Hell's Half Acre (hells_half_acre) wrote,
Hell's Half Acre

April Ficlet: Flowers (Sherlock)

Okay, here's some crack to cheer us all up...

I'm going to post the prompt at the end of the fic, because I think it gives too much away if you see it before you read.

It's also slash, which I don't usually write, but as you all know I do love me some Sherlock/John.

(Sherlock, Sherlock/John - G rated, crack, 1017 words)

From his spot on the sofa, Sherlock listened to half of the phone conversation going on in the kitchen.

“You’re serious? – Yes – Yes, this is the sort of thing I was hoping for... well, hoping is a bad term to use. Sorry. Yes, we’ll take it. Make the calls, please – Thanks.”

Sherlock smirked to himself. It was about a case. John had been in contact with Lestrade off and on for over a month, showing alarming interest in finding Sherlock a case rather than just waiting patiently for one to appear, as he usually advocated. Sherlock was not sure why. It wasn’t as though Sherlock’s mood had been particularly black. They had even had a few small cases during the month, and yet John did not seem satisfied. It was unlike him, which was slightly worrying, because it WAS very much like Sherlock. John was supposed to not be Sherlock, that was something that Sherlock rather liked about John – as much as he liked himself, he imagined that he must be rather horrible to live with, and he didn’t much fancy trying it.

Furthermore, Sherlock wasn’t quite sure if he liked John becoming this odd middle-man between Lestrade and himself. Usually, Lestrade brought all cases to Sherlock directly, but in the past month, Lestrade had always called John first.

“Sherlock?” John spoke from the kitchen doorway, as though Sherlock hadn’t been listening.

“You’ve found us a case,” Sherlock stated. “Or rather, Lestrade has on your instructions. It better be higher than a seven.”

“It’s a ten in my books,” John muttered – and that was definitely odd, because unless Sherlock was mistaken, and Sherlock was never mistaken, John was nervous.

“A ten?” Sherlock turned his head finally from his study of the ceiling and sat up.

“At least an eight,” John shrugged. “But... we’ll need a car. Do you think you could-?”

“You’ve found us a case outside of London?”

“Yes, and we’ve got to get there rather quickly or... we’ll miss it.”

Sherlock studied John, but he seemed to be telling the truth, or at least believed he was. Sherlock rose to his feet, grabbed his coat, and began to make arrangements for a car while they walked. Twenty minutes later, John was directing Sherlock out of London and towards.... Basildon.

“Basildon, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t see why you can’t tell me what this case is about. I should simply phone Lestrade. I’m sure, whatever it is, it does not warrant a drive to Basildon.”

“You have to see it, then you can solve it quick as you like – but you really need to see this one.”

Sherlock acquiesced, if only to placate John, who seemed to be increasingly on edge.

They finally arrived at a fairly large house on the outskirts of the city. It was already surrounded by police cars and a coroner’s van.

“Well, at least it’s a murder,” Sherlock sighed. “I’d have hated to come all this way for a petty theft.”

“I would never have asked you to drive to Basildon for a petty theft,” John replied, offended. Sherlock smiled at him to show that he hadn’t believed otherwise. John really was acting odd.

John ran a little ahead of Sherlock and spoke to the constable by the police tape. He nodded, and lifted the tape for them, giving Sherlock a queer look as Sherlock ducked under. Sherlock ignored it, it was hardly the first time... nor was it the last, as the detective inspector on the case greeted them with a slightly bewildered assessing look and simply said, “Right, Lestrade explained. You have ten minutes.”

“I doubt I’ll need ten,” Sherlock scoffed, but John just smiled and said. “Ten minutes, yes, thank you.”

They were led though the house into the kitchen, and then surprisingly, the detective inspector ordered them to be left alone with the body for the full ten minutes. Sherlock barely paid attention to the police leaving – he was far more interested in the corpse on the tiled floor... or rather, what was coming out of it.

“He’s been disemboweled and filled with flowers!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Not just disemboweled,” John said from beside him. “All of his internal organs have been removed and replaced with flowers... fresh flowers!”

“Flowers,” Sherlock muttered, studying the corpse. He had seven ideas... no, six ideas... no, five ideas.

“John, what can you tell me?” Sherlock asked. John knelt over the body and started confirming what Sherlock already suspected.

Sherlock stood up and whirled around, stalking over to the windows that overlooked the back garden. Four ideas. He paced the room once, and then returned to the body. Two ideas.

He inspected the corpse’s fingers.

“He was killed by the brother of his ex-wife, who was upset that he kept the house in the divorce and displaced her and the children. It was an accidental death – they got into a fight, the victim fell and broke his neck. The murderer panicked. He wanted to buy himself more time. The murderer works as a veterinarian. Our victim works as a florist, having the keys to both workplaces, our murderer attempted to frame the victim’s lover, also a florist, by making the death look... elaborately... floral. However, idiot that he is, he completely ignored the fact that florists do not often have access to bone-saws and surgical thread.”

“Brilliant,” John said in a breath from behind him. “Will you marry me, Sherlock?”

“That one’s new,” Sherlock said, turning around – only to find John holding out a simple gold ring.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. He looked back at the dead man on the floor. “Oh.

John nodded, smiling nervously. “It’s ah... traditional... um, flowers, dinner... but you only eat after cases, and I knew you’d see right through it if I suddenly brought home flowers. I’ve made reservations with Angelo, if you... that is, if you...” John motioned to the ring, “Sherlock, will you marry me?”

“Oh god, yes,” Sherlock whispered, and then bypassed the outstretched ring in order to grab John by the jacket and snog him until their ten minutes were up.

Today's prompt:

Tags: fic, month of ficlets, sherlock-bbc, slash

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