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"A dozen roses, of different colour. Seven lilies. Five...are these tulips? Looks like tulips, yes. And these? Who knows. Eight sunflowers. What else, what else... right. These. Four bouquets of flowers I shall not even bother to identify.", Watson said, finally turning around to face his friend, instead of the makeshift botanical garden that was now the sitting room of 221B. "What on Earth are you up to this time, Holmes?"
"Research for a case, Watson. Analysing the various pollen levels of flowers." , the detective replied calmly. Watson could not tell if it was the light playing tricks on his vision, or if his companion's ears were really turning pink when he answered.
"I cannot help but wonder what you are plotting, my dear fellow." , the doctor begins. "For the past few days, you have been, almost obssessively so, buying flowers and stuffing every corner of this sitting room with them! If I didn't know better, I would say you are trying to keep yourself safe from some criminal who has hayfever!"
"I am not plotting anything, as you so graciously put it, doctor. As I have said, it is all for an investigation." Holmes scoffed and turned around , taking his pipe and keeping himself busy with that.
Suspicious, Watson thought. First he gets a bit flustered. Now , he was deliberately avoiding the topic. And he was fumbling with getting the tobacco into the pipe, something the detective only did when he was frustrated or embarrassed. Oh, no, it was definitely not for a case, Watson concluded with an amused smile.
The actual story had nothing to do with a case. Or any sort of investigation, really. In fact, everything had begun precisely ten days ago.
Holmes stepped out of the carriage, finding himself in entirely unfamiliar territory. Watson and his wife had invited him for dinner, and the man supposed he had to bring some sort of gift to the hosts. For Watson, he'd get a bottle of the finest brandy he could find. That was easy to settle. But for Mary? What should he even get? Jewelry seemed like something too intimate to give to your friend's wife. The last thing he wanted was Watson suspecting Holmes planned to steal his wife. Chocolate, maybe? No, it might melt on the way. And maybe Mrs. Watson wouldn't like whatever flavour he chose. He sighed. This was more difficult than he had expected. There were many stores on the street, so it was not as if he had limited options. Even worse. Holmes knew from experience that it is easier for one to choose when there are fewer options available. Somehow, our minds become overwhelmed the more choices we are presented with. And the detective was as human as the rest of us, meaning he , too, was affected by this oddity.
To his left was a bookshop. Usually a good place to look for a gift, but not what he needed now. Next on the street, a butcher's. He couldn't show up and gift Mary some cured meats. Next door to the butcher's, a florist's. Holmes' eyes widened, an idea suddenly starting to take form in his mind. Yes, this would do. Women loved flowers, did they not? Mrs. Watson was a woman. So, Mrs. Watson would be glad to receive a bouquet. A sound exercise of logic.
Satisfied by how easy this all was, Holmes nods to himself and strides towards the door, mentally patting himself on the back for this flash of genius. He pulls the door open , making the bell above it ring. Some shuffling noises could be heard in a room behind the counter, followed by steps hurrying to the front to greet the client.
You come out from the room in a rush, quickly smoothening your dress. "Good morning, sir!" , you say, in the usually cheerful tone that you reserved for customers. "How may I help you?"
The moment his eyes landed on you, Holmes felt words had failed him. That razor-sharp mind which could deduce a man's life story in a matter of seconds was unable to come up with any sort of satisfying response. The only detail he could observe right now were the colour of your eyes in the sun's light and that stubborn strand of hair that had escaped from your hairdo. Holmes remembered now something, from those sentimental drivels Watson reads in his spare time. He, too, had read a few out of boredom, some time ago. But at that moment, those passages where the hero felt immediately drawn to some lady he had just laid eyes on felt absurd. What sort of person instantly feels such a pull to a complete stranger? Love at first sight, or whatever they called it. That was pure insanity. Idealistic behaviour at best, a stupid trope at worst. That is not how the real world works, or how love should work. And yet, there was no mistaking that the way the detective felt now did resemble these stories.
Holmes was snapped out of his train of thought by your voice. He blinks a few times and points at the first flowers his eyes land on. Some brightly coloured tulips. "These. I need them. The flowers, I mean. For a bouquet."
"A bouquet? Might I ask for what occasion?"
"Would it actually matter? They're all beautiful flowers." , Holmes says, confusion evident in his voice.
