AN: I originally wanted to make John a bluebell, since they're such a quintessentially British flower, but the gladiolus just fits him so perfectly, so I chose that instead. It means "little sword" in Latin, which I feel is appropriate, and it symbolises moral fiber, strength of character and faithfulness. It can also represent infatuation and exasperation, two words that sum up John's relationship with Sherlock admirably.
Warnings: Serious response to a cracky idea, cross-pollination, mentions of hypothetical Mpreg (sort of), conspicuous lack of anything resembling a beta, not to be taken seriously
Reposted with improvements/minor errors fixed
John jerked awake, his petals unfolding in sharp, startled surprise. Shadow images from his nightmare played behind his eyes- the crawling, seething mass of green bodies; terror so thick it was like a black, coiling mass. John slowed his respiration, absorbing large gulps of oxygen through his stomata and expelling carbon dioxide.
It was dark in the nursery. The proprietor had gone home to his wife in the afternoon, packing the portable shelves of plants into the cool, confined shop. The other plants slumbered in the milky darkness, their flowers furled tightly in sleep. Dawn was creeping nearer, and soon they would wake, stretching their fronds towards the weak London sun.
John thought about the simplicity of his life before the attack that had left him shaken and wounded. Before being given to the nursery as a cutting, John had been the favourite plant of a botanist. Living in a professional environment was a fantastic oportunity for a young person to learn about the world, which very view plants experienced much of. He'd learnt billiant, thrilling things about plant biology and diseases.
When Doctor Stamford had retired, he'd replanted John in his garden in Turnham Green. John'd spent two or three days chatting up the dahlias and watching the bees zigzag lazily past, feeling as if he'd been forced into early retirement.
Then Doctor Stamford had snipped off a section of his roots and a couple of his leaves, and donated them to the community nursery as a gesture of goodwill. The pain and shock of being cut in two left him vulnerable, and he succumbed to an infestation of aphids that eventually took his life.
Against all odds, a small part of him survived. No more than a cluster of roots and leaves, he'd clung fiercely to life as careful hands had embalmed him in blessedly cool soil. He'd spent the first few, tentative days of renewed existence speculating about his future.
John had now been at the nursery for almost two weeks, recuperating and examining his options. He didn't expect to be bought. John was well aware of his own failings- his lack of beautiful and abundant flowers and his smallness. People usually wanted large, showy flowers, like roses and lillies. At best, John could hope to be planted in the proprietor's own garden. His wife was partial to red flowers, and he sometimes gifted her with unwanted ones from the nursery.
John watched the pale arc of the moon dip beneath a shimmery fluff of cloud. The sky began to brighten, watery splashes of colour blooming across the satiny blackness. By seven o'clock, the sky was a pale, cautiously cheerful blue.
John heard the crisp slap of shoes on concrete and the warm buzz of voices. Two people- the proprietor and an older woman, most likely a customer. John listened for the familiar click of the key in the lock and the protesting creak of the door.
The proprietor appeared in the doorway, a bear of a young man in a duffel coat and a beanie.
"It's so nice of you to do this, Noel." An elderly woman came into view, clutching a gardening magazine and smiling benignly at the propreitor.
"It's no problem at all, Mrs. Hudson," said Noel cheerfully. "What plant did you say you were looking for?"
"Oh, I'm not entirely sure. Something low maintenance, I suppose, that doesn't need a lot of sunlight. It's a house warming present for my new tenants, you see."
Noel smiled indulgently. "Right you are, Mrs. Hudson. If you'll come this way, I'll show you some our less tempreramental ones."
Noel led the old lady around the shop, proffering various plants for her perusal.
"No, no, that's not quite it, I'm afraid," she quavered, after neither tulips, irises, or gardinias had yielded much satisfaction.
Noel was unperturbed. "Well, maybe if we narrowed it down a bit. Were you looking for a particular species? Or we could go by colour."
"I suppose I'd like something sunny, to brighten up the flat a bit."
"Sunny. We can work with sunny. How about sunflowers?"
The little old lady examined the bright yellow flowers and shook her head regretfully. "No, they're not quite right, I'm afraid." John watched her shuffle between the shelves, one hand resting lightly on the mesh. To his surprise, she stopped before his shelf and peered at him, looking thoughtful. "What about this one?"
"Gladiolus? Interesting choice. They're sturdy plants, but they do better in warmer climates."
"I think I'll take this one."
John hardly knew what to think. He'd never planned for this eventuality. He could feel other plants bristling with resentment.
