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Peonies: romance, prosperity, compassion.
Pink roses: gratitude, grace, joy.
It must only be ten minutes into your meeting with the infamous Holmes brothers that you realise that the good Mister Mycroft Holmes is well on his way to popping a vein — in particular, the bulging one along his temple. Even his ridiculous curling moustache can’t possibly distract from it; if anything, it draws your eye straight towards it, the pulsing, jumping thread looped beneath his skin—
“—and she must come home !” Idly, you wonder which is more likely: that the vein bursts first, or he begins foaming at the mouth. An angry scarlet flush has taken residence over his cheeks, nose, and ears; his white-knuckled grip on his walking stick is almost painful to look at. “It’s a disgrace , is what it is! A good, strong, English name sullied by the uncorrected behaviour of a wayward girl—”
You suppose that rolling your eyes at a time like this — when Mycroft quite genuinely looks five seconds from either combusting at will or shattering the brass head of his cane — would prove more unhelpful than anything else, and so you refrain from doing so. Though, when your eyes drift from the eldest Holmes brother, and come upon the younger (and more agreeable) of the two:
Sherlock Holmes — a good friend as he has been for the past few years — meets your eyes, and hides an amused smile behind the newspaper he’d bought from the paperboy outside. You weigh the probability that he’d simply made a call to your house to share the unbearably dreary ramblings of his brother — it’s likely, now that you think of it, because what reason would Sherlock have to seek your help in finding his sister…?
“Are you sure I can’t offer you some tea, Mister Holmes?” You interrupt, eyes flickering past the gauzy lace curtains of your drawing room to the lively street outside — hoping that by some grace of God Mycroft’s carriage he’d requested will round the corner and put you out of your misery.
Alas, the carriage does not appear simply because you’ve willed it so.
“I’m quite alright, thank you.” Chest heaving with breaths he’d simply forgotten to take, he tugs his pocket square from his jacket and dabs daintily at the sweat beading at his hairline.
(You almost laugh. Sherlock clears his throat and raises the newspaper to shield his entire visage, and there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning as widely as you want to.)
“My apologies,” says Mycroft, making a point to cast his eyes around the room, “My frustrations seem to have trumped my manners. A delightful home you have, Missus _____.”
Missus ?
Your eyes narrow on Sherlock’s face — his features (or what you can see of them peaking over the top of his paper) are tightened in badly-veiled amusement, and he looks much too pleased with himself. You restrain a sigh.
As expected: making fun for himself where there is none. Make no mistake — intelligent and refined as he may be, when things are particularly tiring Sherlock Holmes has about as much maturity in his entire body as a young child has in their little finger. You expect that, to his brother, that aspect of his personality is less than appealing — for you, it was one of the things that endeared the esteemed detective to you.
Hm. You may as well entertain it — Mycroft’s ramblings about the place of women in the home are dreadfully boring at best, and archaic at worst.
“ Miss _____.”
Mycroft blinks away from the expertly crafted bouquet of blush pink peonies and garden roses — a gift from his younger brother just days earlier, though neither of you mention it. “Pardon?”
You smile coyly, smoothing down the silk of your skirt — a tea gown, no less. You wonder if Mycroft finds you terribly underdressed for receiving guests in your own home: no bustle, your hair left loose and untied instead of up and away from your face — a style fitting young ladies , you’re sure he’d say.
“Miss _____, Mister Holmes,” you repeat. “I’m unmarried.”
There’s a beat of silence in which Mycroft registers your words. Then, you imagine, his own ramblings from the previous few minutes set in, too — all his talk of respectable women should marry after finishing school and holding up family names and feminism, blasted feminism! — and for the first time since he’d arrived in your home, he seems to be speechless. His mouth opens, closes, and opens and closes, until he settles on a simple, unnerved: “Ah. I see.”
In a perfectly punctual turn of events, a carriage pulls to a stop right outside of your house, and your lips quirk up in a charming simper. “I do believe your carriage has arrived, Mister Holmes.”
He looks as relieved for the escape as you are. “Of course. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss _____.”
“Likewise.”
When Mycroft has bid his brother goodbye and shut your door behind him, you turn with an unimpressed glare, and head for the steaming teapot that’s been set atop a serving cart. “Your meddling knows no bounds, Sherlock.”
“I haven’t the slightest clue of what you mean.”
Finally, with a flourish, his newspaper is set to the side and he rises to his feet, watching closely as you pour two cups with practiced ease. Milk for him, sugar for you; and when they’re both made he follows you to the loveseat you’d previously been perched on.
“The flowers are beautiful,” you comment, taking a sip. “Thank you. They’re almost worth the headache I’ll surely have after hearing your brother curse your sister for as long as he did.”
A soft breath of a laugh comes from beside you, and you’re unsurprised to see the usually abstruse genius slumped back, relaxed against the back of the sofa. It’s not often that he allows himself some respite from his job; not often that he relaxes in such an obvious and visible way. His name comes with a reputation, of course, and he’s determined to keep said reputation as clean and indomitable as possible — you’re not wrong to be... honoured, almost, at his willingness to exist so effortlessly with you.
“I see you’ve made sure to hide your most recent reads,” he only replies, eagle-eyed gaze darting over to your rather extensive bookshelf — the contents of which you’re sure he’s memorised. Many days he’s spent pouring over some of the more rare tomes at your disposal, the only exhibited signs of life: his breaths, and soft, inquisitive hums.
“I wanted to make a good impression,” you say, half-joking, because, well—
When Sherlock Holmes sends you a telegram informing you that he’s going to make a house call with his brother, one doesn’t simply stand around and wait . Not only is Mycroft Holmes an upstanding member of high society — well, as upstanding as one against feminism can possibly be — but he’s Sherlock’s brother . The two are as different as night and day, and yet there is still an amount of affection they have for each other, and because you have some affection for Sherlock , it wouldn’t do to completely offend his family.
(The meaning of your affections for Sherlock are not to be examined, inspected, scrutinized, or otherwise investigated by anyone other than yourself, and so you won’t say much more of them if you can help it — they are yours to lock away and ignore, and you will do just that.)
“I hardly think he’d find The Subjection of Women a riveting read,” you continue, before spying the time on the grandfather clock looming beside the fireplace. “What is it that you wanted, again? Surely The Great Deducer has better things to be doing than drinking tea with a — what was it your brother said of unmarried women? Ah, yes — a threat to modern civilisation.”
He hums — finishes up the last of his tea with a gentlemanly upwards tilt of the porcelain, and deposits it neatly on the table. “My sister, Enola.”
“Mycroft’s bane.”
