Somebody to Die For- BBC Sherlock|Johnlock|Sequel to Between the Raindrops

Chapter Two- White Roses

Sherlock was getting suspicious looks from the shopkeeper at the convenience store down the road. This was probably because it was some time around midnight, and the detective was looking rather sinister with uncombed hair, his coat collar standing up high against his sharp cheekbones and not to mention the large black bags he was carrying. Sherlock did not blame him. Judging by his darting eyes which followed his customer all around the shop, twitching hands and the fact that he practically jumped a foot in the air when Sherlock had arrived in the shop, the man was clearly paranoid. And by looking at the bags under his unrestful eyes, he clearly had not slept in days.

“What kind of time do you call this?” he raised an eyebrow at the consulting detective.

“I call it… one thirty?” Sherlock checked his watch. “Well, one thirty-three. I was very close.”

The shopkeeper scowled. “That was a rhetorical question.”

“I don’t like to leave any questions left unanswered, rhetorical or otherwise. Besides, it says on a rather prominent sign outside that this store is open twenty-four-seven, unless this, and I highly doubt it, is actually your house and you’re one of those idiots who don’t lock the doors but keep all of your worldly possessions in the front room.” The man grimaced at him.

“Ugh. What do you want?”

Sherlock pointed at the flowers on the stand behind the counter. “Those.”

“Red roses? At one AM?”

“No, the white roses at one thirty four AM. Get a watch.”

The man snarled again and folded his arms, still not trusting Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m tired. You’re tired. I just got off a flight from New York and I haven’t slept in days. You haven’t left this store for a week and you haven’t slept in two and a half. I have a husband waiting at home and I’m sure you have somewhere to go so might I suggest you get me the roses, take the bloody twenty-four-seven sign down, close the shop and use the money I’m giving you to hire a psychologist. Perhaps your son will be able to cover your shift for a while.”

“How did you know I-”

“Jet lag. Husband. Roses. Cut,” the man kept staring at Sherlock. The detective sighed, and allowed his face to soften momentarily. “Please.”

The man kept a wary eye on Sherlock’s reflection in the glass of the cigarette cabinet next to the flower rack, but did as he said and cut the roses.

“Get me the best ones and I’ll tip you extra,” Sherlock said, waving his hands at the guy to promote haste. He wanted to get back to John as soon as he could. The last few days without him had been utter hell, a boring case and the threat of almost being trapped in another country for Christmas.

The shopkeeper finally handed him the roses, and Sherlock forked over a fifty pound note. The man stood there open mouthed.

“Keep the change,” Sherlock nodded at him, and ran out the door.

His luggage was beginning to press down, causing even more discomfort to his stiff shoulders. Sherlock was lucky that his knowledge of the weather was better than that of astronomy- as soon as he had deduced that it was going to snow in New York, he had got to the airport as quickly as possible, grabbed the cheapest ticket for the soonest flight and hopped on the plane.

He soon regretted the ‘cheapest ticket’ part- the family in the seats next to him had two screeching children, one of which had to use the regurgitation bags in the seats in front of them about four times in the first two-and-a-half-hours. Sherlock had lost count after that by distracting himself, but after he had deduced everyone in that compartment of the plane he found himself unable to sleep for the rest of the flight. Even thinking of John could not get him a moment’s shut-eye, due to all the noise.