Noel carefully scooped John up and put him on the counter, where he took the chance to have a look around. The shop door was open, wafting billows of life-giving sunlight through the cramped space. Freedom and the prospect of adventure beckoned. He waited impatiently as the transaction was completed, eager to be out of the dreadful nursery and in the sun again.
Finally, John was tucked into the crook of an arm and carried out into the glorious sunlight. He stretched his petals towards the giant gold disk, pores dilating to welcome the warmth. He watched the passing scenery and the bustling humdrum of London. He rarely had the chance to see it, despite having lived there his whole life. It was frightening, but also exhilarating, and he felt more alive than he'd been since his days in the surgery.
Their destination turned out to be a handsom Victorian residence with a large metal 221B on the front door. The old lady carefully set John on the ground to rummage in her handbag for the key, leaving John to observe the street at his leisure.
The door was opened, and John was picked up again and hugged close to warm-blooded skin. Mrs. Hudson carried him up the stairs, the rocking motion of her walk making anxiety buzz vaguely in the pit of his stomach. John counted the stairs to take his mind off it. Seventeen, exactly- John wondered if the architect had planned it that way, or if the number had just happened to fit his specifications.
Mrs. Hudson rapped lightly on the door at the top of the stairs, and a man opened it. He was thin and pale and drawn-looking, and he wore an expression of vague irritation.
"Mrs. Hudson. What can I do for you?"
"I brought you a present. I thought the flat could do with a bit of cheering up."
"It's not a depressive, Mrs. Hudson," said the man dismissively.
"Try to be civil," said a voice from somewhere in the recesses of the apartment. "You could do with acting a bit more like a human being once in a while." Another man shuffled into view. This one was short and comfortable looking, but John sensed a lethal, carefully hidden edge to him. He reached out and gently took John from Mrs. Hudson's hands. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It's lovely. Would you like to come in?"
"Thank you, dear. I'll only stay a moment. Oh, but what's this?" She peered myopically at something on the windowsill. "You have a plant already? Daffodils, how beautiful!"
"It's a narcissus," said the pale man impatiently. "It's part of an experiment."
John was set carefully down on the sill next to the other plant and they eyed each other cautiously. The other plant was bright and showy, but his leaves were drooping in what looked like apathy and boredom rather than thirst. John could tell he was curious, but he was obviously trying to hide it.
"Hello," John said politely, "I'm John. Nice too meet you."
"Sherlock," said the other plant blandly.
"So, what is it you do?" John asked, trying to make conversation.
Sherlock scoffed. "Don't waste my time. I'm not even going to answer that, for the very simple reason that I am a bloody plant, and we don't do anything, except pollinate other plants and make more wretched creatures who continue the whole interminable cycle until they die of boredom. Presumably you asked because you felt it was polite, because of ridiculous social niceties that, frankly, I have no interest in. I deduced your life history the moment you walked through the door, so there's no point anyway."
"I see," John said mildly. "You really know everything about me, just from looking at me?"
"Yes," said Sherlock curtly.
"Well, go on, then," John said lightly.
"You really want to hear?"
John felt modestly smug at having caught the arrogant plant by surprise.
"Sure. It'll pass the time."
Sherlock seemed to steel himself, his flowers crinkling in concentration. "You're not a young plant- you've been around for half a decade, during which time you lived indoors in an environment which you found stimulating, probably a scientist's laboratory going by the size and shape of your flowers and your obvious interest in biology. You've fathered several children, none of which you know about, but you've never been fertilised yourself. Recently you suffered some kind of trauma, most likely physical, and you have pain in one of your stems, but it's psychosomatic. You also have nightmares. I think that's enough to be going on with."
Sherlock said all of this rapidly and breathlessly, his petals bright with excitement and adrenaline.
"Brilliant," John chortled.
"I-really?" There was that oddly vulnerable tilt of the leaves again.
"Yeah. That was amazing. How did you know all of that?"
Sherlock smiled, and John thought he could detect a pleased flush around the edges of his petals. "Simple deduction. The trauma is easy, you favour one of your stems. I know you were an indoor plant because your flowers are quite small. I know you belonged to a scientist because when you walked into the flat, you were instantly drawn to the container of thumbs on the kitchen table. Any plant not exposed to that sort of thing on a regular basis would be repulsed, but you were intrigued. I know you haven't been fertilised because you show no signs of depression or separation anxiety. The nightmares were obvious, clear signs of sleep deprivation and cell tension."
"Proper genius."
"That's not what people usually say."
"What do people usually say?"
Sherlock's leaves curled upward in a smile. "Piss off."
John emitted a startled giggle. "Well, I'm not people."
"No," Sherlock said, smiling. "I don't believe you are."
-End
Awesome, someone shares my whacky sense of humour. Expect new updates in future.