"What a lovely thing a rose is."
I watched as Holmes plucked said flower from its vase upon our table as we sat in Marcini's awaiting our meals. The candlelight played across our faces as his gaze met mine for a brief moment, before he focused all his attention on the flower before him. Delicately, he fingered its pale green stalk.
"And yet, such a thing would not be possible without the stem that supports it. Such a seemingly harmless thing is not without its thorns, ready to leap to its flower's defense."
A small smile glowed upon his face. "The rose blooms only through the tender care of its stem. One would not be incorrect in saying it almost blooms for its stem."
Gently, he placed the rose back in its rightful vase, tearing his eyes away from it to once more meet mine. "The flower is easily admired, but I say the stem is no less a thing of beauty."
He remained perfectly still then, waiting upon my response. I smiled at him. "And here I thought, Holmes, that you had no practical knowledge of gardening."
His grey eyes searched my face, for what I do not know. Then they seemed to deaden before me. "My dear Watson, there is much you do not know about me." Strangely, his words lacked their customary bite.
"Indeed, as I was also not aware of how poetic you can be." I raised an eyebrow. "My dear fellow, I think this leaves you with very little room to criticize my 'romantic twaddles', as you call them."
His answer was so soft I almost didn't catch it. "Yes, I suppose it does."
Dinner came then and we did not speak much for the remainder of the evening. Or rather he didn't, and I, sensing his need for silence, complied.