“It… sounds like it, yes.” Sherlock turns to face you, dark eyebrows drawn tight together, and you realise that he’s a tad more worried than he’d let on earlier. You know of Sherlock’s sister — vaguely, that is. You know she exists , though she’d never come up in conversation and you’d quite honestly forgotten that she’d existed before today. As far as you know, Sherlock himself hasn’t seen her in years . “He means well, in his own way. He’s arranged a place for her in Miss Harrison’s Finishing School for Young Girls, but—”
You can guess the rest. Unfortunately, you had been listening to most of Mycroft’s ranting. “She doesn’t want to attend.”
“No. No, not at all.” His fingers tap against the scrolled armrest of the loveseat. “She’s strong-willed, free-spirited, and with my mother missing, she has no support.”
Your answering frown matches his own. Outside, the paperboy yells another bid — tuppence for the day’s news. “She has you , Sherlock.”
He seems utterly disturbed at the thought, and yes — just as you’d thought, this case is affecting much more than he’s willing to admit. Not just because of the fact that he doesn’t know what exactly happened to his mother (and that’s one of his biggest vexations — not knowing , not seeing the finely-threaded clues that regular people can’t see either), but because this — family — isn’t easy for him. It never has been.
You remember what he’d told you of love, before. He’d just finished a case; solved through cigar ash residue and graphology, you think. Sherlock enjoys telling you about his cases — each one seems to be just more comical and outlandish than the last. Never a dull moment. That day, you’d both traipsed the communal square outside of your house, past the rose bushes and stone fountains, past the ponds. Somehow the conversation had warped, twisted, flowed from the case, until:
“That’s all love is,” he’d said. “Chemical reactions in our brains, controlling and dictating our actions unconsciously.”
He still believed in it, he reiterated. Love exists, but it isn’t some God-given gift; nor is it a mystical power, or a mysterious and all-encompassing enigma. It’s an affair of the mind.
That conversation alone should have clued you into the state of his relationship with his family. He doesn’t speak of them often; Mycroft, more often than not, mentioned in passing for his job and not his relation to him; his father, you know, had passed quite a few years ago; his mother is a mystery to you, and his sister even more so. He avoids matters of the family-type like the plague; only seems to understand basic familial etiquette under the lens of an... experiment of sorts; spends holidays working or alone or with… you.
You come to the conclusion that Sherlock is as unwilling to admit he’s terrified of becoming responsible for his little sister as you are to admit your feelings for him.
“I — she needs the support of a woman ,” he argues, as if he’s argued the same thing in his mind hundreds of times over. “I’m — I have work , and I can’t give her—”
“You’re her brother , Sherlock!” You interrupt, swift and sure and only slightly irritated that he should come to you under the guise of friendship to pass his sister into your care. His missing sister, no more. “I’m — I’m happy to help, really, and I’ll do all I can, but I’m a stranger .”
Your eyes flicker between his — the grey-blue that you’d so come to admire — and your heart sinks to see that he’s… he’s really quite clueless. This isn’t another case that he can disassociate from; this is his family . Something he’s wilfully pushed aside in favour of emotion-free deductions, chemistry and logic and forensics.
Before you can think it through — before you can second-guess yourself — you reach over and clasp a hand over his. Your heart is in your throat at the boldness of it all — surely if Mycroft were here, he’d be as red as a green maiden, stuttering and spluttering over your inappropriate proclivities.
But Mycroft isn’t here. And Sherlock is looking at you in a manner much too velvet-soft for an unmarried man.
“You should give credit where credit is due,” you say quietly. “Don’t underestimate the weight of a family bond, Sherlock. Your sister will want you .”
For the first time in your years of knowing him, you see the tips of his ears flush red. You hide a smile when you pull your hands back, and reach for your teacup once more.
“That being said,” you say, clearing your throat, “I won’t help you find her if you plan to put her into finishing school.”
Sherlock’s answering laugh is more of a huff than anything else. “Fair enough.”
Amaranth: unfading affection, eternal love.
Phlox: harmony, partnership.
When another delivery of flowers is made, you know that Sherlock will find himself on your doorstep soon enough. The courier had laughed when you’d hesitated in opening the door wider; laughed, when you asked are you… quite sure these are for me? because the arrangement is twice the size of the last and you have to wrack your brains to make sure you have a good vase for them.
A note had been tucked gently between the petals of a particularly large bunch of phlox; pure white, with a shock of magenta nearing the middle. After sending the courier away with two shillings and a kind smile, you unfolded the paper, recognizing the hand almost immediately.
They’ll look marvelous in your drawing room. Perhaps you could paint them. - S.H.
He was right, of course; they did look marvelous in your drawing room. Beautiful enough to paint, per his suggestion. The pinks and whites that he was obviously very fond of in floral arrangements sat amongst the rich browns and golds and yellows of the room — thrived and blossomed gracefully in the midday sun — and you find yourself admiring them as the days pass.
Three days later, while the sun hangs high overhead, he catches you on your way out for a walk, pocket watch in hand — barely stops for a greeting before he places your hands in the crook of his elbow and begins to walk.
“You know,” you say, struggling to keep up with his hurried pace, “Most respectable gentlemen would inform a woman of where they plan to take her before they whisk her off.”
He tugs you to the side, narrowly missing a young, soot covered man sprinting in the opposite direction. “Well, I haven’t the foggiest idea of where we’re off to, _____.”
“Then, why —”
“That’s up to you.”
He doesn’t stop, exactly — God knows that stopping in the middle of a busy street in London is akin to laying down in the middle of the road — but he slows his pace down. Slow enough for him to take his eyes off of the horizon and down to your own.
“I’ve been doing my own digging,” he admits, turning back to the street, “but I don’t quite know the spots a girl would visit in London. A seamstress, more specifically. I neglected to follow up on just how young Enola disguised herself from Lestrade and his men.”
If you weren’t so frazzled from being ( rudely ) detached from your day’s plans, you would’ve laughed. Here, ladies and gentlemen, is the great Sherlock Holmes, the most sought after (yet elusive) detective in all of England, and yet he needs you — an artist — to help find his sister. Oh, how the tables have turned.
“A fool’s mistake,” you comment haughtily, catching his eye with a humorous glint of your own. “Be sure to not make it again, Mister Holmes, lest you find yourself surpassed by greater detectives.”
It’ll never happen, of course — both of you know that. He’s far too smart, too logical, too passionate about his work to be exceeded by someone else. Maybe that’s why (with a roll of the eyes on his part) you both snicker like children, following an invisible trail towards one of many seamstresses near the outskirts of the city.
