Disclaimer: nothing mine. A.N. Meaning of the flowers are taken from Language of Flowers illustrated by Greenaway Kate (1846-1901), printed in colours by Edmund Evans, London: George Routledge and Sons.
Getting the message
When Sherlock asks for the use of 221C, Mrs. Hudson imagines many things, but not that he's going to dedicate himself to gardening. This despite herself indulging in creating a bit of a downstairs garden after the whole Moriarty affair. Yes, there's too little light for any plant to thrive there, but there are special lamps for that. And after that trauma, she needed more of her soothers than ever. So producing them looked like a good idea. Frank, nestled somewhere among his wealth of unpardonable flaws, had some talents too. Martha Hudson has definitely acquired enough of a green thumb for what she plans.
When her tenant asks, in a soft voice for once, she could simply refuse, of course. Say that she's using it now. But she always had the hardest time refusing him anything (he did save her life, after all), and if she needs to move her plants upstairs….well, she can find a room that nobody will visit. Not even that nice inspector who pops around sometimes when the consulting detective is being too difficult.
All her plans are stopped when the sleuth huffs, "No need to move anything, Mrs. Hudson, I'm just going to plant some flowers that would appreciate a more protected climate than any British garden can be expected to provide. Honestly, I hope you won't insult me with the suspicion that I would either ruin your plants or mention your personal hobbies to anyone!"
"Is it an experiment, dear?" she inquires, seeing him drag downstairs – in his usual clothes, the silly boy! – a number of different flowering plants (including one that's basically a potted tree). She recognises most of them, smiling softly when she recognises some she had in her garden back when she was married. When he answers only with a generic mumble and a shrug, for a moment she can't help but wonder if he remembers, too. If he's doing this for her. But she doesn't need cheering up, neither is any recurrence coming up which would justify such a thing.
Besides, there's a kind of ferocious concentration on his face that not even cases manage to evoke. There's only one reason for him to look like this. "They are for John, aren't they?" For all that the doctor seemed much more the type to give flowers, rather than expect to receive them, if that is the wooing technique that Sherlock has decided on, she's not going to criticize. It's a bit odd that he wouldn't just buy his love a bouquet, but maybe he just doesn't trust the florist. The sleuth tends to underestimate most people's competence.
It's a sin that, for all his visits (at least he's visiting this time! But of course, he isn't coming to see her) and coming along on cases when possible, John Watson is still not living at 221B. Despite his wife dying…well, she forgets (she's old, and afterwards there was too much chaos to keep track of the days really), but Rosie is almost three, and she's been growing up in that house, all alone with her da. Honestly, the place is too modern for Mrs. Hudson to appreciate it.
For a second, the genius looks at her like a kid caught doing something wrong. Gosh, seriously? How can her boy (maybe not by birth, but still unquestionably hers) have missed that she supports their love with more energy than she's ever put into her own relationships? It's a gift to witness such a love in real life, even if one is not lucky enough to experience it first-hand. In Harlequin books, sure, it's common. Even more carefully depicted inside poems of chivalry. Seriously, the way they act with each other is not of this century – excluding when one's being brainwashed, of course, but we don't talk of that. Brainwashed doesn't count.
So she sighs, and declares softly, "I'm just asking because, well, if it's for science I won't ruin your procedure even if you should murder the poor plants. But if they're not, maybe I can help out? How much gardening knowledge do you have inside that mind palace of yours?"
He shrugs, replying, "I might have checked Wikipedia. Water, controlled temperature and light, and I know you have these sun-like light bulbs here…how hard can it be?"
She doesn't roll her eyes, but it's a near thing. And his refuse to answer the main question is answer enough. "It's decided, if you want these to survive you're officially my apprentice starting right now. And whenever you come down here I'll expect you in Shezza attire, because it would be a pity to ruin your nice clothes with the work you'll have to do."
She expects protests, of course. Maybe a glare. Instead he only nods. He's too quiet…is he nursing a sore throat? She chastises herself inwardly for only seeing it as a perfect excuse to see a doctor. Well, if she happens to make too much soup later to possibly eat it all herself, it'll be an honest mistake. There's no reason to let him be more miserable than he has to be.
For a few days, they just take care of the plants, and it doesn't seem as if Sherlock plans to do anything with them. But apparently he's just biding his time, and waiting for the most perfect flowers to bloom. One morning she comes downstairs to check, and one of them is gone.
That same morning, when John opens his door to go to work, he finds the offering laying on his doorstep. A long, red inflorescence covers the entirety of his mat. Rosie squeals in enthusiasm, and asks what it is. Of course, her da has no idea, but a photo and a google search soon reveal it's an amaranthus…or, if you want to use the common name, a love lies bleeding. The name is spooky, honestly, and with his and Mary's past he double checks the street before bundling his daughter – holding onto her prize – into the car.
At least she's not afraid. "It's obvious, da," she chirps – the word picked up from visits to 221B – "it's here because you're a doctor!" Rosie's latest passion are forget-me-nots, and so flowers' names making sense seem perfectly normal to her.
John is tempted to bring it in and analyse it, but Rosie has already touched and smelled it and she's not having any bad reaction. He's still tense all day, but her daycare doesn't call him, and she's just as bubbly in the evening. If it was a threat, someone is being stupid, anyway. Why warn him?
Okay, someone is being stupid, because the following morning there's another flower on his doorstep. A much smaller, brilliant yellow one, which Wikipedia informs him is a jonquil. It doesn't exactly sound like a murder threat.
