The first day he came to Baker Street, John noticed it. On the fireplace, between the human skull and the opera glasses, there was a small object made in glass. It was a flower. The reason it caught John's eyes at first was because it was really beautiful. Simple, but nearly perfect. It also seemed a bit... out of place.
He quickly stopped noticing the flower, though, but he knew it was on the fireplace that Sherlock would put what mattered to him. Or what was troubling him. Either way, it was extremely clear that the detective cared for it. John remembered his first case with Sherlock, when the flat had gone under a drug bust from Scotland Yard's agents. Phillip Anderson, or as Sherlock called him «the idiot from the Yard», had decided to search the fireplace and had moved the flower. Sherlock, who until then had been very calm and polite despise the intrusion in his home, had then lost his temper.
« put that down, Anderson. Right now. Don't you dare put your big greasy hands on that thing.»
Thankfully, Lestrade had came to the rescue and calmed the situation down.
« Anderson, it's a glass flower. What did you expect to find under that? Leave it. There's nothing on the mantle. »
many months later, on a cold winter night, John suddenly noticed something strange. The flower seemed to glow.
« how does it work?» he asked, curious. « the flower on the fireplace.»
« what are you talking about, John?» The detective asked without stopping reading his newspaper.
« it's glowing...»
he put his paper down, gave it a quick look, and sighed heavily.
« it's just a reflection of the fire. Tea? »
John was surprised by the offer, but gladly accepted. It wasn't everyday Sherlock Holmes would think about asking him if he wanted something. Sherlock got up and went to the kitchen. He prepared the tea, but John caught his glance on the small thing. In these eyes, he saw concern, and some kind of melancholy. He decided not to insist. A few months later, it happened again. This time, it was in June. Sherlock saw it as clearly as John.
« is it a reflection of the fire again?» John mockingly asked.
Sherlock stayed silent for a few seconds.
« must be the light from a car in the street.» he replied.
« yeah. Must be. »
and a moment of silent fell on the room. John decided to break it.
« what is it, Sherlock? What is this flower to you? »
« it's a memory. Left there by a childhood friend. »
« where is he, now? »
« she. And I don't know. »
he got on his feet, and went to his bedroom, locking himself in. The third incident took place the next day. This time, John didn't notice anything, at first. Sherlock suddenly sprung out of his armchair, and dashed to the fireplace. He took the flower in his hands, and, to John's surprise, his eyes widened.
« no...» he whispered. « NO! NO! NO! NO! »
and he started throwing on the ground everything that came to his hand. It was that moment Lestrade chose to come into the flat. He gave the doctor a surprised look, and got a shrug in return. John didn't understand either.
« Sherlock, what's going on?» He asked.
« the light went off! It wasn't supposed to go off! It was supposed to keep burning until... »
he didn't finish his sentence.
« does it have anything to do with...? » Lestrade started.
Sherlock gave him a death glare, and then nodded.
« I'm sorry, Holmes...» the inspector said.
« what are you talking about?» John asked.
« it's an old case. Better not ask too many questions. I think I'd better go, for now. »
after that, the detective seemed to fall into a deep depression. Of course, Sherlock was Sherlock, and he never refused a case if it shown any interest. But he seemed... wearied. Jaded by everything. This general apathy went on until one day, while he was out, John noticed something.
« Sherlock!» He said when he came home. « the flower... It flickered! »
