This is my first fic.

Sherlock was something else.

Most of the times it was mainly a bad taste in his throat, the kind that gets stuck in between parts that you can and cannot feel and it constantly choked John out, but sometimes the man would blossom in a way that almost wanted to make him vomit. John knew several things: plants and he usually knew people, but then again Sherlock really wasn't a part of the regular people.

Sherlock, with a mind full of details but details for the wrong things.

Everything was wrong when it came to the detective. First of all, even if the universe weren't so upside-down and convoluted, Sherlock was a man of science and logic. John liked to believe he was more emotional when it came to thought processes. It didn't account for much, because even if Sherlock didn't realize John knew personality differences can level out the rough edges of the relationship. It was like forming the edges of two squares together to make one, much less equal shape but still a shape nonetheless.

John, trying to swallow the sour taste down.

He really wanted to hate Sherlock. He really did. And he was halfway there until, like the vines, Sherlock took his heart and started to twist it into something John really hadn't foreseen. He never counted on Sherlock to annoyingly worm into his soul. Everyone could pick up on it, even if the blooming petunias weren't perking up whenever John even had the mind to think about Sherlock. It was honestly embarrassing.

How could he hate someone who he so very loved?

It was confusing living this way, where John and Sherlock's intrinsic properties were at war with each other. John would come home to the flat filled with lights, but not the lights that fed him so dearly in the summer. It made him want to scream perhaps a bit more than he let on. And vice versa, Sherlock undoubtedly woke up with roots in his hair, and with the leaves of the daisies floating in his routine morning tea. Sometimes it became all too much and they would waste the night arguing.

"No John you wouldn't understand"

John would turn away, quietly fuming. The debate reached a standpoint. But there is always recovery before the inevitable torture. They would return to this moment, or moments, and sigh for all the things missed. When the last steps to the race is trailed away as the runner falls down dead. They would return to the moment and wonder how runner even made it that far. It gave them hope.

"Wouldn't I? Try me Sherlock"

But Sherlock would turn away, pouting until John yelled at him enough to get the real core of the problem. The problem, more of than not was the tension that even Sherlock could pick up on. John knew it was uncomfortable, with two revolving planets out of sync but still moving nonetheless. Sherlock, with his metal mind and locked feelings couldn't understand those nuances. Which is where the heated debacle crumbled to pieces and the feeling was left to grow like a snarling beast waiting for it's next meal. John was worried. He was worried most of the time, but every day the monster between them grew and grew until it was a gluttonous beast, with beady eyes and slow movements. The air was thick. You would have to be a fool not to see and understand.

Ah, Sherlock.

Sherlock, who understood but not quite, with gaps and pieces missing in his mechanical parts, the places where the maker had not quite made him whole. Like he was a scrap a biotech student made in his spare time. John didn't get why the world was so cruel is these ways, because the problem was that Sherlock was a living breathing human masquerading through live as a robot. And there was nothing the leaves of John's fingertips could do to stop that.

Sherlock proved him wrong when the world began to move a little too quickly and the biker in front of him was moving all too slowly and the cold concrete could do nothing for the vines of John's heart.

Life moved too fast for John to understand after that. If he didn't think he was in love, he was most certainly in love now. The beast that loomed in front of their eyes had disappeared without a trace, but it hurt to think about something they had shared. Something John shared with a dead detective made of wires and blood. Days passed began to blur together in a shade of dark green, slowly transitioning to a rotten color of brown.

When all the plants in the street outside were marching upon death's door, John decided to move.

It was better that way.