He feels foolish as soon as he hands his money over to the kindly shopkeeper, not waiting to receive his change. John knows that if he doesn't leave the shop now, he may go back on his original urge and though his purchase does make him blush, hide his eyes, look anywhere but at the faces of the people he passes, he's also overwhelming pleased with his choice.
John feels as though he's done his heart and soul a great service with the purchase he's made and thus he resolves to feel the slightest bit less embarrassed at the weight the gesture carries. It's not as though his flatmate will understand the gift to begin with; it will be very much a one-sided action, selfish in every way imaginable. It's commemorative, it's a bit silly but it's something that John feels needs giving, as so often something does on a special occasion.
Clutching his parcel tighter in his hand, he makes his way across the street and towards Oxford Circus, negotiating the waves of people as he goes, patting himself on the back once more for having chosen to make the walk back to Baker Street today. It's turned into quite a lovely afternoon. It's as though Mother Nature had held the rain at bay simply for this purpose, simply for today, simply for John Watson.
It's a lovely feeling really and he sighs at the notion of it, at how simply pleasant and nice the day has been.
The package crinkles lightly in his hand and he finds himself smiling at the sound, the crisp noise rising over the din of passersby. John has absolutely no idea just how this will be received but he will feel happy and pleased and justified in giving it.
John Watson has always been a quietly sentimental man; days of importance are celebrated by him, though not in an outlandish manner. He'd once celebrated a girlfriend's birthday with a quiet picnic in the park, his sister's graduation from university with a dinner out at a modest but longstanding favorite restaurant. Dates and the meaning behind them are important to him, milestones to be remembered and celebrated and catalogued in a manner suiting to the person with whom or for whom he is celebrating.
He's always had a knack for finding an appropriate gift amongst all of the generic offerings of the shops in the area. An understated brooch for Mrs. Hudson, one that compliments her best floral dress. For Christmas he gifts Molly a plain but sturdy pen on a chain as he's aware that she loses hers about the morgue frequently. John knows just what pint to order for Greg when they step out to have a drink on the Detective Inspector's birthday and inherently orders a basket of chips because sometime around the second pint, John knows the other man tends to get peckish.
John's a careful man, a considerate man and takes his time in selecting the trinkets and the moments he spends with others, wanting them to know how cherished they are, each in their own way.
He's not a man of incredible means, a fact he makes up for with his careful, learned knowledge of others habits, proclivities, hobbies. A five pound pack of favored biscuits that are only sold in the American importer in Shepherd's Bush can often times be much more meaningful than an expensive indulgence.
But Sherlock is different of course. He's in another category entirely, nearly undefinable. He's not simply 'friend,' 'flatmate,' 'confidant,' 'coworker,' or 'partner." Sherlock Holmes to John Watson is some very confusing amalgamation of the five and probably at least twelve more designators. John suspects that he is the same for Sherlock though neither man has said anything on the matter, instead baring their feelings in shared glances over the latest copy of American Journal of Medicine and pages of sheet music, respectively. They share a quiet, unspoken, terrifyingly intimate bond that neither has cared to dissect.
And that, for now, is just fine.
That doesn't mean however, that John is willing to overlook such an important calendar day in their lives. Because they've never actually confessed the deepness of their feelings for one another, the smothering closeness of their bond does not mean that the day can go unrecognized.
John rounds the corner on Orchard Street and shortens his steps, pondering how to hand the gift over once he's in Sherlock's presence. He can't possibly hide it until dinner - a meal which John has resolved to cook and force Sherlock to eat (it is, after all, a memorable occasion) - for the detective will surely suss out that John is hiding something from him.
Better to work out what he'll say when Sherlock lifts his eyes and sees the parcel that is in John's hands; better to work out how he'll go about explaining himself. John shakes his head at that; it's not as though he has to explain himself per se, he simply needs for Sherlock to understand the sentiment of the matter.
John needs to figure out how to properly convey what the gift is to mean, for surely Sherlock will not understand the gesture at first glance. Or perhaps he will? Perhaps Sherlock will see through this simple gesture of gift giving and understand the sentiment; it is, after all, a very sentimental gesture, what he is to give the man. His steps falter and John pauses briefly, bringing his left hand up to smooth over the plain, brown paper and he blushes.
He's not a man of means, not by a long shot. He can't afford a new, sleek bow to replace the one that Sherlock had snapped in half in anger the week before. And why would he purchase one to begin with? It wouldn't mean anything to Sherlock, just transport, just a means to the music, just something that Mycroft would replace easily had he known. He can't afford the large, thick, iodine flash that Sherlock has been complaining boisterously about "desperately needing." He wouldn't buy it for him anyway; there's no history behind a gesture like that and he certainly won't lend to Sherlock's experimentation.