"Certainly would matter, sir. You see, same way we speak to each other in a language, flowers do as well. Every flower has a hidden meaning. Some are given to show you fancy someone , others when we wish to express sorrow. Birthdays, proposals, family reunions, they all ask for certain combinations of flowers. Can't go at a funeral with a bouquet that symbolises joy, can you? Well, not unless you particularly dislike the deceased, I suppose." , you add, laughing at your own joke.
Holmes smiles when he hears you laugh, and lets out a quiet chuckle of his own. "Ah. Interesting. I never knew this about flowers. Well then, I would like a bouquet that you could give to a friend's wife, when she has invited you for dinner."
You hum, taking in the request. Pretty common order, wouldn't be too hard. "Of course, sir. I'll do just that."
Holmes nodded, relieved he had managed to speak without making an absolute fool of himself. He had been certain he'd end up humiliating himself again. Just like he did when he pointed at the tulips...how could he not know about flowers and their meanings?! He was a detective who prided himself on his ability to know things! Oh, this was dreadful. Now this lovely young woman would think he is an idiot, and she shall not spare him a second glance! He watched quietly , not daring to speak, as you moved from behind the counter, around the store.
"We'll start with some geraniums for the middle. Oak-leaved geraniums, to be more exact." , you explain to him, as you gather the flowers you needed for the bouquet. "Some acacia as decoration, also a symbol for friendship."
Holmes nodded in agreement. He would not risk talking. Who knew what other stupid line would come out of his mouth now.
"Some jasmine, maybe? They do represent amiability, and smell lovely! And as a finishing touch, some of these would be my usual recommendation. They're called volkamenia." , you elaborate, getting behind the counter to start working on the bouquet.
The detective stood and watched you gather the flowers into a bouquet, noticing how your fingers were so skilled at their job. He took in their aspect. Your hands weren't calloused. A sign you had not been working here for too long. A few cuts, he assumed those roses sometimes caught you by surprise. Your nails had no dirt underneath them, and were neatly trimmed, clearly you were someone who took care of their appearance. But most importantly, you had no ring on your finger. Such a lovely young woman, and she was not taken by a suitor yet? Preposterous, Holmes thought to himself. If it were up to him, he would at once ask her– No. He will not entertain this thought further.
The detective decides to find anything to distract him and banish the thoughts from his mind. He realised you were humming to yourself while arranging the flowers. That melody sounded familiar. Trying to identify it might work as a distraction.
"Symphony number 1 in C minor." , Holmes blurts out without thinking. The moment you stop, he freezes yet again, worried of your reaction. Thank God Watson wasn't here. His friend would have had a goldmine of moments to tease him over. He was acting quite strangely today, after all.
You look up at him curiously. "Beg your pardon, sir?"
"That piece you were humming just now. It's Symphony No. 1 in C minor by Mendelssohn, is it not?"
Your eyes light up when you finally process his response. "Oh, yes! It is indeed that. I heard it last week at the music hall. Lovely composition. The Romantics have very pleasant works." , you add with a nod, happy you had found someone who shared a love for music.
He hummed in agreement. Good taste, Holmes thinks. "I agree. The Baroque period is interesting, yes, but the Romantics' music has a certain melodic quality you cannot really find elsewhere. Do you have a fondness for any particular composer, Miss?" , the detective asks. He knew that societal norms would be very much against asking a complete stranger this, but etiquette could be shoved up where the sun doesn't shine at this moment. He wanted to find some common ground with you.
Just as you were about to open your mouth and answer, the bell rang again, and a new customer entered the shop. And unfortunately, you were still during workhours right now. Chatting away with customers was not possible. With an apologetic smile, you hand the bouquet over.
"Here you are, sir. Five shillings."
Holmes nods stiffly and places the coins on the counter, thanks you quickly, and leaves the store, but not before throwing a scathing glare towards the gentleman who had just stepped inside and dared to interrupt his attempt at making conversation.
Dinner with the Watsons came and went. Mary was pleased by the bouquet she had received, loving the gift. All in all, Holmes would say he was successful in his mission. But he would not dwell too long on this small victory. There was a long operation to carry out, a much more complicated one.
