A/N: Yeah, I like plants, so what? -csf


.

'Sherlock, since when do we have a botanical garden growing on Mrs Hudson's rooftop?'

Sherlock has been acting shady for weeks. So this morning I decided enough was enough, and mostly out of concern that he might be keeping some dangerous secret from me, I forfeited all notions of privacy and just followed him. I must have done a good job, for he didn't seem to notice the barefooted soldier climbing the stairs after him (stealth is an asset in the army), nor did he hear the soft click of the roof's emergency exit door as I unlocked it after him.

Of course I know about the rooftop access. I had to keep an eye on midnight smoking extravaganzas, and there was this time or another where Sherlock actually did a test run on his homemade fireworks from this very rooftop.

Didn't quite look the same as now, though.

This is all my hyperactive flatmate's doing.

There's a varied and well maintained garden atop 221 Baker Street. Flowering shrubs in raised beds, a shaded corner with a comfortable chair, even a potting shed (just narrowly avoiding being seen from the street I gather) – and is that a bee hive?

Sherlock is oblivious to my shock. He thinks a couple of seconds and answers gravely: 'Since March or thereabouts. The rainy gusts of wind in the winter were a big hindrance.'

'Really? March? A garden?' I'm flabbergasted, he's solemn and ecclesiastic. Somewhere in the back of my mind I notice he's not displeased to have me see in his private hideout. As if he had always thought of sharing it with me.

'It's quite useful in the science of vegetable poisons and toxins, John. And to answer your next question, you spend too many hours in your other job at the surgery, so I had plenty of unsupervised time in which to do my biding. Therefore I do not expect you to contribute to the studies right now, although that offer does not preclude your participation in the near future.'

I hope he means participate in the watering and tending of the ruddy plants, and not as a test subject in a vegetable poison effects study.

He reads mind easily. 'Just drop it, John. You always object to anything in principle, have you not noticed? This will be your garden as much as mine—'

'You're just hoping I water the plants and pull the weeds out for you—'

'As a doctor your knowledge of poisons and toxins will complement perfectly my scientific experiences, can you not see?'

I look around and bask in the absolute quietness of this secluded paradise. Even the constant noise inputs from a busy city seem to blue and fade against the sound of leaves rustled by the breeze.

The amount of work that Sherlock has put into it, in order to have it grow! This is the ultimate proof that despite appearances at times my friend is the idealist type.

I chuckle. 'You are truly amazing, Sherlock.' He hums quietly, as if indifferent, but I can tell he's blushing after the not insubstantial praise. 'I bet you can't wait to have a case when all of this proves the key to saving the day!'

'Naturally, John', he alleges easily, as he takes hold of his vintage copy of The Beekeeper's Guide. 'The Work is all that matters.'

But, honestly, how can a tiny garden, thriving on luck, help Sherlock Holmes solve a case?

.

Turns out Sherlock had sat on a mighty deduction all day – once I already know the answer, John, the rush is gone! – and saved the conclusion of a case he'd been working on for my comeback after working a long shift at the surgery. I could never say No to Sherlock, and tired as I may be, I'm not starting such an healthy habit now. I said Yes and Show me the way. He beamed right at me.

The cab is already mysteriously conjured as we walk out of 221's door, parking at the curb as I shut the door behind us.

'Here, take some fresh strawberries to eat on the way there, John. We want to avoid a cranky sidekick on the crime scene, if at all possible.'

'Hmm, these are really nice, mate!' I say, with my mouth full.

.

'Lestrade, the rediscovered mummy's bandages are today's woven cotton, anyone can see the perfect weave pattern of modern mechanization!'

Greg Lestrade's face falls at the reveal. Both detectives lean over the desecrated coffin on an open crypt, where the skeleton was discovered with two grown heads sticking out of one suited torso.

'It looked so real!'

'A common vegetable dye was used to fake age discolouration, inspector. Have the forensic technicians try onion peel infusion, it should do the trick. Which you'd know if you'd have bothered to read my blog updates on plant pharmacology and alternative uses like you said you did!'

'Yeah, right, I guess I... forgot.'

'Forgot?'

'Look, you couldn't make your scientific publications a tiny bit more... understandable? There's a lot of big words per square inch, mate.'

Sherlock spitefully grabs the second head from the corpse and stalks out of the crypt, with his feelings irretrievably hurt.

.

'Your shoulder is stiff, John.'

I nod.

'Well, I caught the 300 pounds accomplice in the getaway car... Your knee is wobbly, Sherlock.'

He nods.

'I caught the twin robbers inside the bank. They put up a fight too.'