The consulting detective has no use for cufflinks or ties, no concern for the cosmetic vanities of cologne. These are all banal, generic gifts that John would never think of bestowing on the man because they wouldn't suit him, and John knows him better than that.
Tapping his hand lightly on the parcel, John continues on, a slight spring to his step as he makes his way across Crawford Street and up the short distance to the flat. John opens the heavy outer door with a flick of his wrist and closes it quietly behind him. He knows that Sherlock has heard him enter but it's best not to give the man any indication that he's hurried, excited or burdened with a specific intent.
Instead, John mounts the steps slowly, taking his time in getting to the landing, steadying his breathing after placing his hand on the doorknob. The slight, nagging embarrassment has returned again but he swallows it down, resolves that this is in no way indicative of any deeper feelings that he has for his flatmate, resolves that this is simply a sweet, caring gesture that he would bestow on anyone he cares about.
He turns the knob just as Sherlock calls out, "I was beginning to worry; you never take this long in coming home." For as worried as he claims to be, Sherlock doesn't look it, sprawled out across the sofa with a journal held too close to his face.
John rolls his eyes but can't help the warm, half-smile that tempts his lips. "You'll strain your eyes reading like that," and he swoops in a hand to pull the journal back a few inches. "And then where will we be?"
Sherlock harrumphs and spares a quick glance at his flatmate; John can tell the moment that his eyes settle on the parcel. There's a shift against the leather of the couch and Sherlock's breathing takes a deeper tone and then there's utter stillness.
Sherlock's tone attempts for casual but there's an underlying animosity to it, one that again, John can't help but smiling at. "Date this evening, then?"
John chuckles and sets the parcel down, shrugging off his coat and placing it on the peg behind the door. "No, no, these are for," and there's truly only the slightest pause before he says it, there's only the barest bit of pink that rises to his cheeks. "You."
The detective perks up at that, swings his bare feet to the floor and sits up, stock straight; his journal is utterly abandoned, dropping to nestle between the cushions of the sofa. "Why?"
And there it is, the opening that John knew Sherlock would give him, the necessity of explaining sentiment to a man who rarely understands human emotions, nevermind the proclivity for people to want to prove their meaning to one another through the giving of gifts. "Because," John says calmly, openly, his hands clenched into fists as he tilts his chin towards the bundle of sunflowers that he's placed on the table.
"One year ago we became flatmates and my life has vastly improved since," it's simple enough, simple enough for Sherlock to understand John is sure and yet there's still a cloudiness, a confusion that lingers about Sherlock's eyes that John feels he needs to explain further. "And this is to... thank you for that. They won't last long, so you won't need to care for them but... I thought a gesture would be appropriate."
Sherlock blinks up at him as though to question 'sentiment?' and so John nods once and watches as the detective unfolds himself to lean forward and scoop up the flowers with long fingers. He holds them out before him and examines the petals of the flower. "These are... possibly the most resilient of sunflower stems that I've seen," Sherlock comments quietly and turns the flowers this way and that, squinting to inspect the disk florets. "Remarkable; they're out of season."
Inwardly, John beams. Sherlock had once recounted how his mother had gone to great lengths to try and cultivate sunflowers in the gloomy climate of the English countryside. One summer, Sherlock had detailed, they'd gotten a rare sunny summer and a full garden had bloomed, bright and lush. "It was the happiest I believe I'd ever seen my mother." A rare, personal story, unprompted and John had tucked it away and treasured it.
The look of unguarded wonder on Sherlock's face has made the side trip to the notable florist far beyond worth it. As Sherlock pulls back the paper to inspect the stems, John swallows a well of emotion that has arisen in his throat.
"And once they're dry I figured we could make them into potpourri and fill the skull with something pleasant for a change." There's laughter in John's voice even though he's forced this sentence out to soften the blow of presenting a bouquet of flowers to his flatmate; it abates some of the rising tenderness that the doctor is feeling, that he does not wish to betray.
Not yet.
Sherlock raises his gaze to his and smiles quite softly. "These stems will need to be cut," and it's as close to a 'thank you' as John is sure to get, but there's so much more behind the words that John feels and yet somehow doesn't understand, can't.
Not yet.
"Probably," he mentions as Sherlock moves past him into the kitchen, hunting for a suitable container for the flowers.
John sighs.
'One year,' he thinks.
'And a blind wish for many, many more.'