"I need you to teach me Orchideous."
Mycroft glanced up from the roll of parchment on his desk and put aside his quill, the shadow of an amused smile upon his face.
"Orchideous, dear brother? Forgive me, but I seem to remember you insisting that I only bother teaching you the most relevant of spells."
"This is relevant and completely necessary. Mycroft, it is—"
"—flowers, Sherlock. You're asking me to teach you how to conjure flowers."
"Yes," insisted Sherlock, with a note of desperation in his voice. "Yes, Mycroft...I...please."
The room went silent as Mycroft raised one eyebrow, studying Sherlock's face.
"We'll start tonight."
Sherlock stood in the center of the room, his wand out and ready.
"Now, it's a simple movement," said Mycroft from his spot by the window. "Just imagine you are drawing a circle in the air—keep your wrist still—yes, exactly. Good, Sherlock."
"I feel ridiculous. I want to try it with the words as well," pouted Sherlock as he moved his wand in a clockwise motion.
"We've discussed this. It's important that you take your time. I won't have you conjuring an entire forest in my office, Sherlock. Have you already forgotten what happened when I taught you Aguamenti? I thought I'd never be dry again. "
"Don't be so dramatic, Mycroft. At least we managed to save all of the fish."
Three hours and one very sore arm later, Sherlock burst into 221B. He made a beeline for the kitchen, his coat fluttering behind him.
"Sherlock?" John came around the corner to find him opening a bottle of wine. Tossing the cork aside and turning to face John, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John took in the scene for less ten seconds before inclining his head in agreement.
"I'll get the glasses."
The empty bottle sat forgotten on the table, nearly overturned by John's restless feet. Sherlock's feet came threateningly close to it, brushing against John's right ankle instead.
"Whoops," he murmured, taking the time to linger before retreating. John, who was lounging rather close to him on the sofa, did not seem to mind in the slightest.
Their bodies curved towards each other, and the air turned warm and comfortable as the fire crackled on the hearth. Sherlock reached up to rub his arm, massaging the aching muscle and staring at John's profile.
Slowly, John turned to face him, a look of contentment on his face.
And Sherlock knew that it was time.
"I want you to know me."
John met his eyes, looking puzzled. He sat up a little straighter, watching Sherlock carefully.
"I do, Sherlock. God, I do."
Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed as he took a deep breath. The fire burned down to a low flame, casting a glow.
"But there are things, John...things I haven't told you. And if we—if you—"
He opened his eyes to find John staring at him, unwavering.
"Tell me."
"Actually," began Sherlock timidly, "may I show you?"