“You say she disguised herself as a young lad.” It’s not long before you find yourselves in one of the more popular shopping districts, one that’s close to the main road Enola would have taken in; characterized, of course, by the sheer volume of people densely packed onto the street — young ladies in shining velvet, working men, paperboys, carts and carriages and horses and the regular hustle and bustle of any place in London. There’s even a substantial crowd gathered around one man in particular who yells about Votes for all men! You wrinkle your nose, and look away. “Well, that lowers our list substantially, I’d say. Not many seamstresses are willing to let boys into their place of work — nevermind to buy their wares. I remember the seamstress I grew up near used to chase away them with a broom…”
Your eyes flit about the street, trying to remember the words of the circles you were in; which shops had high-quality corsets but dirty windows, which shops had badly-shaped bustles and out-of-fashion crinolines but a sparkling clean interior. With one hand still gripping Sherlock’s arm, you peer around the street, turning to peek down the opposite way.
You try to imagine it — the world through the eyes of a young girl on the run. But not just any girl, of course; according to Sherlock, she was as extraordinary as he was. Your words, not his. You believe his exact phrasing was she’s capable of seeing the bigger picture, as I am .
“She’s not scared,” you muse. “Quite confident, in fact, though you may pass it off as youthful ignorance.”
Madame Turner’s… Silverston’s… No, no. They wouldn’t do — much too high-end.
“She knows how you think. You and Mycroft.” You take a step forward, turning the corner onto a street that’s equally as crowded. “She knows what you’ll be looking for.”
A hum comes from your companion. “A scrappy girl or a young boy.”
“She’d have to become something you wouldn’t expect.” You turn your head — more by force of habit than anything else — only to find that Sherlock is already looking at you. You frown at the look on his face: the intrigued, furrowed brows and fond eyes. “What?”
He shakes his head, clears his throat, continues walking. “Nothing. You’re quite good at this.”
“Rest easy, dear detective. I’ve no wish to steal your title.”
“Oh?” The grin tugging at Sherlock’s lips is enough to kindle your own to life, and you almost curse yourself for being so bloody easy . That’s all it takes, really: a smile or two, a roll of his eyes, an affectionate shake of his head. Good God, you are a fool . “Lucky me. I live to work another day.”
The first few shops reap no rewards; no sightings of a young boy, no recent customers that gave reason for suspicion. The most you learn is that Sherlock is extremely handsome — which you’d already known — from the way the seamstresses simply couldn’t take their eyes off of him. One even caught sight of you loitering by the door and (quite loudly) asked if he was looking for a new gown for his wife.
(You pretended that you didn’t hear anything, and Sherlock ignored the question.)
The sun is hanging heavy in the afternoon when you finally make some progress — and thank the heavens for it, because your shoes are new and not quite broken in yet, and you fear that you’ll either collapse in the street or have Sherlock tow you along.
- Chrisper’s Drapery. It’s small, unassuming; almost melts into the general din and hubbub of the day. It’s interior looks faded, dull, a tad cluttered; but the clothing on display looks to be of a high quality, and it’s obvious that the shop is doing well for itself.
“Hm.” You tug him to a stop, squinting up at the calligraphy scrolled across the window. “This one, Sherlock.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well, more so than the last twelve,” you quip, shrugging. “There are only so many seamstresses in this part of London. Surely we’re getting closer.”
Sherlock seems particularly troubled at that — as troubled as his usually unyielding features could appear, though you could be imagining it. After all, as soon as the look sweeps over his face, it’s gone; he begins towards the shopfront, hand outstretched towards the brass doorknob. “I never did give my apologies for stealing you away.”
“Oh, come off it.” Seeing you made my day. “Solving mysteries is much more fun than painting the entire day away.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I don’t,” you admit, following him in — the smell of dust immediately greets you, and you wrinkle your nose. Decently tidy, if not a bit hodgepodge. “Though I thought it’d make you feel better.”
A rather ungentlemanly snort comes from the man, and he casts a look over his shoulder at you. “I’d much rather that you enjoy your livelihood, _____, than spare my feelings—”
The curtains that separated the main shop from the fitting room part; an older woman with a pinched face and greying hair smiles slyly at the sight of you both — and then your dear friend Sherlock is gone, and standing in his place is England’s greatest crime-solver, suave and charming and all too skilled in wringing the truth from the woman’s mouth.
Amaryllis: determination, beauty, love.
Over a grand spread of deep sunset-red amaryllis blooms, you level Sherlock with a pair of narrowed eyes and an inquisitive purse of your lips. His eyes are focused on his paper; they have been, in fact, for the entire 10 minutes it took you to clear away your paints and join him in your drawing room — and they stay there, even as you huff and puff and wait for him to entertain your curiosity.
“Yes?” He finally says, glancing up above the headline of the London Daily News — something about the upcoming vote that you’ve heard much too much about, and somehow not enough, either. Your interest lies in something else, though, in the meantime.
“Have you solved it, then?”
One thick brow quirks up. “Hm?”
“The boy.” You wave a hand noncommitedly, placing the book you’d been reading on your lap. “You know, the boy. The Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether?”
It’s been a case that rocked London, if not the rest of England, too — the case of the missing Viscount, a young boy of seventeen years. He’s old money, with his own estate and wealth, and even a seat in the House of Lords — and he’s missing. Just before the vote, too. You thought it might be a mystery that would tickle his fancy, though he seems vastly unbothered by the sketch on the front page.
Sherlock wrinkles his nose, flipping to another page. “Far too political for my tastes.”
“How lucky you are,” you sigh, returning to your book, “to be able to escape from politics when it suits you.”
You feel his eyes on you immediately , and you think it’s hilarious, really — because he’s in disbelief that you’d say something so bold, something so blatantly snippish to him about something he’s always made clear. You don’t think he’s ever had a woman speak to him like that. A man either, really, because to be perfectly candid Sherlock Holmes is a terrifyingly stern-looking man — but it’s the truth , isn’t it? The ability to remove oneself from politics is a privilege not many are afforded, and Sherlock doesn’t seem to understand that. For all his knowledge of the world and it’s inner mechanisations, he’s really quite clueless. Politics is a game for him — a chessboard of sorts — whereas, for others, it’s their life.
For you , for the women of this country, it means your life.
Thirty seconds of this unspoken game passes, and you glance up from your book in the same way he’d glanced at you, a brow raised. “ Yes ?”
Sherlock’s mouth closes, and he clears his throat. “...Nothing.”
Aster: love, trust.
Canterbury bells: gratitude.
Baby’s breath: sincerity, everlasting love.
There’s a girl on your doorstep.
A wide-eyed, determined-looking, chocolate-haired girl.
“My name’s Enola,” she says firmly, hand held out. “I’m looking for a Missus _____?”
