Okay so this is a short fic I wrote a while ago and never got around to finishing...
Sherlock is deeply engrossed in a bunch of case files when the whole of the office floor of NYC goes quiet.
Looking up Sherlock spies a man holding a bunch of flowers, roses. They are extravagant, artfully arranged, freshly cut and plastic free. Sherlock quickly calculates the cost in his head. Whoever has sent them is clearly not hurting for money. That and colour of the flowers indicates that the gift is romantic in nature. Why else splash out on such a frivolous gift?
The man holding the flowers does not seem nervous despite all the looks he is attracting, nor does Sherlock recall seeing him around the Yard before, so clearly he is not the giver but rather a simple delivery man.
Mystery solved Sherlock returns to his case file and pauses. Valentine's Day was ages ago, he remembers this because of a particularly nasty case involving a dead "cupid for hire". Nor is it anyone in the Yard's birthday. So why was someone delivering flowers?
He looks up again and watches as the delivery man heads straight towards him with the flowers. Sherlock looks round only to notice the space around him empty.
Colour floods Sherlock's cheeks as the delivery guy gets even closer.
It wasn't possible was it? He wonders believing himself to be far from lovable. He ponders who would send him such a gift, and to the Yard of all places. Only one name comes to mind. John. Romantic, kind John.
The delivery man stops in front of him, holding out the bouquet and a clipboard to sign. Sherlock cautiously accepts the flowers and stares at them bewildered. Was this why John had decided not to accompany him today? He stands there in shock until someone prompts him to read the card.
His heart flutters madly in his chest and his cheeks turn pink in anticipation, aware that John had a fondness for writing bad poetry. His hands fumble as he digs the little square card from the centre of the display.
Happy April Fools Freak!
Sherlock's faces falls as he reads the words, neatly printed on the card. He feels sick. He feels stupid. He crumples the card in his hand and ignores the small crowed around him. Of course he should have known better, he thinks feeling foolish for even hoping John might send him such a gift.
Without further ado he drops the flowers onto the floor, pulls on his coat and heads to the door doing his best to ignore Anderson's cruel snickering as he flees.
I was going to have another chapter and give Sherlock a happy ending but I never got around to that. If anyone wants to write a sequel and make Sherlock happy please feel free to do so as I'd love to read that!