[sherlock-sherbet answered: Johnlock + flowers]
wow this quickly became much longer than I had intended. It should be a good post-Reichenbach story for those suffering fresh Reichenbach angst tonight. I didn’t want to add to your pain, for once.
Also yeah, I definitely need to draw some art for this. You’ll see.
[Flowers- Sherlock/John, PG]
The first time John visits the grave, he doesn’t bring flowers, but Mrs. Hudson places an assortment of hand picked wildflowers over the freshly dug earth. Her hands tremble and the flowers shake with her, and some of their petals fall with her tears. John can’t watch.
Neither can Sherlock.
Two weeks later, Sherlock visits his grave to find a small bundle of tiny white and yellow flowers. Buttercups is the first word his mind supplies, and it grasps something painful in his heart, a memory of mummy, showing him the delicate flowers in his yard as a boy. Anemone nemorosa. Mummy had plucked one of the small flowers and held it under Sherlock’s chin and her laughter had been so sad and beautiful.
“Your chin is glowing yellow, darling. That means someone loves you.”
With great care, Sherlock picks up the bundle of flowers, holds it close to his heart, and remembers the rest of the lore his mother had once taught him about this particular flower.
The Anemone was supposed to symbolize lost hope. Forsakenness.
Oh John, he thinks, as he feels his heart clench.
Sherlock can’t return to his grave for another month after that. He’s exhausted and has spent the last ten days in Germany, but he has dragged himself to London, and has forced himself to come here rather than back to Baker Street. There are flowers again. Not fresh, but only a day or two old.
It’s almost fitting that it’s a spray of Queen Anne’s Lace. Anthriscus Sylvestris. Often mistaken for hemlock, and symbolic of a haven or sanctuary.
And Sherlock almost smiles because of course John would leave what most other people would consider a weed at his grave. Actually, knowing John, he might have thought the flowers were hemlock and he thought he was being clever.
Sherlock sits with his back against his headstone for a long time, now smiling, breathing in the faint, almost anise-like scent of the small flowers.
THAT TRAILER JUST MADE ME WANT TO RESURFACE THIS FIC SO I CAN STOP BEING LAZY AND ADAPT IT INTO A COMIC
Just this once everybody lives and all is well