This time around, you don’t bother hiding the way your eyes roll. It’s a juvenile prank on Sherlock’s part — he’ll have a sharp tug on his ear for that the next time you see him. You tug open your door, and stand aside. “It’s just Miss, actually. You’re Sherlock’s sister, then?”
Well, that much is obvious, but you’d wanted to clarify anyways. Sherlock had told you what happened, how she’d solved the case of the missing Viscount and disappeared into London once more. He’s no longer actively searching for her — in fact, you have an inkling of an idea that he’s quite pleased with how everything wrapped up — and as such, most thoughts of her had completely disappeared. From time to time, you wondered how she was doing — of course, you hardly expected her to show up at your door looking for you.
“I am....” Her voice trails off as she enters your home; head tilted up towards the high vaulted ceiling and the thin, pretty curtains; your favourite works hanging on the wall; the bright white tiles underfoot and the scalloped crown molding that bordered the ceiling. You hear her puff out a breath of awe, and you have to hide a smile — a Holmes or not, a genius or not, she’s still just a young girl. “Your home is beautiful, Miss _____.”
“Thank you. You can call me _____, though, you know. Would you... like some tea?” You’re quite unsure of how to proceed; you can’t imagine why a girl like Enola would seek you out. From what you’ve heard she’s completely independent, now. Sherlock may not act like it, but he’s more worried than he acts — London is hardly the place for a young girl to live on her own.
“That’d be lovely,” says Enola, lips splitting in a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
It’s almost hard to believe that this girl was the one who gave her older brothers such grief just weeks ago. It’s even harder to believe that she’d been able to escape from the countryside and settle in London with little to no trouble — a difficult feat to accomplish for anyone , really. She’s got such a sweet, soft face; but if you’ve learned anything from Sherlock’s revelations about his family, she most certainly has taken after her mother in that regard — the unassuming visage, but the strong morals and fierce courage.
You think you like Enola quite a lot.
“Ah, it’s not a problem,” you say, meandering to the doorway of your drawing room, “I’ll fetch my housemaid — make yourself comfortable.”
And she does just that — because when you return five minutes later, you see she’s holding a small slip of paper in her hands, the one that had been so carelessly laying beside your new arrangement, head bowed and eyes wide. Your own stomach simultaneously flutters and turns at it, cheeks suddenly aflame because you’ve read that note over and over again and something about Enola knowing that her brother sends you flowers makes you terribly, terribly embarrassed.
Miss Hudson says these flowers are popular among ladies these days. I have no knowledge of the popularity of flowers among women, but they’re quite beautiful, and I know that you understand beauty far better than I am able. - S.H.
“Sherlock sent you these?” She asks, brows furrowing — but she doesn’t look contemplative, she looks amused.
“Er, yes.” You peer at the flowers over her head, trying to appear much more confident than you feel as you stare at the bunches of indigo and white. “Quite pretty, aren’t they?”
“Very,” agrees Enola. Then — looking far too coy for comfort, she tilts her head towards you. “You know, my mother was quite interested in the language of flowers. Sherlock himself is adept in it.”
“Oh?” You raise a brow. Half of you wants to entertain the line she’s so clearly trying to lead you on — wherever it may lead — but the other half is very much not interested in discussing Sherlock with his little sister. Especially when the look in her eyes is too mischievous to be good news, and you’re still unsure of why exactly she’s in your home. “How riveting. I must read up on it.”
She only hums, that same pleased smile on her face as your housemaid bustles in with a freshly made pot of your favourite tea blend, and you’re suddenly reminded of the painting that you’d been torn away from by her arrival. You must get back to it.
(And you must stop being reminded of Sherlock when you’re trying to focus on work .)
Enola is clutching one of your finest teacups — one of cream porcelain and finely painted flowers, gold filigree around the rim and handle — and sipping happily away at your tea when you ask her:
“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Enola,” you begin gently, “though I have to admit I’m not quite sure why you’re here.”
Big brown eyes meet your own, and you’re taken aback by the sudden force of… well, protectiveness that bubbles up in your chest. Great things as she may be doing, smart as she may be, she’s still so young . Such terrible things had happened to her already — such responsibility on her shoulders. You know she can take it, of course; you’ve heard too many great things about her to think otherwise, but a part of you mourns the portion of childhood that was lost to her.
Enola’s features contort in an image of hesitance, and she clears her throat in a gesture reminiscent of her older brother — the more pleasant one, that is.
“London can be quite… lonely,” she says, voice quiet. “Don’t mistake me: I love it here, and I write to Sherlock sometimes but it’s… he’s… him . And my only friend is a boy, and my mother’s acquaintances are good company but they’re too ‘mature’ to entertain me, and—”
Ah. As Sherlock had predicted (begrudgingly admitted by yourself). You don’t blame her, in all honesty; Sherlock, as forward-thinking as he may be, has the tendency to remain blissfully ignorant when it suits him — and for a girl like Enola, who clearly doesn’t share her brother’s sentiments on politics, you imagine talking to him gets quite... exasperating , to say the least.
You glance towards the closed door that leads to your painting room, and sigh.
“I have a range of books,” you say finally, standing to your feet. “If you don’t mind watching me paint for hours, you’re welcome to sit with me and read. I can’t promise that I’ll be quite as engrossing to speak with as your brother—”
“Trust me,” Enola interrupts, beaming, “you already are.”
And that’s that.
Yellow acacias: secret love.
Syrian mallow: consumed by love.
“This one is a pretty bunch,” says Victoria, staring down her nose at the yellow and pink bouquet that had been delivered the day previous. “Wherever did you get them?”
It had been Enola’s idea, really. Well — your idea, a hastily discarded idea that you’d hoped never to return to, but Enola had latched onto it with fervor.
It’s… quite terrible. Six women, all dressed in varying degrees of ostentatiousness; the finest silks and light cottons, the type that takes days and days to weave; hair twisted and pinned up in curls and whirls and winding spirals. They all seem like the exact same person, only wearing different clothes.
You’d only once thought of gathering the women when your housemaiden had suggested it a year or so back — saying that you spend too much time alone, or with Sherlock, or alone with Sherlock. It'd been the first time that you'd been made aware of the… insinuations made of your relationship with him, and you'd set off quite determinedly to find some female companions.
But you'd grown tired, and bored, and bored and tired, and you'd retired your search before it could even begin, really.
Enola had sighed over biscuits and tea that she was looking to meet more like-minded women, to discuss and share ideas and theories and values ( like her mother had , you'd taken note, but the young girl didn't mention her at all) — and Alberta — your housemaid, an old woman with sleek silvery hair and strong bread-kneading arms — had been quick to reveal that you knew just the right people.
You did not , in fact, know the right people. And you'd told the young Holmes that, but she'd taken it as a challenge, as Holmes's are wont to do, it seems.
