AN: It's Valentine's Day – which I hate – but the thought of mixing that with Sherlock was irresistible! Written from John's point of view because it's a Sherlock Holmes story and I wanted to do it properly…

And no, I don't own Sherlock, obviously!

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa in his dressing gown, his fingertips pressed together, when I walked in with the envelopes in my hand. His eyes quickly flicked towards me and spotted what I was holding before I could say anything.

"It's not your birthday, is it?"

"No–"

"It's not my birthday is it?"

"No… why would it be anyone's birthday?"

"Envelopes, relatively good quality, not the sort used by businesses, clearly with stiff contents –greetings cards. It's not Christmas, I'm fairly sure it's not Easter, so what are they for?"

"You know you don't need to explain every deduction you make." I said, taking a seat in my armchair. "You just do it to show off, don't you?"

"Obviously." Sherlock stated without a hint of apology or modesty. "What are the cards for?"

"Have you actually checked the date?"

"No. Why should I? It's not important."

"It's February 14th, Sherlock." I lay the cards in my lap, picked the top one and slid my thumb under the seal.

"February 14th…" he considered it for a moment, before his face screwed up in disgust. "Oh, God…"

"Yep! Valentine's Day."

"Well, that one's always good for a laugh, I suppose…" Pushing himself up from the sofa, he lumbered across the room towards me and stood behind my chair. Sherlock's presence behind you was never a reassuring thing – it created the constant fear that at any moment he would lash out and grab something from you, or even worse, that he would say something.

"Why do you bother opening them?" he asked, as I pulled the first card free from the envelope.

"To read them, Sherlock. Like ordinary people do."

"Dull." he muttered. "Look, you know it's going to have some mushy nonsense in there, the only reason anyone reads those things is to try and work out who they're from. That's the fun of an anonymous card."

"Ohhh no…" I said, suddenly realising where this was going. "Sherlock–"

"Take that one for example." I was too late. "The envelope's a frankly alarmingly vibrant shade of red, suggesting the sender was particularly eager to capture your attention and create some sense of lust. So, it's not likely to be from a current girlfriend, more likely it's from a secret admirer. Of course, her particular feelings for you are confirmed in the seal on the envelope."

"The seal?"

"Look at how well stuck down it was! She would have made a connection – either subconsciously or very deliberately – between the card and the person she was sending it to. She was obviously quite eager to run her tongue over it a fair bit."

"Sherlock!"

"So it's someone who must know you fairly well. Unlikely it's a friend; they'd probably not go so over the top with the obviously expensive card and envelope choice – I'm sure they would tell you how they felt in a more… appropriate manner. So, the most likely conclusion is it's a colleague. Probably someone with similar breaks to you at work and who has a fair chance to speak to you…"

"Okay, Sherlock, you've made your point!" I knew there was no point in trying to shut him up, but I always felt I had to try.

"Now, narrowing it down more than that – not really that hard. Another doctor or a nurse? Unlikely – your shifts would never quite match. Someone has to take care of the patients when other doctors aren't. Could be a receptionist, but again they would be busy most of the day. Minor medical staff is possible, but going by the stationery they've used to write your name on the envelope, I'd say secretarial position is most likely."

"Well done, Sherlock!" I said, reading over the message inside the card. "Now, why don't you go and do something useful like… sleeping?"

"Now, as for the card itself…"

"Sherlock!" Everyone knows he's clever. He knows everyone knows. So why he feels the need to keep talking is beyond me.

"That can narrow down the sender's identity as far is possible to go, in the one thing everyone stupidly puts in an anonymous card – a 'mysterious' signature. You know, John…" he finally walked past me and slumped into his own chair, "someone once told me that a disguise is always a self-portrait, no matter how hard you try."

"Wasn't that –"

"She was wrong, of course, but right in the case of idiots."

"And by your definition an idiot is…"

"Almost everyone." He leaned back into the chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and putting his fingertips together again. "The signature in that card is a stylised love heart. Now, whoever drew it is either very bad at drawing hearts or deliberately trying to make it look like an M. I do believe Mary's after you, John."

Mary was a girl who was indeed a secretary at the hospital I worked at. And she did speak to me quite often. I'd suspected for a while that she might have liked me, but I'd never really given it much thought. It had only been recently I'd gotten to know her that well anyway, when she was involved in one of Sherlock's cases – someone had been leaving strange ciphers on the door to her office. I've put it on my blog under the title The Sign on the Door.

"Lovely." I said, putting the card down on the table. I picked up the next in the pile and before I could even begin to open it, Sherlock had 'worked it out'.

"Obviously from your current girlfriend. What's her name again? Laura?"

"Lizzie…"

"Oh, yes!" he said, with one of his smiles that seemed to yell out 'punch me in the face'. He knew perfectly well who I was dating now and who I had split up with. He was just trying to annoy me, as per usual. "Laura was the one in the bar who–"

"Slapped me, yes." I finished, before he could go on about it.

"I'd be careful with Lizzie." He said, nodding towards the envelope. "State of the envelope, the slapdash job of sealing it… I don't think she's that bothered about the relationship anymore."

I bit my tongue. Otherwise, I don't what I would have said to him. There were a couple of cards left and my expression softened a little when I looked at them.

"They're for you." I said, throwing them across to him. I smiled a little, knowing that would wipe the arrogant look off his face – Sherlock seemed to think love was just a horrible trap that he had escaped.

"What?"

He picked up the first, examined the envelope carefully, holding it just in front of his eye line. He brought it forward, sniffed it, and then tore it open with his thumb. He flipped the card open – the picture on the front was a simple love heart with the words "Happy Valentine's Day" above it. Sherlock's eyebrows were pressed together as he read it.

"Mix of scents on the envelope – perfume and a sort of anti-septic, like they'd use in a hospital. A lot of care taken in writing it; careful choice of design – the sender didn't want it to be something embarrassing or over the top that could annoy me. Says they're a little desperate and relatively timid…"

"It's Molly." I said finally, trying to keep a smug look off my face.

"What?"

"The person who sent you that card… it's Molly."

Sherlock thought it over for a moment, before conceding.

"I suppose that would fit, yes… Why would Molly send me a Valentine's card?"

"I can't possibly imagine…"

Giving me a dubious look, he put the card on the table and opened the next one. The design was a little less conventional. It was a picture of a rose, but one that had wilted and died. The background was a pale grey and the petals on the rose were blackened, as though it had been burnt. Sherlock flipped it open with his usual expression of curiosity. He read over the message and his eyes widened, a look of shock seizing his features. He threw it across to me and I read over the typed message:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I'm going to burn

The heart out of you

M

"Is it him?"

"Of course it's him." Sherlock said flatly. There was a long silence, before he finally got to his feet. "I think that's enough Valentine's messages, don't you? Let's hope no more turn up today."

As soon as he had said it, the sound of a low, feminine moan came from the table. It was Sherlock's phone. Turning quickly on his heel, he snatched it from the table top and checked it.

"Hang on… isn't that the noise it made when Ire-" His glare made me stop. "I mean, when the Woman, texted you."

"Yes. It is."

"But it's not her, is it? I mean… it can't be her."

"No." he said, as he started to head towards his bedroom. "Of course not."

I managed to get a look at his phone later. He'd left the message on the screen, which was odd – he would usually have made sure to lock the phone or at least keep it somewhere I couldn't find it. But when I saw the message, it was obvious why he had left it. I think it had taken him off-guard. He wasn't sure how to respond and he had just, absent-mindedly, left it there. Despite what he likes to think, Sherlock is still very much human. The message was short and simply read:

Happy Valentine's Day, Mr Holmes.

xxx