Patagonia Orchid

The sky was dark when I left surgery, and by the time I hit the steps of 221B, it was pouring torrents.
I ran inside propped my jacket on the coat hook, and it wasn’t my flatmate that caught my attention but the very unusual plant in a plain reddish-brown pot.
I immediately knew it was an orchid, but I had never seen one like this before.
Sherlocks’ low-pitched voice broke the silence, “Patagonia orchids. Very rarely seen in England. Very expensive,” while sitting on the couch with his pale gray eyes focused entirely on the plant.
“Where did you find one like this? I’ve never seen one before?” though it took a few grunts.
I lowered myself to the floor to peer closer at it.
“Intriguing, isn’t it?” the detective said,” it is a gift from the Wattingtons.”
“Oh?” pausing for a minute to convert from doctor mode to detective-colleague mode.
He looks up, exasperated, his glare which, when turned on me, generally makes me feel off-kilter.
Sighing and patting his leg, “John, think,” his finger tapping the side of his head, his hair fluttering while he shakes his head side to side.
“Oh John,” another sigh, “ you called it the case of the water bottle, remember now?”
“Ah yea,” bobbing my head in response,” chucking because, at the time, Sherlock thought it a nonsensical title to put on the blog.
“This plant, John, grows in Chile at the timberline up to 50cm tall and blossoms in December.
I’m recommending we donate it to the horticultural society. We, “motioning his hand to and fro between us, “won't ever be sufficient guardians for this remarkable plant.”
As he stands, his dressing gown swings and brushes the plant, and I reach out to steady the pot, “Jesus, Sherlock! You have to be more careful, and– wait,” removing the tag I find under the saucer, “what's this?” my face flushing instantly after reading the note.
Luckily he has turned his back and doesn’t immediately see, but he spins quickly back, “what?”
I tuck it into my trouser pocket, “it’s only a thank you note.”
“Joohhhnnn,” slinking towards me, hands out, “you’re concealing something.”
Making a sound as if to speak, “no, Sherlock,” uncrossing my legs and swiftly changing the subject, “tea?” my legs carrying me towards the kitchen.
Sherlock reclines against the doorpost leading into the kitchen, his arms folded across his chest.
“Doctor John Watson, whatever was composed and left under the pot was for both our eyes,” holding out his left hand, his right wrapped up the pocket of the maroon robe, “ moreover I have observed whatever is composed on it is enough to fluster you. Has Mrs. Wattington called us on being a couple?”
With my trying to keep turned away from him, he again has confirmed exactly what is causing my embarrassment.
There is no way I’m getting out of this one, and drawing in a breath, I remove the damming piece of paper and backhand it to him.
I hear the slight crackle of the paper.
I take a deep swallow while he moves within inches of me, "you should be more attentive, Doctor. ”
It can’t be!
Not possible!
“Sher–sher,” twisting around to stare into the pool of his eyes, “no! But–why?”
“What did it say, John Watson?” his eyes covering every last bit of my body and back up to my own eyes that feel wider than a basketball.
“Rare– as your– love– love– for each– other,” stammering.
“What is your conclusion, my good doctor?”
If that voice dug further into my heart, it would fragment and assemble it with a bright red bow.
“Oh, shit!” realization dawning.
“It’s Valentines' Day!”
His arms encompass my midsection, and he murmurs close in my ear, “ Happy Valentines Day to my—my love.”