Her plan was simple: you gather a few rich, impressionable and influential women, invite them for tea and discuss the latest popular novels and whatnot, and halfway through Enola (“ Very cleverly,” she’d made sure to specify) would bring up the topic of feminism and attempt to sway their minds towards it.
How she'd manage to even mention the subject without rendering half of them aghast is something you're looking forward to greatly. Or rather, you would be looking forward to it, if—
“Surely not a suitor!” Titters Agatha, holding a hand to her mouth. “Why, you must've run them all away by now!"
—if you weren't five seconds away from losing your temper at all times.
You force a laugh, lifting your teacup to your lips only to hide your scowl behind it. "Yes, well, I'm perfectly content with or without a husband—"
"Don't be so modest," interrupts Enola — and the girl ignores your wide-eyed confusion, a perfectly-crafted grin upon her face as she instantly becomes the centre of attention. "_____ has a suitor."
…
…
You're going to kill her. Her, and her brother, too.
The room erupts in a painfully loud cacophony of gasps and laughter — one lady sitting just beside you grasps your arm and shakes it back and forth, and there's maybe six voices crying for you to share—
"He's a proper gentleman, too," continues Enola, loud and clear over the din, lips split in a satisfied smirk, "Extremely wealthy, I hear, and handsome and intelligent—"
(It seems that she’s given up on her previous aspirations of converting the women to her ideologies — and easily, too.)
"Good God!" One cries. "Even with your — your hobby ?"
Ah, yes. Your hobby . Your hobby that you live and breathe, your hobby that you spend most of your time and patience and money on, your hobby that pays your utilities and necessities. It's a hobby because, of course, a woman can't possibly be a respected, professional artist! How scandalous. At least according to this crowd.
For a moment, you forget that it's all a sham — that really, you shouldn’t be buying into Enola’s shenanigans, because you should be trying to disprove her theories — your rage clouds your common sense, and you find yourself snapping: " Actually , he rather enjoys my work. He thinks I've got an even more successful career ahead of me."
(Which is true, if it is Sherlock that Enola is describing. He does enjoy your work, and has, on multiple occasions, encouraged you to branch out or sell to new clients or try new mediums. In the back of your head, a quick, lightning-fast thought springs to existence: being married to Sherlock Holmes doesn’t sound all too horrid—
And then it’s gone, gone, gone, pushed away and away and away .)
Across the room, Miss Holmes lifts her own cup to her lips, looking the spitting image of her older brother — albeit, much more openly smug and satisfied.
White carnations: pure love, innocence.
Alstroemeria: devotion.
You often lose yourself in it, the process of painting. Thick, rough bristles; smooth mink hair; pale washes of colour and vibrant, rushing hues that you swept across canvas. There’s a stillness in it — the feeling of capturing time itself, the idea of communicating the world through your eyes. And hard as it may be to be successful as a woman — with most of your peers of the opposite sex, and most completely and utterly dissatisfied with your very existence — you are happy.
Your paintings sell easily. Some hang it in their drawing rooms; an idle object of gossip, waiting to be noticed, waiting for its new owner to chortle and simper: “Isn’t it marvellous? You’ll never guess who painted it — a woman , would you believe!”
Some prop the bigger ones against the wall — surround them with flowers and blossoms of equal beauty, drink their tea and eat their cakes and buns and stare at them in contemplation. They ponder every detail; every colour, every brush stroke, the direction of light, the tiny initials scratched into the very corner.
One customer of yours — a very old, wealthy man who was developing cataracts, and would soon be unable to see — hung his vast collection of art on the ceiling of his bedroom, so they’d be the first and last thing he’d see at night.
Sherlock is a man of eccentricities. You know this well. And yet, when he asks you for the tiniest painting you are able to conjure, you’re completely floored . You’ve seen him solve a murder with an apple and a loop of thread; you’ve seen him accurately estimate the width and depth of the Thames in seconds; you’ve seen him guess the origin of your favourite Vermillion Hue just from the smell.
“Are you able?” He asks, newspaper tucked under his arm — he glances over his shoulder at you, carriage waiting patiently in front of your residence, and you wonder just why it is that he’s decided to ask you this now , when he’s already out the door.
You tap your foot against the top step, perplexed. “Er — yes. I… I suppose so.”
Sherlock grins.
“As small as you can go,” he calls a reminder, pulling the carriage’s door open. “The size of a stamp would be perfect!”
The size of a stamp? A bloody stamp?
Alas, you are… wont to indulge said eccentricities. So you haul yourself to your regular canvas-stretcher the next day and request just what Sherlock had asked for: a canvas the size of a stamp. An extra large stamp, perhaps, but it’s stamp-sized nonetheless and that’s all that matters. It comes along with an equally as tiny gilded frame, and as you examine the canvas — wondering just how you’d pull this painting off — his reasoning for such a strange size lingers in the back of your mind. You put it out of mind, though, when the flowers arrive a few days later.
You stare at the arrangement he’d asked you to paint. White carnations, an expensive but popular blossom — you’ve painted them before, and they always turn out beautiful. Lace-delicate and soft looking, they’re a regular and a favourite of yours. It’s the other flower that gives you pause.
Alstroemeria, his note says some lines down, shipped from South America .
South... America . You almost faint.
You can’t even begin to fathom the price he must’ve paid for the orange blooms — you can’t even hope to understand why he’d buy a grand arrangement of them for you to paint. It’s — it’s preposterous, is what it is! You tell your housemaid that much, almost spluttering through your words.
“I feel sickly,” you mumble, rubbing at your eyes. Alberta plucks up the note from it’s discarded place on the table. “I think a cup of tea would do me good.”
Alberta’s answering hum is amused, and your head shoots up.
“What?”
“Nothing, ma’am.”
“No.” You narrow your eyes, keying in on the expertly hidden smile tucked away in the corners of her lips. Your head bows forward to follow her figure through the kitchen doorway. “No, Alberta, what is it?”
“Nothing, ma’am. Only…” She emerges seconds later with a fresh teapot. “Quite strange, isn’t it? For an unmarried man to be sending an unmarried woman such expensive, precious flowers?”
Your breathing stutters. Your mind blanks for a moment.
Is — is it? Really?
Your relationship ( friendship ) with Sherlock has always been one of affection and endearment — ah, the platonic kind. The detective has garnered many fans over his years of activity but his friends were few and far between, mostly because of his aversion for politics and high society — both of which can be found in spades in the circles he works for. Conversation is easy; spending time together is easier. The usual condescension and patronization you’re so acclimated to from the opposite sex is completely absent in his words, in his sentiments, in his actions; he appreciates your talent and passions and you do the same for him.
