A/N: Thank you all for such wonderful feedback, it was a huge relief (and treat!) to see how much you guys enjoyed chapter one *huge grin*

I've also decided that there is no way this story is going to only be four chapters (pfft who was I kidding), so buckle up for a long journey, guys!

The Lilac is associated with newfound beauty and infatuation. It is used to symbolize the transient feeling of falling in love for the first time.

…

A rose garden was a good place for a date.

Sherlock obviously did not know this from experience, but he was cognizant enough of social norms to understand that flowers were generally considered positive entities, so the fact that he was here with John was probably a good thing. It was their second time meeting with each other and Sherlock had spent the entire morning looking forward to it. Just as they'd done yesterday, the two of them were currently making their way around the garden, leisurely admiring the flowers.

"I meant to ask yesterday, but what do you do for a living?" John questioned as he observed the freshly-watered roses.

Sherlock puffed out his chest. "I am a consulting detective."

John raised a brow. "Never heard of it."

"I should think not. I'm the only one in the world. I invented the profession."

"What do you do?"

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"Well, what can you do that the police can't?"

"For one, I can deduce. I can look at my surroundings and piece together conclusions about a number of things. And two, I am a genius."

John didn't look away from the roses, but his mouth ticked up in a smile. "Can you deduce me?"

"Of course," Sherlock answered confidently. He looked John up and down for a moment, his eyes narrowed. "Aside from what you've already told me, I know that your father was abusive, your mother died early in your childhood, alcoholism runs in your family, you don't have much money, you and your sister have a strained relationship, you've gone through bouts of depression, PTSD, and survivor's guilt since your discharge, and when you were ten years old, you broke your left thumb."

When a long, terrible silence followed, Sherlock began to wonder if he'd said too much. Seconds ticked by and John still didn't say anything.

Dammit. He'd definitely crossed a line.

Dread swept through Sherlock like a wave. Why couldn't he have pointed out something inconsequential and small, like the fact that he knew John had a fondness for writing because there were blisters on his ring finger and thumb? Why couldn't he have mentioned that he knew John was a solider from the moment he met him because of the way John squared his shoulders and made full eye contact when he was being addressed? Why did he have to bring up painful, possibly traumatizing, events on their second bloody day of being with each other? Why he was such a freak? Why couldn't he do anything right? Now, thanks to his thoughtlessness, he'd just scared away the only decent person he'd ever met.

Sherlock stood still as a statue, not even daring to breathe, and waited for the inevitable moment when John would sneer at him for being so insensitive and walk away, out of Sherlock's life forever.

"Eleven," John said at last, his expression unreadable.

Sherlock blinked several times. The response was so unexpected that Sherlock's brain nearly got whiplash trying to process it. "What?"

John looked back at the roses. "I was eleven years old when I broke my thumb, not ten."

"Oh."

"Do you want to know how I broke it?"

This was taking an odd turn, but he was willing to go along with it if it meant keeping John around. "Yes."

"Good."

John sat down on the bench and beckoned Sherlock to join him. Sherlock eagerly obliged, flooded with relief that John apparently wasn't leaving.

"It was the middle of summer," John began, settling into the story. "Harry had been begging me day in and day out to take her to the park so we could fly the kites our grandmother had given us. I kept telling her no, because the walk to the park was long and the weather was hot, and I didn't want to have to pull her in her red wagon all the way there.

"But then, a day came in the middle of June when the weather was absolutely perfect. The sky was blue, the wind was cool, the sun was shining behind white clouds—it was just a gorgeous day. So, finally, I said yes. Everything went swimmingly once we got there: Harry and I flew our kites, skipped rocks on the pond, fed the ducks, all that fun stuff. It wasn't until we were about to leave that things went a bit sideways. See, right as I was packing up our stuff, Harry ran over to me and starting crying, saying her kite had got all tangled up in the tree branches. I tried to tell her it was fine, we could buy her a new one or she could have mine, but she would not stop sobbing. So, I went over to the tree and told her I'd get it out myself.

