A/N I don't even know what this is.

Thanks to ThisDayWillPass, Hummingbird1759

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XXXI. Flowers

Sentiment is one of the many words that Sherlock will speak with a curl to his lip, a disgusted dullness in his sharp grey-green eyes as he turns away, scoffing deep in his throat and reaching up with pale fingers to adjust his navy blue scarf. It couldn't be clearer that he considers the emotion a sign of weakness, that anyone to experience the pull of genuine caring is pathetic, useless.

John always tries not to take this to heart, considering that he himself is a person all too prone to emotional affection. He tells himself that surely Sherlock doesn't dismiss him so easily, surely he sees past the screen of the army doctor's emotions and penetrates to the core, to his quick intelligence and loyalty, his courage and his strong morals. He wants to think that the detective doesn't dismiss him as stupid, and even with Sherlock's words constantly in his mind—because you're an idiot—he tells himself that that's true. That Sherlock appreciates him for who he is, doesn't consider him little more than some sort of pet to keep around and send on errands.

He expects Sherlock to put up with him and his human feelings—put up with him, nothing more. And that's what he gets, typically, not a degree more or less.

But, on occasion, unexpected things crop up. Like today. Today is February 14th, Valentine's Day, and it's the day that John enters the flat only to be practically flattened by what seems to be a solid wall of floral perfume.

He blinks and coughs slightly, eyes watering as the aroma crashes over him in waves. As he looks around, all he really manages to register is pink—there are vivid pink flowers everywhere, roses, lining seemingly every solid surface in the room, stems cut neatly and placed in scrubbed-out glasses that previously housed a variety of colorful chemistry experiments. The whole damn flat is decked out in the wide, blush-colored blossoms, and John honestly can't keep his jaw shut. He gapes blankly at the setup, and his blatant staring is stopped only by the low purr of Sherlock's voice, coming from the couch.

"What do you think?"

John starts, glances over and barely manages to glimpse the top of a tousled head over the virtual garden situated on the coffee table. Standing up a bit straighter, he gets a better view of Sherlock's face, eyes barely open and mouth curled into a smirk. He looks pleased with himself, of all things.

"What the hell is this?" John demands, gesturing vaguely to the spectacular array of flowers.

"A nod towards the holiday that takes place today. Our most recent client piled on money most absurdly, so I decided to be festive."

"Festive," John repeats weakly, choking on the fumes. "Right, excellent. I appreciate the effort. Now get yourself off that sofa and help me get these damn things out of here."

Sherlock chuckles, pulls himself up and meets John's eyes, his gaze deep and cool. "Of course. Happy Valentine's Day, John."