Chapter Text
John bought a plant today. Although bought might be a bit of an understatement. Just a bit.
Anyhow.
John acquired a plant today. His (its?) name is Sherlock, because apparently it's completely normal for flowers to have their own names. The book he got with Sherlock says that it's very important in the bonding process.
But, let's start at the beginning, shall we?
John Watson had better days in the past. Honestly.
But recently his nights were filled with nightmares of flying bullets, countless deaths and blood that refused to be washed out of his skin. His voice was often hoarse in the mornings, throat aching, after a night of screams and whimpers that he tried, but couldn't, stop by his sheer will alone.
His therapist suggested writing down everything that's happening in his life.
“Nothing happens to me,” he told her, annoyed. Tired of it all. He thought of the gun hidden in his desk; thought of how easy it would be to load only one bullet and - -
click, click, click.
Until it would hit the jackpot.
It would be so easy.
“Buy yourself a plant.” She wrote something in her notepad and put her palm on it, successfully covering the neatly written letters. Hiding them from his curious eyes. “You will have something to take care of, a purpose.”
I could google it, he thought, gracing her with one of his empty smiles.
I will kill myself tonight, he mentally added after his hour with her was over.
But then - -
“John, John Watson!” He stopped walking, leaning heavily on his cane and looking around. A slightly pudgy man hurried over to his side with a giant smile on his face and a plant in his arms.
It was a really big plant, John couldn't help but notice. A bit worse for the wear from the looks of it (the leaves were shiny but dry on the edges and it looked very wiry, but then again John didn't know much about how plants are supposed to look. He was a Doctor not a Gardener) but still managing to look quite intimidating.
John felt a bit of unease coiling in the pit of his stomach, which was ridiculous considering it was only a damn plant and - - “Mike, Mike Stamford,” the man carrying the plant interrupted his inner monologue, snapping John back to the present. “I know I gained some weight but - ”
“No.” John blinked out of his daze. “I remember, of course it's just - ” he made an awkward gesture in the direction of the plant. “This.”
“Ah,” Stamford laughed, readjusting his grip on the plant's pot. John took notice that it had a blue scarf wrapped around it. “Sherlock.”
“Pardon?”
“The plant, Sherlock. That's his name,” Stamford explained hurriedly.
“It has a name.”
“Well, yes, but that's a long story. Listen, would you like to grab some coffee. We could chat for a bit, catch up. Sherlock is really heavy and I could use a moment as well.”
+
“It didn't take,” Stamford explained as they sat down on a park bench, each nursing a cup of hot coffee; Sherlock on the ground between them, his twigs scratching lightly against John's jeans. “We tried everything. Regular watering, different places in the flat. My Missus even tried talking to him, you know, but I think it's deeper than this.”
“Deeper?”
“Yeah. We're not compatible with Sherlock,” Stamford sighed, seemingly genuinely sad about the little fact, and John politely didn't make any fun of him. “He's not the easiest plant to live with, but he's tough,” he chuckled, flicking Sherlock's leaves. “Maybe you want to take him?” He turned his eyes back to John.
“Me?” John chuckled dryly, changing the grip on the coffee cup from his left hand to right. “What kind of plant would survive living with me, ex-army doctor without a job?”
Stamford smiled, nodding at Sherlock. “I will add the blue scarf of his too.”
“There is a story behind it, am I right?” John asked, not declining nor agreeing to anything.
“A short one.”
+
“This is just brilliant.” John collapsed onto his bed, falling into the too-soft mattress and eyeing the plant that proudly stood next to it, motionless. “What am I going to do with you, hmm?” John asked it, turning onto his side and reaching to pluck the few dry leafs, but stopped himself at the last moment. Fingers hovering over them before touching gently, feeling the uneven and slightly dead surface.
“Brilliant. Just, brilliant,” he muttered and turned, back to the plant and his room, hoping to catch a few minutes of rest.