But even so… the flowers are… unusual, yes? Even from him?
Your cheeks feel unbearably hot, suddenly.
“...I’m going to paint,” you say finally, standing up with weak knees. You clear your throat, hoping to dislodge the sudden lump that’s set up shop there. “Call me for dinner, please, Alberta—”
“But your tea, ma’am—”
“Pour yourself a cup!” And you disappear from the room and scuttle into your painting room and shut the door behind you and shudder .
Shudder, because—
Well, to put it simply, this is… everything you want and don’t want. On one hand, Sherlock is… is… a good man. A well-respected, intelligent man. Brutally honest at times, yes, and with an overwhelming amount of knowledge on the most obscure, certainly unnecessary subjects. He tells jokes that aren’t tasteless and rude, doesn’t expect you to be one way or another…
(And sometimes — sometimes , when he’s not looking, you see the sun catch on his brunette locks and the sharp angle of his nose and the curve of his lips and you think that you could try your hand and painting a person, at capturing some heavenly likeness on linen—)
But it simply won’t do. Not for your reputation. Not for your work.
Just a few years ago, when you were fresh out of finishing school, you’d had tens of suitors. Rich, important suitors, all looking for a pretty wife to dress up and tow around like a doll on their arm, a wife to bear children and embroider and learn the piano. You said no to every one of them — not only because of your ambitions to become a serious, respected painter, which would surely be met with incredulity at best and malevolence at worst, but because you refused to be held back by a man who would simply control you when it all came down to it.
You swore off love. You swore off marriage.
And yet, and yet, and yet—
A knock against the door quite literally jolts you from your thoughts, trembling against your back, and your hand clasps over your heart.
“Y—yes?” You call, trying to hide your breathlessness with an air of faux-confidence.
Alberta’s answering voice is entirely too jovial and blithe for your liking, even through the heaviness of the door. “You forgot the flowers you’re to be painting, ma’am.”
You bow your head. Of course you did . “...Ah. My mistake. Do bring them in, please.”
x
“Amazing.” The word is but a breath.
The tiny painting looks even smaller in Sherlock’s large hands. He holds it close to his eyes between his thumb and his forefinger, brows furrowed in awe, and you don’t have it in you to play bashful. It is amazing. The sheer amount of detail and colour and depth you’d rammed into the miniscule space is nothing short of a miracle.
“ Amazing ,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I knew you could do it, of course, but it’s…”
“Amazing?”
Sherlock lifts his gaze — levels you with that charming smirk that turns your stomach inside out. “Precisely.”
You watch with pride as he continues to examine it, moving closer to peek over his shoulder. It really is beautiful. The headmistress of your finishing school had once said that complimenting oneself is unladylike and in poor taste; she’d never seen one of your works, of course, but you imagine that this would be the exception. “So, are you going to tell me just why you need a painting so bloody small?”
“I could, though I’d be revealing a great secret that ought not to be revealed.”
“Surely I’ve warranted some modicum of trust!” You argue. “I hunched over my desk for 12 hours straight for that blasted painting, Holmes.”
His head turns minutely, frowning in that teasing way of his. You can’t begin to understand why he’s so determined to hide the nature behind his request — though you suppose you’re just as bad, so resolutely asking for him to reveal it. Then again, you’ve always been just as tenacious as he is.
“Is that a plea I hear?”
A deflection if you’ve ever heard one. Your tea is getting cold, and you suppose he’ll tell you when he wishes; so you back away with a scoff, and return to your seat. “The next woman to call you a gentleman will be wildly disappointed—"
"If you really must know—" Sherlock turns on his heel, and while you recover from the whiplash of his sudden change of heart, he fishes under his collar to pull out a simple, golden chain.
"I've found myself more sentimental as of late," he admits, almost sheepish. It’s an emotion you’re sure you’ve never seen him wear before. You’re a tad disarmed by it, if you’re being honest.
( Hm, you muse. A gold chain. A painting not much larger than the size of his thumb. What’s the link between them? Whatever could he mean to do…? )
"Enola has that effect on people, I suppose," he continues, and you notice with a start that an uncharacteristic flush is beginning to spread to the tip of his ears, "And I hear that lockets are growing in popularity again, so…"
Oh.
Oh .
Your knees feel frightfully weak as the realisation sets in — you've no doubt that you must look a sight, eyes wide and mouth agape like some bumbling fool, but who can blame you?
Because what Sherlock neglected to say — what he'd left unsaid, but is common knowledge — is that lockets are growing in popularity amongst lovers .
Sherlock plans to wear your painting around his neck in place of one such locket — to carry you with him wherever he goes.
You feel faint.
“Oh,” you say smartly. Your voice sounds strange in your mouth, much more high-pitched than is normal. “How… innovative of you.”
Yes, that’s one word for it.
You have many customers. Each displays your paintings in different ways, some grander than the last — but never have you had someone hide your work away, tucked beneath the collar of their shirt, pressed over their heart. Never has Sherlock , with his logic and his reasoning and his lack of understanding or care for showing affection, been so bold.
The silence in the room stills and stutters; crowds around your lips like a winter scarf and bunches around the anxiety-borne tightness in your stomach. You don’t know what to say. You know what you want to say — you know what you wish you had the courage to say — but what is acceptable to say? Like it or not, you are still a woman. You have much to prove. Your neighbours already gossip about the amount of times they’ve seen Holmes coming and going; you shouldn’t give them a reason to continue.
But have you ever really cared about what was acceptable? Have you really ever cared about what others will say about you? You care about your work, you care about your house and Alberta and Enola, even, and you care about Sherlock more than you can fathom. More than your gossiping neighbours, at least.
Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but before he can — before you can give another thought to what you’re about to say, you rush to fill the quietness, grasping what little courage you’d suddenly coughed up:
“Enola said that flowers have meanings.”
Sherlock’s head tilts. His usual inquisitive frown swoops over his features, and yet you know he’s not thinking about the content of your sentence — he’s pondering on how he should respond . “They do, yes.”
A shuddering breath trembles from your nostrils. “She says you’re quite fluent in the language of them.”
His thumb smooths gently over the face of the painting in his hands. “I… am, yes.”
You nod your head towards the arrangement that had been captured on canvas, the flowers starting to wilt and brown in their age; still, they’re beautiful, and they were a gift, and so you won’t discard them until you really must.
“What do they mean?”
His eyes fix themselves on your face and they don’t dare move. You almost squirm from the weight of them, but you don’t think you’ll give him the satisfaction — instead, with as much shamelessness as you can afford yourself, you let your eyes drift over him; over the light curl of his hair, and the blue of his eyes; the high collar of his shirt and the perfectly pressed material of his frock coat.