He visited the florist's the next day. And then a day later. And the next. Each time, he would try to find out more about you. Your favourite composer, which he found out on the second day was a close tie between Tchaikovsky and Chopin. Your favourite colour, green. This he found out on the fourth day. And every time, without fail, Holmes would buy at least two flowers when he visited. Sometimes even fifteen in a day. It depended on his mood, really. Had he become interested in horticulture? Heavens, no. He just wanted to have an excuse to converse with you, coming up with the most bizzare stories on why he needed them. On the second day, he claimed he needed to attend a funeral. The deceased was some old school friend he had made up on the spot. On another day, he was visiting his aunt. On the eigth day, his cousin had given birth and he wanted to see her. (There was no cousin.) These last days had been a true exercise of improvisation for the consulting detective.
After the first three days, you had started to realise yourself what the gentleman who always came in and asked for flowers was up to. He was trying to find an excuse to see you, that much was obvious. Why else would he also try to ask you all sorts of things about yourself while you worked? Part of you was just wishing he could be more straightforward and ask you out plainly. But another, more perverse voice in your head found his awkward attempts at courtship, if one could name it that, absolutely entertaining. Like those male birds who bring sticks to the female bird they wish to impress.
It seemed that Mr. Holmes was trying to woo you by buying half of the store you worked in. Not inviting you for dinner, or another outing, no. He was emptying his pockets on flowers. Your boss should give you a raise based on this fact alone. The sales of the shop were going up, thanks to this man.
Watson blinked a few times in disbelief when Holmes finally finished his account of the past days. If it had been up to him, he would have never told Watson the reason behind his recent floral hoarding habit, but the doctor had been too annoying with his pestering, so the detective had no choice but to confess.
"So, if I understood this correctly...you fancy the lovely florist. And because you fancy her, instead of asking her out properly, and starting to court her...you are just going there every day to buy flowers from her?" , Watson asks, trying not to burst into laughter at how ridiculous the situation was.
Holmes gave him a side-eyed look when he heard the snickering. "I was expecting another reaction. Not laughter."
Watson nodded, covering his mouth with his hand to calm down. He took a deep breath to gather himself. "Right. My dear fellow, have you considered just asking her directly?"
"Ask her directly?"
"Well, how else could you do it? Indirectly?" , Watson asks sarcastically. Noticing his friend was not too pleased by his humour, he continues: "Just tell her you fancy her. That you wish to court her. You know, things ladies love. Be dramatic. Be bold! They adore that, let me tell you."
"I refuse to already humiliate myself further by being dramatic, Watson."
"Then don't be! Just tell her how you feel in your own words."
"So I am to confess to her, and hope she reciprocates?"
"Well, yes. Oh, and another idea. You confess to her your feelings. And after that... why don't you ask if she'd like to join you this Friday at Saint James' Hall. You do have two tickets for that concert, do you not?"
"Indeed, yes. I originally got them so you could join me." , Holmes confirms.
He then goes silent, and begins pacing around the sitting room, his brows furrowed and his hand clasped behind his back. Watson had to hold back another round of laughter at the sight. If anyone walked in now, they'd think he was attempting to solve a case, not weighing the advantages and disadvantages of telling someone that he fancies them.
Some time later, Holmes nods and turns to his friend. "But I suppose it is a lovely idea. I shall ask her, then. And if she rejects me, I promise you, Watson, you will never get to write accounts of my adventures again. And I will hide all your neckties."
"Excellent plan." , Watson replies, patting his friend's back. He , of course, ignores the threat addressed to him. He knew Holmes would never do such a thing. "Go ahead and charm your fair lady. Should I expect engagement announcements soon? Wedding bells?" The doctor starts humming the wedding march to get a rise out of Holmes, wiggling his eyebrows at his friend.
The detective chooses to ignore his teasing, knowing that answering him was exactly what Watson expected. And he would not give that bastard the satisfaction.
And so, at precisely twelve o'clock sharp the next day, Holmes was inside the florist's once again. You had become quite used to his presence, so you gave him a friendly wave.
"Good day, Mr. Holmes. How may I help you today? Some more flowers?"
"Ah. Yes. Flowers. Of course. Yes, I do need flowers!" , he nods, before adding quickly, to make you forget of how stupid he just sounded: "I would like you to make me a bouquet of roses. The most beautiful roses you have, and they must be red. Bright red roses would be ideal."