'We're getting old, aren't we?' I ask, tiredly.

Sherlock makes an effort to get up from his comfortable, yet a bit low, armchair.

'I'll make us some soothing herbal tea. Got just the right type of chamomile, John.'

I push myself up too. 'I'll boil the kettle.'

.

'Can I have a look at the body, Molly?'

The pathologist jumps at the honeyed words. She blushes as she stammers: 'We are still looking. Was buried somewhere in this park thirty years ago. The sniff dogs haven't picked up on any scent, it's so long after it all happened.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes and lifts an indolent finger, pointing away. 'There. The azaleas growing at the surface have the brightest colour. Their patch of soil is more acidic from the oxidisation of the rusty iron axe the victim's head was sliced with, according to the confession, and that most likely was stuck on a thick bone as the cranial bone as so the weapon was buried with the corpse.'

The detective beckons me to follow him as we swiftly move on to the next crime scene.

.

'The skeleton was found by the contractors even they were fitting a new decking at the back of a suburban house. Must have been here a long time, there at plant roots growing intertwined in the rib cage', inspector Gregson reports as we oversee the huge dug up hole on the back of a private cottage.

Sherlock sighs and starts his characteristic deductions tirade: 'Japanese knotweed. Check my blog for the rapid, invasive type, annual growth rate, or any good garden pest eradication website. Judging by the knotweed's fast growth, the moisture in the soil and the recent landscape if the private garden, the skeleton has been buried here since Halloween alone. Check the local mortuaries for corpses stolen around that time in reported breaking and entering crimes. It was set up as a practical joke by the last owner, inspector. Next time give me a real case. Tell Lestrade not to lend me to incompetent co-workers, while you're at it! Come along, John!'

.

'Hang in there, John!'

I scrunch my face in agony. Sweat drips from my forehead. I've been poisoned by some renegade group of foreign terrorists. It's not looking good.

'Tell me, John, what does it taste like?'

My eyes roll of their own accord.

'What tastes—?' I repeat in a hiss.

'The aftertaste, John, describe me the aftertaste if the poison you have ingested in your tea!' he shouts, his voice wavering with emotion.

'My tea?' It's becoming harder to make sense of my friend's questions. The room is getting dark.

'The ambulance won't get here in time, answer me! Is it bitter or sweet? John, tell me!'

'Bitter. I don't... don't take sugar.'

He huffs triumphantly. 'A powerful alkali. John, you are going to be alright. That is, after you drink my antidote. You won't like the taste, but beggars can't be choosers, as they say.'

I hear the clank and shatter of glass vials and a cold smooth surface is pressed against my lips.

'Drink, John', he directs me with a kind, soothing tone of voice.

I do. I trust Sherlock to save my life. He always will.

.

I wake up biting a desperate shout – of alarm, pain, fear. I'm left breathing fast and shallow in the night. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness inside my room, the clear moonlight filtering through the window pane.

Pushing away my sweat drenched t-shirt I get up from the creased bedsheets and wrap myself in my dressing gown. I go out into the corridor.

Sherlock must be asleep.

Baker Street is so silent. Peaceful.

Empty.

Sherlock is spending the night out. At the Holmes manor, mummy Holmes insisted in "parading him in an odious family reunion", according to the detective.

Echoes of mortar explosions and gunfire come in and out of focus in my traumatised mind.

I decide to go up the stairs, absently. I push that fire door open as I yearn for the cool night air.

I'm running from myself. I've got nowhere to go.

I stop short at the sight ahead of me. The pale moon, the calm, sleeping herbs and flowers, some insects buzzing in the distance, and two garden sheds.

A second shed has materialised, as mysteriously as the garden itself.

I find myself moving closer, opening the second shed door. It's perfect. Cosy, quiet, safe. I take a tired seat on the arm chair and pillows, hugging a soft blanket. Hooked on a nail there is a camping lamp I can turn on a soft glow, and on a small side table I recognise from 221B's usual clutter there's a thermos flask that vaguely releases the whiff of tea.

How many times as the caring madman refiled the tea for the night in case I found myself in the throes of my war nightmares, I wonder.

I let it all ground me, it's healing construction and activity around me. I snuggle inside the oversized blanket, feeling its weight, feeling safe.

.

'John, I am counting bees. They are risking rapid extinction. It is a necessary study of numbers in a sample population.'

I frown. 'No, you're not. You just don't want to have the trouble of watering the rooftop garden with me. How can you be so lazy?'

He smirks when he thinks I'm not looking.

'Oh, Sherlock?' I call, softly.

'Yes, John?'

I hit him with the hose water's full blast.

.