trying to get him to do. How can he bloom and flourish when he's trapped and alone?

Once they almost trick him. "A Dendrobium Johannis shouldn't be this frustrating, nigrescens or not! You're supposed to be the best orchid nurse in the world, Horstmann! Why is just this one so stubborn?"

John's…They know he's John's. Why won't they let him go then?

"I'm not sure, Mr. Wolfe. I've been rereading Reichenbach's treaty about the species' discovery, but I can't pinpoint what's wrong, yet," the man replies.

Sherlock wishes he could flinch. They know about Reichenbach? He was right, thinking his current trouble stems from there. As for what's wrong…lack of John and boredom. If they know him, they should know. Especially if Mycroft has retained any of his sense.

…Which he should have, given what he overhears from the interphone. This new Mycroft – Wolfe, his name is Mr. Wolfe – is a detective? An actual detective, who still grumbles about having his routine interrupted? If it's a joke, it isn't funny. How can he even solve anything?

Oh. That's how. For a moment Sherlock gets excited, thinking he's found John, but the man who comes up – and is rebuffed for talking nonsense during a "sacred" time, that's actually the word the man uses! – threatens to resign. While he has something of John about him (the penchant for flirting, from what he can see, and being comfortable with weapons, for another) it can't be John. Mycroft being maddening or not, John has always been nothing if not faithful.

Sherlock is almost hoping he'll wilt soon and get over this wretched life for a different, better one, when he leaves the greenhouse. Not on the feet that he doesn't have, of course. He's not even sure who his new owner is, but the man sure can't shut up, proud of his accomplishment. "Wolfe will drop the case now, little one. I could have killed him and all his household, and he knows. He has to know. I didn't because, let's be honest, it's not like I'm damaged if he takes other criminals off the market. At first I thought I'd take his most prized flower, but then I saw you, and – I'll show him I surpass him in this, too. Bloom soon, little one. He'll love the photos I'll send him."

Why couldn't Sherlock be a carnivorous plant? How is he supposed to take revenge on such a belittling rascal in his present condition? Oh well. If he can't murder him, he'll ignore him.

The trip is long – very long, to his annoyed self – but the ending is a surprise. He doesn't expect to be planted in a somehow sheltered area in an outside garden. That's certainly a change – there isn't another orchid in sight. But also – no walls on all his sides and glass ceiling over him.

That's when he feels a caress. Oh, not a human one. One he remembers…doubly. Because yes, he knows the sun. Of course he knows the sun. But this warmth, this gentleness… John? He stretched upwards. If plants host souls…can stars? And if they do, shouldn't theirs last ages? Is this even possible? Is it logical?

Damnit, he's a plant. Logic kind of took the backseat when he sprouted. And even if he's wrong…who's going to complain? He's allowed one lifetime of idiocy. He's a literal vegetable.

Sherlock sways gently in the warm breeze, and unfolds flowers he didn't know he hosted to maximize the area exposed to his John's cuddling (that's how it feels). If he's accidentally going along with a criminal mastermind's plan, or annoying Mycroft in the process, he doesn't care. John is here. Life is good. Though he still hopes to regain some sort of mobility in the next one. But frankly? As long as John stays, he has no need of anything else.