You felt your smile fade a bit when you heard his request. Bright red roses. These were the flowers gentlemen usually asked for when they were preparing to confess their love to a lady who had caught their interest. But of course. What a foolish thing you had been, to think this man here would actually show any sort of interest to you, beyond that of friends, or attempt to court you. You were a simple florist, he was a renowed detective, consulting cases for heads of state across the Continent. The lady he would gift these roses to was probably some well-off debutante, or another young woman from a good background. Certainly not your likes.
"Right, sir. Bright red roses it is." , you say, with a rather stiff nod. As you gather the roses for the bouquet, you cannot help but feel a deep, bitter disappointment taking root inside you. It had always been that way with romance. Those you found yourself fancying would catch sight of someone better than you, and leave you back in square one. And could you blame them? Not really.
The conversations with Holmes had quickly become the highlight of your day , a small moment that stood out from the tedious routine of your job. It felt so nice to have someone ask you about yourself, and listen to you. You remembered a quote from one of your favourite poets: 'A multitude of small delights constitute happiness.' That fellow had been right when he wrote down those words. These conversations, they were your small delights. And they had built up your happiness.
This time, you notice he doesn't even make conversation with you while you work on your bouquet. Why would he, after all? This gesture made it perfectly clear that today he planned to move on , and cut off any sort of ties before something more could blossom between you.
You finish the floral arrangement. A fine job, in your opinion. Ironic how one of your prettiest bouquets was now going to make some other woman happy.
Holmes takes the bouquet from you, examines it with a small smile and nods. He lifts it to his nose and smells it. Surprisingly, however, he doesn't leave with it. He... gives it back to you.
You stare at the stretched hand holding the flowers, not understanding what he meant by that.
"My apologies, sir. Were they...not to your liking?" , you ask, worried he had found some flaw in the flowers. Maybe you had picked more wilted roses by accident? Either way, you take a step away from the counter, to go back to the flowers on display, and get some new ones.
Holmes' eyes widen when he realises how his actions looked like to someone who had no clue what he was actually planning. He shakes his head, and steps in front of you, blocking your path.
"No! Not at all. Please, Miss. Take them. I suppose I should have been more straightforward from the beginning. They are meant for you." He cuts you off by a raise of his palm, showing he wants to go on. "Before you ask: yes, I know what bright red roses mean, and that is precisely why I chose them. I have never expected I would fall in love over the course of a few days, and yet, there is no other possible explanation for the strange feeling I get when I hear you laugh, or see you smile at me. So, here. A confession of love in a language you are fluent in, and which I learned with your help."
You stare at the roses, trying to figure out if this was all some hallucination your sleep-deprived mind had conjured. But no. The detective was real, and he had just confessed his feelings for you. You finally take the bouquet from him, your hand brushing against his.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. And I suppose I must also confess something of my own. I return your feelings." , you smile at him, relief visible on your face.
"You do? Truly?" , Holmes asks, to be sure. When you slowly nod, he lets out a laugh and reaches for something inside his coat. Some sort of slip of paper that he hands you. "Splendid. Then I hope you would be able to join me on Friday? As a first outing, I thought going to a music hall might be adequate."
You take the ticket from him, glancing between him and the paper. "I am sure I could ask for my Friday off, yes." You can barely contain an excited noise when you realise the significance of such a gesture.
"I shall be here to pick you up at ten, if it is alright with you."
"It is, thank you.", you reply, still in a bit of a daze. Your poor mind was trying to process that you had gone, in the span of a few minutes, from feeling heartbroken to having a date on Friday.
The detective nods. He gives you another smile, before turning around to leave.
"Wait!" , you call out. You take a single red tulip from one of the vases on display, and hand it to him. "A token of affection from myself. Try and decode its meaning when you get home, hmm?" , you add in a playful tone.
He takes the flower from you, surprised by your gesture, but too touched to protest. Holmes stares at it as if it's some sort of rare scientific discovery, turning it around in his hand.
"Thank you." , he finally replies, the tips of his ears turning pink. With another awkward nod, Holmes turns towards the door and exits the store, probably wanting to leave before he said anything too embarrassing. He seemed to have this habit around you.
You find yourself alone once again, with the ticket and roses on the counter. Strange man, you think to yourself, the fluttering in your stomach now impossible to ignore. Strange, but charming in his own way.