John sat at one of the slabs in the morgue, watching as Sherlock patiently sliced up a heart for his next experiment. As his attention began to slip, he focused on another item instead, one that had puzzled him for weeks - The Case of the Curious Test Tube, he thought to himself.
The clues went like this: Sherlock had begun to wake up every day at 5:30. (John noticed the alarm set on his phone.) He would then go directly to St. Bart's, arriving at the hospital by 6:00. (In conjunction with the next few clues, John had observed Sherlock's new lock-picking hobby. The hospital opens at 7:00, so he figured the detective was brushing up on his skills.) John didn't know what he did at the hospital, but he was always back at Baker Street by 6:45. (John had beaten him to Baker Street one morning after receiving a text about a new case and would he please come immediately, whether it was convenient or not.) The final clue was that damn test tube: Each day they visited the morgue (they went almost every day now, usually to work on a case or the detective's boredom but sometimes just to have lunch with Molly and Mary), there would be one strange little test tube sitting in its strange little rack by the sink in the morgue. Under any other circumstances, the doctor would assume it contained some species or another of slow-growing bacteria, but no - inside the tiny glass cylinder rested a flower, a different one each day.
It had puzzled, perplexed, and even aggravated John that he simply could not figure out the meaning behind the plants. Were they part of an ongoing experiment? Were they simply decor? Had he been wrong in one of his observations?
He had decided that today was the day to find out.
"John!" As the doctor snapped himself back to reality, he saw Sherlock studying him with a raised eyebrow. "I asked you if you could please tell me which chamber of this man's heart suffered the most damage from the bullet?"
Sometimes, John felt that he did not give Molly all the credit she deserved. She had, after all, taught her normally incorrigible husband how to be pleasant and even - dare he say it? - polite.
"Oh, sure, Sherlock, sorry," John said, standing to take a closer look at the organ. He pulled on a pair of gloves, gently slipping the heart into his own hands as he examined the damage. "I'd say the right atrium," he muttered to himself. "Though the left atrium is pretty torn up, too."
The detective beamed, taking the heart back and sliding it into its proper container. "Thank you, Doctor," he said as he placed the organ in the freezer. "I'll call Gregory immediately and-"
"Sherlock?" John interrupted. First of all, that peony was mocking him, he could tell, and he would not stand for it any longer. Second, now his friend was actually remembering the DI's name? Jesus, that woman was a proper saint!
He was met with a raised eyebrow in response.
"Why does that test tube always have a flower in it?" He felt stupid for asking, but he wanted to know.
Sherlock smiled softly, gazing at the tiny bloom with some sort of - no. It couldn't be. Could marriage have changed his friend that much? John refused to jump to conclusions until he had more information.
"For Molly," he explained. "It's especially helpful to her on mornings after I've been away all night on a case."
"That's all?" John was shocked. He was stunned. He knew it took some to up and marry somebody, but he never expected it to go this far. "It isn't an experiment? Or a test? Or even part of some case I don't know about?"
"No, it's just for her, and I suppose I rather like surprising her every day," replied the detective, wrapping his scarf around his neck.
"It can't be - you told me yourself, hell, you told everyone yourself -"
Sherlock sighed. "John, please refrain from prattling. What more do I need to explain for you to understand?"
"Marriage changed you, Sherlock Holmes. Now you're getting sentimental on me!"
Sherlock stiffened at the use of the word, but thought about it for a minute and eventually relaxed again. He strode over to the sink and plucked the glass from its rack, carrying it gingerly over to the doctor. He held it up, revealing an engraving that John hadn't noticed before. SH, it read, in script.
"She had bought me an entire set of them the night I proposed," he said. "I put them all to use constantly except this one, lest I disintegrate or drop the others out of clumsiness. I always wanted to have one, to keep one safe." He slipped the test tube back into the rack.
"Oh," was all a dumbfounded (and slightly embarrassed) John could say.
As the pair left the morgue for New Scotland Yard, the doctor pondered what his friend had told him. By the time the cab slowed to a stop in front of the formidable building, John Watson had made up his mind.
ooooo
The doorbell rang late that night, after Molly had gone to bed. Lying on the couch, Sherlock opened one eye lazily and plodded to the door, opening it to find a delivery man awkwardly holding a sizable bouquet of all kinds of flowers.
"Delivery for-" the man began.
"I didn't order any flowers," came the puzzled drawl.
"Well, if you live in... 221B Baker Street," said the man, reading the address off of a little white card. "You did. So please, sir, if you would, sign here."
The detective sighed, scribbling a signature down and taking the flowers from the man before closing the door to the flat. As he moved to set the bouquet down on the kitchen table, a small card fell onto the carpet at his feet. He picked it up, flipping it over to reveal a short message.
For your test tube, so you won't have to get up so early every day. Hide them well. JW
Sherlock grinned. He'd be truly lost without his blogger.
ooooo
Thank you so much, dear readers, for your kind feedback and support!
Next story is scheduled to come out very soon (no, not a third book to add to the series, I'm afraid), and I'm terribly excited about it!
Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you again to you all - it's been an amazing experience having so much publicity over two tiny little stories, I can hardly believe it!
After all, I'd be positively lost without my readers.
~London Belle