"Merry Christmas, Johnny!" Harriet giggled and pushed the present into her little brother's hands.
Fifteen year-old John smiled. "Thanks, Harry!" He tore open the paper and pulled back the flaps on the box. "A flower?" He said skeptically.
"Not just any flower, a magic one. They say it grew when a single drop of sun fell to the Earth, and it can rejuvenate anything with a simple song. It only works once, though." John stared at her as if she were crazy. "The song is on the card."
John picked up the card and read it silently, putting it all back in the box with a faked smile. "Thanks."
"You may need it someday. Use it wisely."
The next several years, the flower spent it's days in the box. It never grew older, never lost it's shine. John didn't open the box, so he didn't witness this phenomenon. He only ever thought of the flower in times of danger. The teen had wished he'd had his magic healing flower when his appendix ruptured suddenly in the middle of his first year of UNI and he almost didn't make it to the hospital. The doctor had longed for the enchanted laurel when he broke his leg playing rugby with Harry. The soldier had grieved the lack of his special brand of sorcery when he was shot in Afghanistan. But each time he recovered, and the flower ended up back in the recesses of his mind.
That was, until the day he met Sherlock Holmes. The detective pushed the flower to the forefront of his thoughts almost everyday. When they fought the cabbie with the pills, John had wondered if the magic would work on poison. The ex-soldier briefly thought about whether or not an enchanted flower would save him if he got blown to bits in a swimming pool. He almost took it out of the box when Ms. Adler drugged Sherlock, not sure if he had been on the brink of poison... Again. John took the box put of his closet and ran his hands over it once, wondering if it would help when they were torn to pieces by a Hell Hound.
But the one day the flower consumed his thoughts, was the day Sherlock Holmes jumped. The magical flower was all he could think about, obsessing over it for days on end. Would it reverse death? How he wished he believed in magic. He could use it right now. Finally, after weeks, months, of grieving, heartache, and loss, he made a decision.
It was a late night. The moon was hidden behind a cloud and a small breeze chilled John through his jacket. The army doctor knelt down and placed the box in front of him. Then, after pulling away a small mound of dirt, he planted his flower permanently. John couldn't breathe, his hopes too high in magic and flowers. He took a shuddering breath and sang very lowly, very quietly to himself. "Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine. Make the clock reverse. Bring back what once was mine." The flower began to pulse a gold light, the soft glow warming John's face and the tears that now watered the plant. In the illumination, two words stood out in the darkness directly above the flower: 'Sherlock Holmes'. "Heal what has been hurt, change the fates' design. Save what has been lost, bring back what once was mine." He took a shuddering breath.
A hand rested upon his shoulder and a baritone finished the song. "What once was mine."