Sherlock Holmes had owned his quaint flower shop for many years, living happily selling flower arrangements to people from all over. Sherlock remembered the names of every visitor, cataloging their requests in a small journal he kept under his counter. He'd encountered many types, ranging from proposals to thank you's, but it was one peculiar Thursday morning that Sherlock was surprised for the first time.
A small man entered his shop, visibly flinching at the bell that rung from above the door. He was quite short, and his grey hair glistened from its comb-over hairdo. His face was heavily lined, not in a way that marked him as old, but as somebody with many stories to tell. A man from a hard life.
This man walked with a limp, heavily leaning towards his right side. He grimaced with each step, taking his time walking across the small shop. Sherlock was sure that this peculiar man would ask for a bouquet of elegant flowers, perhaps for a lover or a friend. Sherlock was not expecting, however, for him to start with this;
"Pardon me, how do I passive-aggressively say 'fuck you' in flower?"
Sherlock stared outright as this man, as if expecting him to chuckle and correct himself, waiting for him to call shenanigans. Instead, this man held concentrated eye contact until Sherlock had to look away.
"Ah, well, let's see."
Sherlock began bustling around the shop, carefully selecting bunches of brightly colored flowers. He carefully placed the flowers on the counter between him and the man and began pointing out their different aspects.
Sherlock held up a red flower, "This here is a geranium, which represents stupidity," then a beautiful bell-shaped purple flower, "and this is foxglove, which represents insincerity."
The man nodded along with Sherlock's words, like he was memorizing his words. Sherlock continued his explanations of the flowers, pointing out meadowsweet for uselessness, orange lilies for hatred, and finishing off with yellow carnations.
Sherlock held a fluffy, yellow flower to his nose, breathing deeply in the scent, "And these, are to communicate that 'you have disappointed me.' This bouquet shall be absolutely stunning, and so full of hatred!"
Sherlock and the man laughed together, full and harmonious. As their laughter died down, Sherlock made eye contact with this man, whose previously hard features softened to a point of kindness.
"Who shall I bill these to, Mr...?" Sherlock inquired.
"Doctor. Uh, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock reached across the counter and took Dr. Watson's hand in his, shaking the highly calloused palm with zest.
"Sherlock. Who exactly are these flowers for anyways? You must hate someone pretty bad."
Dr. Watson smiled bashfully and looked up at Sherlock. "Just an old friend, no one of import." Sherlock grabbed the note attached and read the name, written in a haphazard scrawl.
Congratulations on your graduation! Fuck off and never speak to me again, John.
Sherlock quirked his eyebrow at the crass message, but put it into the flower arrangement anyways.
"Will that be all?"
Dr. Watson looked around the small shop, smiling at the roses he'd spotted near the entrance. He grabbed the small bouquet from the display and handed it to Sherlock.
"Anyone specific you'd like these to go to?"
"Mrs. Hudson, please. I missed Mother's day and she'll never forgive me."
Sherlock scribbled a small note and Mrs. Hudson's name on a sheet of paper, and stuffed it amongst the bouquet.
Sherlock continued on to ring up John, to a total of $69.07. After handing John his two bouquets Sherlock quickly scribbled his number on the back of the receipt, and rushed to hand Dr. Watson his change. He waved him out, dearly hoping he'd come back.
And he did. For years, Doctor John Watson was Sherlock's Flowers's top sponsor, as every Thursday that very same man would enter the shop and buy some flowers, different arrangements everytime. And on their wedding day, bouquets of geranium, meadowsweet, foxglove, orange lilies, and yellow carnations donned every hall that Sherlock, owner of now Sherlock & John's Flowers, graced.
-Macaw