Sherlock swayed in the breeze. It was a nice breeze, a gentle breeze, a breeze which tickled his leaves. The sun was warm today, and he opened his petals toward it, basking in its warmth. If anyone had cared to look, they would see the deep blue flower welcoming the sunlight.
But he was a bit lonely—he was the only flower so high up on the hill. That didn't bother him too much, as it meant he could stand out from the dull greens around him. But he did sometimes wish that he had someone to look forward to seeing.
The air vibrated with the buzz of wings. It was a bee. Sherlock was confused. No bees came up here, to his part of the hill. No one dared get near him. But this bee had. He decided it was called John.
John's tiny feet rested on Sherlock's petals, and it was good to have contact with something else living. They stayed for a while, John crawling on Sherlock's stem and leaves and petals, but before long John flew away. Sherlock's head drooped slightly. His friend was gone.