Roses can speak for the dead, but only if they’re given drops of blood. Sherlock knows John’s is sweeter than his. A garden crime scene, a lover’s bargain, and pocket knife.

wiggle-of-judas:

The old man’s fresh dead, still warm in his seersucker suit, wind-blown petals caught in his hair.

“Age, maybe,” John says. Eyes the shears beneath the oleander. “Maybe not.”

Sherlock shifts from corpse to grass to blossom, restless, birdsong around him. “Not age. Not the shears, either.” Squints at a white Bourbon and holds out his hand. “Knife. Please.”

“Oh no.” John joins him at the roses, opens the knife. Winces, though Sherlock protests: blade to palm, palm to blossom, blossom to scarlet speech, tongue blooded, made loose in the afternoon sun.

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