"Now, keep in mind, I had never climbed a tree before. As a kid, I loved sports. Loved football, loved rugby. However, I was by no means a skilled climber. I was terrible at it actually, which I'm sure my year six gym teacher could easily confirm." John smiled to himself and shook his head. "But, anyway, I ascended the tree, despite my grave lack of dexterity, and somehow managed to perch on one of the thicker branches and untangle Harry's kite. I was rather pleased with myself, until it occurred to me that I had no idea how to get down. Of course, scrambling down the tree was an option, but I feared that my shoe would slip and I would end up in a heap on the ground with a broken leg. The only other choice was to jump and try to land like a cat—I remembered hearing once that it was best to land on all fours. So, against my better judgement, I grabbed Harry's kite and leapt out of the tree. It felt like I was falling for minutes and minutes, but, looking back, it couldn't have been more than three or four seconds. I did manage to land on all fours—wouldn't advise it, by the way—but my hand was at an odd angle when I hit the ground, so my thumb ended up crushed between my palm and the floor. Harry's kite was saved, so she was quite pleased, but I wasn't, because I had to pull her and her wagon all the way back to our house with a busted thumb and grass stains all over my new trousers."

Sherlock's mind was buzzing with the plethora of new data about John. Protective of family, fond, nostalgic, close bond with sister (currently estranged), good story teller, longing for a simpler time, athletic past, caretaker complex…

Unable to think of anything to say, Sherlock blurted out the first thing to pop into his head. "I like hearing you speak, John."

"Well, I like hearing you speak, too," John replied, a smile playing on his lips. "I thought your deductions were brilliant. Didn't care for the subjects themselves, but the way you pieced everything together was bloody incredible. Right on the nose."

Brilliant? Incredible? "So you're not angry?"

"Nope.

"Are you sure?"

John grinned and bumped his shoulder companionably into Sherlock's. "I knew you'd be a git from the moment I met you, so it's not like any of this came as a surprise."

"Git?" Sherlock repeated, affronted. He'd meant to come up with something clever and witty after that, but he was too focused on the feeling of John's arm pressed against his to bother finishing the retort.

"Don't worry," John smiled, leaning into him a bit more. "I say 'git' the same way other people might say 'most interesting bloke I've ever met'."

Good things in life

Blue eyes

Dark blonde hair

Former army doctors

Talking with John Watson

John Watson

Bad things in life

John leaving

Limited visiting hours

Not talking to John

Boredom

"You know, Sherlock," Dr. Ford said, stirring her cup of morning coffee, "with some of my other patients, I've found that their problems were primarily caused by their suppression of self."

Sherlock was lying supine on the couch, one arm flung behind his head, the other resting on his abdomen. He closed his eyes, blocking out the irritating sight of Dr. Ford's overly-earnest expression. "That phrase alone makes me ill."

"Sexuality, for example," Dr. Ford continued, undeterred. "In the past, some of my male clients realized that their substance abuse stemmed from their latent homosexual desires. Drugs or alcohol were ways for them to numb those feelings and deny their existence."

Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly. "Dr. Ford, I can assure you, whatever homosexual desires I possess are far from latent. I accept them, embrace them—whatever. My sexual orientation is the least of my worries, and always has been."

She raised a brow. "Are you quite sure about that?"

"Is this because of what I said about John Watson yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Well, I like John quite a lot," he stated, even though she hadn't asked.

"I'm aware. In what way?"

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Is it your business?"

"As your therapist, yes."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled. "I like him in a way that is not entirely platonic."

She tapped her pen against her notebook, steady as a drumbeat. "I see."

"To address the question you're clearly dying to ask, I'm not straight. I'm—" he waved his hand in a vague gesture "—whatever it is I am."

"And what might that be?"

He sighed impatiently. "Labels bore me, Dr. Ford. If this is all you intend to discuss today, then kindly let me leave."

"Sherlock, please do not mistake this line of questioning for judgement, I am simply trying to help you," Dr. Ford said. "You are, of course, free to utilize or reject whatever labels you want."

"So pleased to have your approval," Sherlock muttered.

She flipped to a fresh page of her notebook. "How did your family feel about your sexuality when you were young, Sherlock?"

A vivid memory of their cleaning lady's son, Julian Gonzales, flashed before Sherlock's eyes. They were fourteen years old, skipping stones on the lake by the garden, when Sherlock decided to conduct an impromptu experiment and press his lips to Julian's. It felt good, so they kept at it, until Siger Holmes rounded the corner, balked at what was occurring, and angrily pried them apart. Michelle Gonzales was fired later that day and she and her son were booted from the premises immediately.

