There was nothing so unusual in purchasing a bouquet of flowers from the woman on the street corner to brighten up the flat amidst the grey of winter. However, I confess that I was grateful that I did not pass anyone of my acquaintance on the way. I faltered at the door, my hand upon the knob. Holmes had said that he would not return until evening, for a late supper, he had said. For once, I hoped that his errand had not come to an early success.

I quietly turned the knob and eked open the door. I was halfway up the stairs to the flat, when I heard a door creaking open behind me. I jumped in surprise and turned, a hasty explanation on the tip of my tongue, my heart hammering in my chest, when I saw, not Holmes, but our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, on the landing below.

I was able to breathe once more, but still I felt a tightness in my chest and embarrassment remained to color my cheeks.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, good afternoon." Mrs. Hudson had already begun to say. I saw her eyes quickly flit to my bouquet, but she was too much of a gentlewoman to inquire.

I tipped my hat to her and awkwardly endeavored to explain, "I was thinking, for the flat…"

"That's a lovely idea. I'll fetch a vase."

I had a newfound appreciation for Mrs. Hudson's practical nature. She soon returned from her own rooms with a vase, filled with just enough water to nourish the flowers, and at her suggestion, they were set in the center of the table, out of Holmes's way, but where they would inevitably catch his eye - as all things did. In truth, there were few other surfaces in the flat that were clear enough to bear it.

Mrs. Hudson made a perfunctory attempt at tidying the sitting room, before bidding me good afternoon, and returning downstairs, leaving me to my own devices.

I had settled in my customary chair, and picked back up the novel which I had abandoned the evening before. However, it was in vain; the novel held my attention no more now than it had the previous evening. Instead, it was Holmes who occupied my thoughts, last night by his presence, and now in his absence as I awaited his return. Not until supper, he had said. Only minutes before, upon the stair, it had felt like hardly enough time to ensure that all was in readiness, but now, waiting restlessly for his arrival, my heart bared upon the table for all to see, it seemed to be an impossibly long time to wait in suspense.

I could only hope that I had truly read all the signs. Surely, the way his eyes glimmered when he regarded me could be no mistake, and yet to me it seemed that he always shone with brilliance, like no man I have ever known. My every cautious flirtation had been returned hundredfold, and yet for all of his deductive prowess, with which he had proven time and time again to be capable of uncovering my very thoughts, he had never once acted upon them, never made his designs known. I had wondered if he dared not risk putting himself in such a false position - a decision I meant to respect - but after our recent adventure into the home of Charles Augustus Milverton, I knew that to him even the law was no obstacle. There was nothing more to hold me back, but I was left to wonder why then he had taken no action.

I restlessly leafed through my novel until, at last, I threw it aside and pushed onto my feet. They guided me, of their own accord, to the table, to my heartfelt bouquet. It was surely a suitable centerpiece; a burst of life in the depths of winter. Still, I fidgeted with the flowers, arranging this way and that until a petal or two became dislodged, and at last I hastily put it aside and returned to my brown study by the fireplace.

I passed a long, restless afternoon, until at last the light began to fade outside the window, and then, some hours later, I heard a sprightly step upon the stair, taking them two or even three at a time.

My heart leaped into my throat. I glanced over at the table, and sure enough the bouquet was still there. I thought to stand and greet Holmes and then thought better of it and picked up my book to appear occupied, but I could not keep my eyes from the door.

His footsteps paused upon the landing. The knob turned.

For an instant, I had a desperate desire to leap to my feet, grab the flowers and toss them into the fire - now little more than embers - before Holmes had the chance to glimpse them. I had taken a dangerous gamble.

The door opened.

I leaped to my feet like a coiled spring.

Holmes chuckled at the sight of me - I fear in plain disarray. "My apologies for startling you, my dear Watson. But I perceive that I have not awoken you from slumber."

"No," I admitted.

My eyes darted over to my bouquet upon the table of their own accord. Holmes had hardly seemed to notice them at all, and why should he? For all of his powers of deduction, he all too readily acknowledged that the softer emotions were beyond his ken. I suspected - or rather hoped - that it was merely the fairer sex that he scorned, but what use had he then for floriography? In all likelihood, to him a bouquet was merely that; a little color for the flat, as easily provided by Mrs. Hudson as myself.

"A late supper?" Holmes suggested, unknowingly underscoring his ignorance. He had not so much as glanced toward the table.

I could not recall if I possessed a stomach; if I had I could not feel it, but I nodded mutely in assent.

"There is something troubling you, Watson? Are you feeling ill?" He appeared to study me briefly, but whatever he deduced, I could not discern.

I only shook my head and relapsed into my chair, feeling the fool, as Holmes turned to ring the bell, apparently satisfied with my silent protestation.

Only then was his piercing gaze drawn to the table.

I truly had been the fool; there was nothing, not even the most inconsequential detail, which evaded Holmes's notice. And how often had he astounded me by conjuring up some out-of-the-way knowledge that happened to be essential in the case at hand. The bouquet was not the treacherous bright red of spring and summer, with roses and tulips of love and passion, and perhaps even the forbidden apple blossom, but white honeysuckle, winter rose, and daffodil of pure regard, and even a clematis of mental beauty, were more than enough to betray my intent. And what use would Mrs. Hudson have for a green carnation?

"Your own handiwork, Watson?" Holmes asked, turning his gaze upon me. He spoke lightly, but his eyes seemed questioning; I fancied I spied an unaccustomed uncertainty.

I acknowledged that it was, doing all that I could to keep a dangerous hope from bubbling up in my chest.

A wry smile flitted across his thin lips. "You are so eager to share the same cell?"

Of all the reactions I had envisioned, this was not one I had thought to anticipate. I faltered - as I realized was his intent. It was not precisely a rejection, but there was something in it that evoked a protest.

"Holmes-" I began, however, before I had a chance to endeavor to articulate my objection, Mrs. Hudson arrived at the door with our supper, and all conversation upon the matter abruptly ceased.

Holmes made no further mention of it, though my heart remained bared upon the table for all to see, and I had not the heart to pursue it.