“They have many meanings.”
“But you chose them for a reason,” you press, hoping to God that you’re not meddling in business that ought to not be meddled in. “What do they mean to you , Sherlock?”
The floor creaks under him as he takes a step forward — a step in your direction, a step you don’t shy away from. Then there’s another, and another, until he stands just within reaching distance of you, and touching distance of the flowers. His fingers brush contemplatively at a petal or two; smooth over the steadily crisping tissue before they fall to his side once more, and your breath stills in your chest.
“White carnations,” it’s said lowly, intimately, almost a whisper to himself — and you’ve never seen him quite so vulnerable, so unsure, even though he masks it with a perfectly crafted blank face— “Innocence, but more often than not, pure love.”
His bluntness catches you completely off guard — you’d been expecting some sort of build up, some sort of… of passage to travel through before the conclusion was reached — though you realise that really, Sherlock isn’t the type for that. He never has been. In fact, now that you really think about it, if you have somehow managed to gain his affections then you’ve absolutely no idea of how you did—
“Alstroemeria,” he continues, and when you look up you see that he’s no longer gazing down at the flowers — no, he’s directed his stare to you , and you’re not sure when you got so close but he’s just a hair’s breadth away and he seems to be getting closer— “Devotion.”
Say something. Say something! Anything!
“Quite ungentlemanly of you,” you choke out, face rising to dangerous temperatures, trying to look away from his lips and failing horrendously. “Sending an unmarried woman flowers — visiting her alone . The neighbours will — will talk .”
A huff of laughter; warm breath fanning gently over your face, and he’s so bloody close — “Well, if things proceed as planned, you won’t be unmarried for long.”
“You — you—” He can’t just say things like that! And with such a straight, unbothered face — he must find it funny, how flustered and skittish you look. How flustered and skittish you are . “I—” The small smile that tugs at his mouth is much too amused for your liking— “We — we haven’t even courted , Sherlock—!”
His smile drops; confusion screws up his face, suddenly, and: “What do you mean we haven’t courted?”
He looks at you. You look at him. His head tilts to the side, eyes narrowing. Your head tilts to the side, eyes narrowing, and—
“ You were courting me ?”
“Well — I — I—” He’s spluttering — and you watch his eyes flicker back and forth between the flowers and your curtains and your fireplace and everything except you , eyebrows knitting together atop the deep-set ridge of his eyes in what could be confusion or, maybe, embarrassment— “I sent you flowers !”
That’s… true.
(And Alberta did insinuate that it was far less than platonic — and you’d even considered it yourself, but you’d quickly set the suggestion aside — so maybe the fault lies with you just a tad more than it lies with Sherlock .)
“How many men send you flowers?” Sherlock jokes, and you roll your eyes (secretly glad that he hasn’t lost the ability to joke with his confession of love — secretly glad that you don’t feel as if you suddenly can't (or shouldn't ) talk freely).
“Sod off.”
“You know, my brother would say that such language is unbecoming of a lady such as yourself—”
“Well, it’s a good thing I courted you and not your brother, isn’t it?”
At that, Sherlock stops. His eyes soften — just the slightest bit, mind you; learning to read his impassive face is a skill set in and of itself— and your heart thuds in your chest when he nods. An errant curl hangs over his forehead, and you have to stop yourself from reaching up and fixing it. “I suppose it is.”
Unsure of just what to say next, there's a few beats of silence — in the air between you, you mean, but most definitely not in your brain. Your thoughts seem to move at a worryingly quick pace, flitting back and forth, half-formed and fleeting—
He's so—
Wait, what now—?
Handsome—
He's so close—
He smells pleasant—
What is—?
Blue eyes—
His jacket is—
He's so close he's so close he's so close he's—
And he only gets closer. Far more composed than you feel (or look, either), he steps forward — a tiny, minute step, and yet it's as if he's closed the distance of an entire chasm between you — and his hand drifts up towards your chin, except drifts is the wrong word because he does it with purpose , with confidence and surety—
Large, warm fingers hold you along the length of your jaw and chin. Your finishing school teachings echo in your head, the rules of courtship suddenly wriggling up from their abandoned posts to remind you: a lady should never be alone with a gentleman without a chaperone. A lady should not touch a gentleman unless they've been set to be engaged. A lady should—
"_____," Sherlock says, voice steady, and you wish that you could have even just a modicum of his ability to be so collected at a time like this , "May I kiss you?"
—a lady should most definitely not kiss a man she isn't married to — whether she's romantically interested in him or not. You're sure that the fact that you're even close friends with a man would have your headmistress pale and sickly, nevermind your blatant ignorance to every other rule.
But your relationship with Sherlock had not started normally, nor had it progressed normally, and to be fair, Sherlock very much does not care to follow others' instructions.
And so, you breathe out a: "Y-yes. Yes, I suppose so."
And he gets closer — eyes like the sky, focused on the plush of your lips, but—
“Wait!” You cry out suddenly, lurching backwards. “Wait, I—”
“We don’t have to, I simply thought that—”
“No, that’s not—” You take a deep breath, suddenly realising that, well, you were going to — to — and with Sherlock — and you’d never thought that you would, because of your painting and your work and whatnot, and you know that Sherlock isn’t the type of man to… to… “This… this won’t change anything, will it?”
He blinks, clearly confused for what might be the first time in his life. “I… hope that it will.”
“I mean ,” you huff, “this won’t change anything for me . If we’re to be married, I’m not going to give up my work. Just as I don’t expect you to give up yours.”
“I wouldn’t ask that of you,” he says truthfully — as if he can’t possibly fathom the thought of doing otherwise.
“...Good.” And then, because you’ve little to no shame, and you’ve been tormenting yourself with thoughts of this very moment for years , and you’ve always been quite an impatient woman, you clear your throat and say: “You may continue.”
And he does, of course, with all the fervour and gentleness of a man in love — lips pressing against yours, soft and simple in a way that you’d only imagined; nose bumping against your own before it settles at a comfortable angle; a large hand cupping your cheek, and the other moulded around the curve of your waist. And you respond in much the same way, of course, because you’re just ensnared as he is — and even though your stomach twists and turns pleasantly, even though your heart feels as if it could burst from your chest just at the press of his hand on your skin, it doesn’t feel like enough . It won’t be enough, it’ll never be enough, no matter how much you attempt to mold yourselves together, fingers and breaths intertwined — there’s a moment where you pull back (just slightly, mind you) to readjust your lips, catch your breath, and it feels as if time itself has suspended itself mid-air just for you, just for this perfect little moment and—
There’s a sharp set of knocks on the door of your drawing room, and you wrench yourself away from Sherlock with a gasp and a hand to your heart. You barely have time to sneak a look at him as you turn towards the noise, but you do catch the tail-end of a small, satisfied grin, and you suddenly know where Enola got it from.