"My father was disappointed, but I was already a strange child, so my attraction to other boys was hardly noteworthy," Sherlock announced boredly. "My mother was uneasy with the idea, but never actively tried to stop me from pursuing anyone, so I suppose she was a bit less severe. Mycroft took my 'sexuality' for it was—which is to say, nothing remarkable. He treated me exactly the same."

"That's good," Dr. Ford nodded, jotting something down. "It's always beneficial to have a sibling's acceptance."

"You make it sound so maudlin," Sherlock complained, tossing his forearm over his eyes.

She stabbed a period onto her last sentence, then put down her pen. "Are you concerned with John's sexuality?"

"I've known John for two days, Dr. Ford," Sherlock said flatly, without uncovering his eyes. "I think it's a bit soon to start pondering his romantic preferences."

"I am merely trying to help you see obstacles that may arise in the future, Sherlock," Dr. Ford explained patiently. "That way, you can deal with them in a healthy, productive manner."

"You mean you're trying to prepare me for John being straight and having no interest in me," Sherlock clarified.

"Yes."

"Well," Sherlock said, sitting up, "I am pleased to inform you that those measures are unnecessary, Dr. Ford, because I have no intention of letting John Watson get in my head."

As it turned out, John Watson was already in his head and apparently had no intention of leaving. Whereas before Sherlock had spent hours lazily reminiscing on past cases and pondering the glory days of his cocaine addiction, he now could think only of John. John's eyes, John's hair, the way he said Sherlock's name, the rough calluses on his palm, the wry curve of his smile—all of these tantalizing images swam before Sherlock's vision constantly, like mirages. In a way, his infatuation with John felt exactly like being high. Minus the crippling hangover, of course.

Dr. Ford had planted that small seed of thought into his head, and now he couldn't stop wondering about John's preferences. Did Sherlock even stand a chance? Was it worth the struggle? In truth, Sherlock wasn't even sure what he wanted from John. A romantic relationship? A companion? Everything was still quite blurred, but it would have been nice to know that the option was there, at least. To know he had a sliver of a chance.

"Mr. Holmes, your medication," the nurse croaked as she pushed open his door, spilling light from the hallway into his darkened room. "And your brother called earlier."

Sherlock sat up from his position in bed and begrudgingly accepted the paper cup of pills, swallowing them in one dry gulp. He pointedly did not comment on the latter half of her message.

"Did you hear what I said, Mr. Holmes? Your brother phoned for you."

"I heard," Sherlock replied flatly, lying back down.

"Well, he left a message. Would you like to hear it?"

"No," he answered resolutely, folding his hands atop his chest and shutting his eyes. "I'd really rather not. Now, if you could shut off the light on the way out, that would be splendid."

(It was easier to daydream about John's face when the room was dark)

On Wednesday, exactly one week after their first meeting, John's shirt was blue.

"That color makes your eyes resemble the ocean," Sherlock pointed out as he approached John in the garden. "And the khaki slacks bring out the golden hue of your hair."

"Fashion expert and consulting detective?" John joked. He smiled when Sherlock scowled in response. "I like your shirt too. Purple is definitely your color."

"Oh—er, I…um," Sherlock fumbled, flustered and caught off guard. He felt like a complete fool for getting so worked up over a casual compliment, but it seemed that anything John said was liable to make him tongue-tied. Valiantly, he cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure.

"It's plum, actually."

"Of course it's plum," John teased, kindly ignoring Sherlock's brief mental lapse. "In the past twenty-four hours, I nearly forgot how posh you are."

"I am not posh!"

"Right, and the sky isn't blue."

"Technically, it isn't, it's just a reflection of the—" he stopped at the smug look on John's face and pouted. "Shut up, John."

John laughed. "Don't worry, I love it." He patted the seat next to him, and Sherlock sat obligingly. "So, you were saying something about my eyes and the ocean?"

"Yes. Your irises have layers of blue mixed with stormy charcoal and light grey," Sherlock answered without thinking. "They're as deep as the sea."

Sherlock winced after he finished speaking, worried that John might be disturbed by the (perhaps inappropriate) thoroughness of that answer. However, as usual, John didn't miss a beat.

"Thank you," John beamed, his eyes bright. "You know, Sherlock, that was quite a lovely description. I'd say you're a poet and didn't even know it."

Sherlock groaned. "John, rhyming is for infants. Please don't."

John only chuckled and leaned closer to Sherlock. The sensation of John's arm pressed against his was lovely; He didn't move away and neither did John.

