Roses smell horrible, Sherlock thinks. It is the kind of horrible that burns the edge of your nostrils, one that you cannot get away from quickly enough. He snaps his head away from the bucket of flowers invading his space (in the flowers' defense, he moved his head to smell them), and looked around.

Dull.

The buckets and pre-made arrangements of flowers (Tulipa gesneriana, European name, cultivated of course, died in pinks and reds- and the almost-as-equally-gaudy Dendranthema Grandiflorum, old name of Greek origin, shut up, Sherlock) created a rainbow around Sherlock. He picked up a daisy bunch and inspected their stems. The florist here wasn't even taking proper care of the flowers. The stems were cut in a straight line and slightly bowed due to not being supported correctly. This was the wrong shop to choose, obviously. Sherlock huffed and left.

The next shop, three streets over and considerably more expensive than the previous, showed no better choices for a proper anniversary gift. Sherlock pondered the thought that perhaps John would forget that today was the 29th, saving him. But no, of course not, as the faded memory reappeared in his mind again.

"Sunday's the Twenty-ninth," John suddenly says into the quiet morning. Sherlock turns a page of the paper over.

"Yes, and today's the twenty-fourth."

"Do you remember what the twenty-ninth is, though?" John asks him.

Sherlock feels a line tugging at his brain but he speaks truthfully. "No. Not your birthday, I know that much. So we are good there."

John doesn't say anything back.

And it was several hours later that Sherlock remembered that no more than a year ago he met John at Bart's.

John was bringing it up for some reason. Was this something flatmates usually celebrated? Sherlock never had a flatmate for very long, and they weren't dating, so he wouldn't know. But obviously John felt the need to remind him it was upcoming. Therefore, Sherlock should at least show he remembered it.

And here he was, trying to find a proper gift for an ex-army doctor in a flower shop. Sherlock rolled his eyes and perused the slightly better-looking bouquets of sunflowers and potted house plants. They were all so boring. He watched three men (all married, one in an additional relationship) pay for roses and writing on little cards. This is what everyone did for anniversaries. This was normal. But Sherlock did not see the point in normal. Him and John were far from it, that was obvious. He smiled and left the second shop, brightened with a new plan.

John hung his coat on the hook and walked upstairs, trying to decode the silence in the flat. Sherlock's coat was hanging, so he was there, but John couldn't hear him at all. He stepped into the living room and stopped dead at the view of a large plant that may or may not have teeth. Its flat-ish head opened to reveal a pink mouth of sorts, and by the sheer size of it (John could wear it was half his height, not that anyone would believe him. Sherlock stepped in from the kitchen, a clear box in his hand. There was something moving inside of it, making John shiver.

"What in bloody hell?"

Sherlock moved forward. "Dionaea muscipula, otherwise known as the Venus Flytrap." He smiled smugly and faced John, standing next to the plant as if he'd won a showcase for it. "We met one year ago today, I remembered."

John took a step forward, closer to it, and moved his head around jerkingly to look at it. "It's huge."

"Obviously I added my own touch." Sherlock held out the case. "Would you like the feed it? This spider should do fine until I find a bigger species, London's array of pet shops is disappointing-"

Just then the Flytrap's mouth flapped open and snapped shut, making a small noise. It almost sounded as if it said something. It sent both John and Sherlock jumping away from it, standing next to each other and staring, wide-eyed. They both spoke at once.

"I suppose the size of it is a bit daunting."

"You really shouldn't have, Sherlock."

They looked at each other for a minute. Sherlock sighed.

"Perhaps we should just go to dinner?"

John nods and backs away slowly to get their coats, and Sherlock follows. Once on the street, John laughs. "It didn't really…I mean, I was just hearing things. Right?"

Sherlock looked straight ahead. "I don't think I've ever met a Seymour before. I suppose next time I'll just get a rose, like normal people."

John laughed. "The fact that you even tried is great. Thanks, although I do want it out of the flat by morning."

Sherlock nodded.