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They both collapsed, laughing breathlessly against the grimy alley wall. They really should have been quiet, but the thrill of the chase and the residual adrenaline pumping through their veins banished the thought from their minds entirely. 

“Do you think we lost him?” Watson gasped as he caught his breath. He stuck his head around the corner to peer at the empty street behind them. Luckily, it remained silent, and the fog curled about the cobbles, undisturbed. 

“I should think so,” Holmes coughed and pulled a deep breath through his teeth. “I would be incredibly surprised if a man of his size and condition could vault a five foot wall.”

Watson caught his eye, and they both fell about laughing once more.

“My God! Remind me to practice my pull-ups,” Watson chuckled, “And it’s not exactly cricket to laugh at a man with a peg-leg.”

“He should have thought about that before he stole Miss Kettle’s prized ruby,” Holmes reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the large, red stone, which glistened alluringly in the moonlight. 

“Was it right to let him go?”

“Another trip to the gaol would do a man of his position no good. In fact, I may have let him keep the gem if Miss Kettle wasn’t in such dire straights herself.” Holmes coughed again, which triggered a cascade of coughs to wrestle their way from his chest. He doubled over, and leant his free hand on the wall for support. 

The longer the attack went on, the more Watson’s concerned frown grew. “I don’t like the sound of that cough, Holmes. You’ve had it for a couple of weeks now.”

Holmes waved his ruby-adorned hand dismissively. “A mere tickle, my dear Watson,” he gasped. 

But the attack persisted, to such an extent that stars began to bloom behind Holmes’s eyes.

“This is considerably more than a tickle,” Watson observed once the attack finally subsided. “Are you having any other symptoms?”

Holmes hesitated; as much as he hated to admit weakness, he decided that brushing off his very obvious affliction would do little more than irritate Watson.

“I do find myself a little short of breath at times, now that you mention it,” he admitted. 

Watson’s brow furrowed, and he gave Holmes a once over with a professional eye. “Come, we’re going home. I want to listen to your chest,” he said finally.

Holmes had little choice but to agree. 

Holmes was more than glad to arrive back to their delightfully warm Baker Street rooms. Despite the fact that spring had arrived, there was still a distinct chill in the air - he had always had a tendency to run cold, but during that past winter the icy chill had forced its way into his very bones and stubbornly refused to thaw.

The fire flickered low in the grate, and Holmes’s first action after removing his coat was to poke it back to life. He sighed happily as the flames roared alive once more. He basked in their warmth like a lizard on a sun warmed rock, and sank bonelessly into his chair.

He had half-hoped Watson had forgotten his intention to listen to his chest during their journey home, but it was not to be. The good doctor had retrieved his medical bag from its home by the door, where it sat ready and waiting to be used at a moments notice, and pulled a stethoscope from its depths. 

“Shirt off, please,” he ordered, his voice taking on that masterly tone he often reserved for stubborn patients - mainly Holmes. “I want to have a good listen.”

Holmes made a show of grumbling as he removed his many top layers. In truth, a part of him found himself quite relieved at Watson’s insistence - the shortness of breath he had been experiencing as of late was quite disconcerting and was even beginning to affect his work. If anyone could put him right, it was his Watson.

Watson pulled his desk chair to sit alongside Holmes’s armchair and perched at his side, so close that Holmes could feel his warm breath against his neck. Goosebumps erupted across his arms that had little to do with the cold.

He couldn’t help but smile as Watson warmed the bell of the stethoscope between his palms. His Watson was always so attentive, even toward the littlest of details. It was what made him so invaluable as a companion.

Well, that and many other factors.

Under Watson’s direction, Holmes took deep breaths and released gentle exhalations. The command to cough was met with another fit, one that had him almost doubled over and his ribs aching. Watson frowned sympathetically.

“I don’t hear any sign of pneumonia,” he reported once Holmes had caught his breath, “But you do sound rather raspy, so I would advise you to take it easy for a few days and cut down on the smoking… But we both know you won’t listen to me.”

Holmes hummed in agreement as he reached for his pipe.

They retired for the evening after a whiskey each and a warm goodnight. 

Exhausted after their case and drained from the ever-mounting pain in his lungs, Holmes fell asleep seconds after his head hit the pillow.

Despite this, he awoke suddenly in the small hours of the morning to yet another fit of coughing.

This attack was severe - the most severe he’d had since suffering from pneumonia a few years previously. He raised himself to his elbows to hack into the back of his hand. His entire body shook with the exertion, and for one horrible moment, he thought he might vomit. He reached blindly toward his bedside table to grab for a handkerchief, just in case.

To his horror, he felt something climbing up the back of his throat. He held the handkerchief in front of his mouth with a trembling hand and suddenly, whatever it was broke free and landed in the white fabric. 

Holmes scrambled for the lamp and turned up the gas.

He blinked down at the handkerchief. Thinking that perhaps he was somehow still half asleep, he blinked again. Then he rubbed at his eyes. 

There was no mistaking it - sat innocently in the white folds of his handkerchief lay a small, spittle-coated white flower.

He stared at it, dumbfounded, and the flower stared back.

He had coughed up a flower. When he had brushed his teeth over an hour ago, he had not been aware of any flowers in his mouth, or his throat. He had not been anywhere with an abundance of flowers within the last week, and besides, this flower looked fresh. He was fairly certain that if he had inhaled a flower recently, he would have known about it instantly. 

Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. It was his own axiom, but in that moment he was having a hard time believing it. 

This flower had come from his lungs. 

He was vaguely aware of something in the back of his mind, the familiar, niggling feeling of a long forgotten snippet of information waiting to be remembered. He set the handkerchief and flower on his bedside table and scrambled out of bed. 