"Can I ask you something, Sherlock?" John said.

"Of course."

"Of all places, why did you choose to come here last week? Why not the entertainment room or the gym?"

These past few days, he'd pondered the question himself, both amazed and terrified by how different things could have been had he not decided to go to the garden on the exact day John had. What if he'd chosen a day when John was with Harry? What if he hadn't come here at all and they missed each other entirely? It made Sherlock's head hurt to think about how many small factors could have prevented them from meeting.

"Well, I love nature," Sherlock answered truthfully. Loitering among sweet-smelling flowers and admiring the bees was far more enjoyable than gazing dully at a television or running around in a sweaty, bustling gym.

"I love nature, too," John rejoined, his eyes following the lazy path of a butterfly. "It's peaceful."

"Why did you come here last week, John?"

"To get a break from Harry," John answered succinctly.

"What happened?"

John offered a tight smile and shook his head. "That's a story for another time. Let's go back to talking about nature. What do you love about it?"

"The creatures, I suppose. I prefer dogs and bees to most people."

"Dogs and bees," John repeated. He didn't seem to find that answer odd. "I like dogs as well. Had one when I was growing up. He was a German Sheppard named Gladstone—my dad was obsessed with British politicians. He was my best friend for most of my childhood."

"Mine was an Irish Setter named Redbeard," said Sherlock. "I was deeply infatuated with pirates as a child and woefully uncreative, as you can see."

The crow's feet around John's eyes crinkled in a smile. "And what about the bees?"

"Bees are complex, diligent creatures with admirable work ethic." Sherlock gazed at a cluster of bright flowers where a pair of bees were gathering pollen. "And they're quite lovely to look at as well."

"I can see why you prefer them to most people, then," John agreed.

"Well, to be fair, I like you better than a bee," Sherlock said, his eyes falling to John's shoes in some absurd moment of shyness.

John just smiled and bumped his shoulder lightly into Sherlock's. "Good. Because I fancy you quite a lot too."

…

"John fancies me," Sherlock told Dr. Ford the next morning. He didn't realize he was jiggling his leg in excitement until she raised an eyebrow at the shaking coffee table. But even then, he didn't stop. How could he be expected to sit still when it felt as if there was champagne bubbling in his veins?

"I see you're pleased by this," she noted with a touch of amusement.

For the first time since his arrival, Sherlock decided to eat his lunch in the cafeteria. It was a choice made perhaps a bit too hastily, because the moment he set foot into the loud, odd-smelling menagerie of patients, he began to feel doubt creep in.

On a good day, Sherlock Holmes was not terribly fond of people—let alone several chemically-addled people with a variety of mental issues—so this venture did not bode well for him. Still, he'd woken up in the best mood he'd had in years, and felt that he needed to do something remarkable and out of the ordinary to celebrate.

This bold adventure into the unknown certainly qualified as both.

Sherlock ignored his surroundings, thoroughly uninterested in conversing with any of the hollow-eyed, sickly people around him, and chose the most remote corner he could find. There, he nibbled idly on the corner of his sandwich and thought about John. Sharp, funny, intelligent John, with his bright blue eyes and stupid, wonderful smile.

The thing was, people generally did not like Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes, they tolerated him when they considered him a means to an end, like when he was seventeen and Victor Trevor pretended to like him just to get in his pants, or when he was at Uni and a girl named Janice Wesley befriended him solely for the purpose of getting him to do her Chemistry homework. Aside from those instances, however, people and Sherlock simply did not mix. It was a fact he learned to accept a long, long time ago.

Therefore, John was an anomaly: a random blip that somehow did not coincide with previous data. A bloody outlier, he was.

And as much as Sherlock would have loved to simply bask in the fact that the most remarkable man he'd ever met was somehow fond of him, he couldn't help but feel wracked with worry. What if he said the wrong thing? What if he did something to upset or offend John? What would it take for John to grow tired of their meetings in the garden? What if he didn't care for Sherlock in the way Sherlock cared for him?

Sherlock supposed he ought to content himself with only having John's friendship, but a small, aching part of him couldn't help but yearn for more.

A/N: Thank you for reading, darlings! I'd love to know what you think, so please let me know in the comments. Your feedback is vital!

Update will be sometime next week, either Saturday or Sunday, so don't forget to sub/follow if you haven't already. (I'll probably have a concrete updating schedule figured out by next week)

Until next time!