“Yes?” You call. Your voice is hoarse, your cheeks are hot, and you may just fall to the ground from sheer embarrassment alone.
“Just thought I’d check in,” comes Alberta’s voice, “Usually you’d ask for tea by now, ma’am.”
“Tea,” you echo. You swallow. For a moment you’re sure that you’d forgotten that Alberta was even in the house. “Yes. Tea.”
The room is painfully , excruciatingly silent. You could hear a pin drop — you can hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears.
Mycroft has gone as pale as a sheet. Behind him, Enola looks the most giddy you’ve seen her in months — and not because of the news, because she’s known for quite some time, but you expect it’s because her eldest brother looks as if he’ll collapse.
“You… what?” Even Mycroft’s voice is deathly quiet, lacking all of its usual loftiness. “You… you…”
“Eloped,” offers Sherlock helpfully, lips quirked up charmingly. His hand — the one that’s wrapped around your shoulders and settled on your bicep — smooths up and down, affectionate and warm, and Mycroft’s right eye twitches.
“Eloped,” Mycroft repeats.
“Yes.”
“Married.”
Your husband nods, head tilting with faux-confusion — because even now, revealing maybe the largest and most dire secret he’s ever kept from his brother, he can’t help but be a little sh— “That is what elopement implies, brother.”
A beat of silence.
And then another.
And another.
And—
“Oh, dear God,” gasps Mycroft, and he takes this great , shuddering breath as his entire body lurches sideways, crumpling into a drooping pile on the nearest armchair. “Marriage… elopement … What were you thinking?!”
“If it helps any,” says Enola, chipper as ever, “I was their witness.”
You’re unsure of whether or not you should say anything — his face is becoming a worrying shade of bright ruby, but Sherlock doesn’t seem worried at all, and Enola is thoroughly enjoying herself.
“ Enola knew?!”
“It only made sense,” you try, shrugging, “It was all quite last minute, really—”
“I feel sick to my stomach.”
“Perfectly courteous, brother, as always,” says Sherlock, rolling his eyes. He slips his arm back from around you, nearing his brother with a raised brow and a sigh. “Come on. Get up.”
“—and our family name !” Mycroft wails. “People will talk! Eloping with — with that woman —!”
“That’s quite enough, Mycroft,” Sherlock says sharply. “You’re talking about my wife .”
His brother’s chest heaves — even his ridiculously curling moustache looks dishevelled, somehow — as he glares up at his younger sibling. You get the distinct impression of a pouting child, and for a moment, you think that maybe ( just maybe) Mycroft could be upset about… something else .
You clear your throat, gathering your skirts as you join your husband, curling your arm into the crook of his elbow. “Mycroft, it really was under the wire, and we’re very sorry that you couldn’t attend—”
Sherlock makes a contemplative sound, “ Well— ”
“ Extremely sorry,” you continue over him, “But there’ll be another. A proper ceremony.”
You’d been the one to suggest it, of course, because as mch distaste as you hold for your husband’s brother, he’s still — unfortunately — family. Sherlock was quite averse to the thought of a traditional wedding — doesn’t understand it, really, when you were already husband and wife on paper and in faith — but he knew that Mycroft could only be pacified with some sort of compromise.
(And, secretly, you think the idea pleases him more than he lets on; why, it’d only taken one mention of needing a white dress and he’d seemed much more compliant with the whole affair.)
Mycroft’s eyes narrow, but it’s no longer in discontent; rather, he seems to be contemplating something. The acid he’d been so readily amassing on his features slowly and steadily begins to dissipate, until he’s left staring blankly at a section of your lace curtains.
You’d been right, then — while there’s no doubt that he’s furious that Sherlock chose to marry you , you guessed that he was even more displeased with the fact that he’d missed it. The first problem, you can’t really help — you’ll be civil, but you aren’t going to put yourself out to make him like you — the second problem, however, you can amend.
“Another ceremony,” he repeats, his gaze flickering between your husband and you.
“Yes,” you say.
“A proper ceremony.”
You restrain a sigh. He really is like a spoiled child. “Yes, Mycroft.”
For the first time since you’ve known him, you think you’ve actually pleased him. The frown between his brows eases up and his features don’t quite look like he’s smelled something foul, at least — still, he sniffs, turning up his nose. “Well, at least you’re doing something right.”
Across the room, Enola shoots you an apologetic smile — welcome to the family, it seems to say.
God help you.
Bonus:
Lavender: happiness, love, devotion.
Jasmine: unconditional and eternal love.
A month or so before what is to be a very public wedding, Sherlock Holmes — proud husband and detective, in that order, thank you very much — finds himself killing two birds with one stone, so to speak; a meeting with Lestrade, and a weekly purchasing of flowers for his wife.
Lestrade catches him just as he’s signing off the cheque, scratching down the address of your home as he has time after time after time. The owner of this particular stall in the flower market was well-known to Sherlock; after all, it was from her that Sherlock had bought all of his flowers for you. This time, it’s a large, fluffy bundle of lavender and jasmine, tied at the stalks with pale blue ribbon. It’s set to be delivered just hours later, and he’s only brushing the smile off of his face at the thought of your reaction ( rolled eyes, fond smiles, a brush of your thumb against the familiar scrawl of his writing ) when the policeman appears at his shoulder.
“Never took you for a flower man,” Lestrade comments, glancing down at the arrangement with thinly-veiled disinterest. “What’s that, then? The, er, the purple-y bits—?”
“Lavender,” says the detective — and he shoots the flower-lady a charming smile, before backing away and into the bustling crowds with not even a warning to his newly-arrived companion. “The white ones are jasmine. My wife is particularly fond of them.”
Lestrade freezes in place — is very nearly elbowed in the gut by a passing worker — his eyes bulging from their sockets. “ Wife? ”
“Yes.” It’s a simple joy, Sherlock thinks vaguely, to reveal his marriage to those who thought he’d one day marry his work, and pretend that nothing is out of the ordinary. Nothing was quite as hilarious as watching Lestrade try to swallow his shock — especially because, according to Enola, Lestrade is a self-proclaimed fan . Sherlock glances over his shoulder. “What?”
The policeman shakes his head, clearing his throat. “N-nothing. Nothing at all. All’s grand. Just — didn’t know you had a wife. Thought you’d be one to dedicate your life to your work, y’know.”
Sherlock hums as they step out of the open market — squints momentarily at the sun, and wonders how much progress you’ve made on your newest piece. “Luckily, I’m able to dedicate myself to both.”