"Do you think the fairies want to be invited, da?" his daughter asks, jumping up and down.
"Well, they could ring the bell," he replies loudly, in case the mysterious giver is still around. Seriously, what's up with this? If it's a joke, it's silly. If it's a kindness…why not come in? Why do people in his life insist on being ridiculous instead of forthright? He's a sensible person, really. Well, mostly.
The invitation goes unanswered, though, because the following day – surprise – there's another flower waiting for them. This one is red, with oddly pointy-shaped petals, and – according to saint Google – a crimson columbine. Also, it has poisonous seeds. Not that Rosie has ever been known to munch on flowers – she wouldn't want to ruin their prettiness – but seriously. What. Is. Happening. John is tempted to go to his best friend with the mystery, if only he didn't fear being told it isn't even a two, and mocked for making a fuss over some shy child trying to befriend Rosie (whenever he stops being paranoid, this sounds really like a childish scheme) or something like that.
Besides, Sherlock hasn't been contacting him lately, so he might have found something to busy himself with. Whether he rushes to 221B and accidentally ruins an experiment that needs a specific set of parameters, or stumbles into a diplomat being interrogated over when exactly he lost secret documents, he would only cause problems. He can definitely solve this mystery by himself.
That night, he stays up, moving a chair so he can check the door's eye hole without straining himself, an insulated cup of the strongest coffee (tea isn't enough for his vigil) next to him, to ensure he won't doze. Sadly, all the trouble is for nothing. Not even a stray cat disturbs his doorstep, much less people, of fey descendance or not. So his secret…well, not Santa, it's not Christmas, knows exactly how far he can push before John will take action. Which is, honestly, more concerning than anything else. Living with Sherlock gave him a healthy distrust of 'lucky coincidences' – it's unlikely that the other person suddenly got bored.
Rosie's disappointed face when they go to the daycare, though, is almost enough to make John wish him to be the kind of person that doesn't question nice things. A flower is waiting for them when they go back home, though. A soft pink one that is, apparently, a Caroline rose, though it doesn't look like any of the roses he bought for his girlfriends – just five petals, and not forming a sort of cup like he's always seen.
Rosie takes it and starts jumping up and down, almost making all the petals fly away. "The fairies came! Maybe they were just busy?"
"I'm sure they were, love. They will have fairy jobs too, after all," John replies, ushering her inside and taking the flower from her.
She nods sagely, before asking, "But – what are they saying?"
"What?" he asks, wrongfooted.
"Fairies talk with flowers, da! It's obvious!" she snaps, giving him a look that reminds him too much of Sherlock.
"I'll look it up," he promises. And seriously, he should have thought of it. Just because only the first flower's name was obviously threatening, it doesn't mean that the others don't have meaning. After being kidnapped by the Triad with their graffiti, he should be open to different means of communication. For all he knows, the consulting detective didn't text these days because he's been taken by strangely considerate criminals who don't want to upset Rosie by sending him an ear of their victim – or have an excuse to kill him claiming that 'our requests haven't been fulfilled'. There was something about a language of flowers, wasn't there? He's pretty sure Janette mentioned it once…
Once again, Google is his friend. But the result is very different from what he expected. The love lies bleeding? Hopeless, not heartless. It might be talking about himself, of course. But Sherlock was in his mind a moment ago, and too many people have accused him of having no feelings. But hopeless? How?
Jonquil? I desire a return of affection. So not entirely hopeless. Or someone who got tired of the hopelessness at least. Enough to take these curious steps.
Crimson – well, red – columbine? Anxious and trembling. And he's been here like an oaf ignoring the whole thing – or at least, ignoring the fact that a gift usually requires a response.
It's the last one, though, that settles it. Caroline Rose. Love is dangerous. Yes, it could have been almost anyone up to now. But there's only one person in the world that would consider a coded message (and a message like this!) a sensible wooing.
"Do you want to visit Gran, Rosie?" he asks.
She nods enthusiastically. Bless his child for always being up for visiting Mrs. Hudson (really the only woman that can claim the title, with his parents gone).
They have a stop to make on the way, though. A florist. One who frowns at the odd combination John – phone at hand – insists is made in a sort of 'bouquet', though it's clear the shopkeeper doesn't agree with the definition. Garden daisy, lesser celandine, clematis, Syrian mallow "and no 'decorative' grass, the last thing I need is to convey submission!"
A cab brings them quickly to Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson welcomes them with the widest grin, not even pretending that the flowers might be for her. If she happens to put Rosie's favourite cartoon on a bit too loud…she's old.
John goes upstairs without bothering to knock. He still has a key – nobody ever asked for it back – and he's already at least two days too late (but he suspects much longer). He hides the flowers behind his back.
He seems to have caught Sherlock in his mind palace – possibly trying to figure how to finally get the message across – because he's lying on the sofa, and doesn't even turn towards him. It's half a honour and half funny that someone with so many enemies doesn't register his presence.
The detective does register his words, though, when he says softly, "And you said dangerous, and here I am. Without my gun this time, but I hope that's fine. I brought these, after all." The blogger shows the bouquet off with a theatrical flourish.
Sherlock snaps up, and says slowly, "I share your sentiments, joys to come, mental beauty, consumed by love. Or…they were just pretty?"
"Not just pretty, love. Now, I would have added a kiss me flower if I'd found one, but the meanings all seemed much broader than I wanted. If you could oblige all the same, please?" John quips, grinning.
…The flowers fall to the floor, forgotten.