Watson kept his medical texts in the living room, should Holmes need them for a case, a fact that Holmes was very grateful for in that moment as he didn’t particularly want to wake his friend in the middle of the night. No, he couldn’t involve Watson in this until he was completely sure of what was going on.

He turned up the gas lamps and scanned the many tomes and pamphlets on the shelf. This being Watson’s shelf, it was a lot neater than his own, and all the spines clearly displayed their titles. 

He pulled numerous volumes on disease down from the shelves and settled himself cross legged on the floor with the books strewn around him. He flipped through volume after volume, finding pages upon pages on the common cold, influenza, cholera… but nothing that resembled his plight. 

Holmes huffed with irritation; it appeared whatever ailed him was rare - rare enough that he was unable to find anything in Watson’s limited library, anyhow. He would have to go to the bookshop or the library in the morning. 

He slipped the books back on the shelves. In his haste he had forgotten to note which book came from what shelf, and so had to deduce their homes based on the dust-patterns on the shelves.

With that done, he was exhausted. He returned to bed but slept fitfully whilst coughs ravaged his body.

He awoke with the dawn, but he did not feel well rested. On the contrary, he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. 

Five white flowers now sat upon his bedside table, all as fresh as if they had just been plucked from their stems in the meadows. He picked one up between thumb and forefinger and examined it from all angles; he ran his finger tips across in a curious caress of its silky soft petals. It was certainly a flower, there was no mistaking that, but he was unsure of which one. 

He was by far an expert in botany, as Watson had helpfully informed the general public with that accursed list, the only plants he was familiar with were poisonous ones. This flower was not one of them. 

He dressed quickly then poked his head out the door; all was quiet in the living room and he could hear no sounds from Watson’s bedroom, so he descended the stairs and headed out into the street to hail a cab.

The early morning streets were still relatively deserted, and as a result he was in Piccadilly within minutes. He hopped out of the cab and made his way to the biggest bookshop he could find. 

It didn’t take him long to find the medical texts; he had visited with Watson often enough for him to have memorised the route with such efficiency that he could find the shelves with his eyes closed. From there, he also knew the routes to the romance and adventure shelves respectively. He often wondered why, as he had forgotten more important things, and the information was hardly useful for him. 

After a few minutes he had located a book on rare and tropical diseases, and opened it to the table of contents.

He found it half way down the page - the name that had hovered on the edge of his conscience all night, just out of reach.

Hanahaki.

He flipped to it with such vigour that he almost tore the sturdy paper, and began to read:

Hanahaki (花吐き 花 - ‘hana’ meaning ‘flower’ and 吐き - ‘Haki’ meaning ‘to vomit’ or ‘to expel’) disease is a condition first named by Doctor Matsuda Naoki in Edo, Japan. It is an extremely rare, non-infectious disease in which the patient begins to cough up flowers which grow within the lungs. It is caused by the sufferer being a victim of a one-sided romantic love. If left untreated, the flowers within the lungs will eventually grow to such an extent that breathing shall become impossible, and the patient will suffocate. The only known cure is for the sufferer to confess their love to their enamoured and have their feelings returned. Once petals have begun to be expelled, flowers have already begun to take root in the lungs and the patient has between two weeks to three months to live.

Holmes closed the book with a sharp snap.

Hanahaki. He had heard of it before, but it was a long time ago. He had a vague memory of his old university friend Victor Trevor mentioning it in passing; it made sense - he had been studying botany. 

But what didn’t make sense was the cause - one-sided romantic love.

Holmes was not in love, he knew that for certain. He had always prided himself on his lack of romantic feeling - the softer emotions clouded the mind and biased one’s judgement, which was something that Holmes could not afford in his line of work. He had never felt a romantically attracted to anyone, and he was fairly confident that he never would. 

So why…?

Unless.

Holmes made his way to the cash register in long strides, coughing all the way. By the time he was out in the open air, he was spitting more white petals onto the pavement. 

He decided to walk home. He needed to think.

Holmes had never felt romantic love, but that wasn’t to say he couldn’t love at all. The fact was that Holmes, no matter how hard he tried to convey otherwise, was filled with so much love that sometimes it ached.

He loved his mother. Or perhaps, more accurately, the memory of his mother. She had died when he was five years old, too young to completely understand the concept of death, and so her memory had haunted his life like a spectre. Even so, he held the limited memories he had of her close to his heart. 

He was sure that she had been a kind, affectionate woman. His earliest memory was of being held in her arms as they both watched the bees buzz about the lavender plants at the bottom of the garden.

His last memory of her was one he actively tried to forget, but it haunted his dreams despite his best efforts.

He loved his brother, too. For a long time Mycroft was the only other person who understood him, for his mind worked in a similar way to his own. When Mycroft wasn’t at school, he would sit in their home library with him. When Holmes was very small, Mycroft would read to him, but as he learnt to read himself, they would sit on opposite armchairs and read in silence. Not much had changed over the years, for most of the time they spent in each others company was in the enforced silence of the Diogenes Club. It was one of the things Holmes valued most highly, though he would never admit it, least of all to his brother. He didn’t have to. 

He found that, over the years, he had grown to love Mrs Hudson. That had been unexpected, but Mrs Hudson was an incredibly kind and dependable woman; he could always rely on her, and she was able to keep a level head in a crisis. She had even assisted him with cases in the past - no-one ever suspected their elderly, stern landlady. He had initially chosen to live with her not merely on the account of the affordable rent, but also because she didn’t ask questions. 

She also fussed over him in a motherly sort of way. He supposed, as he had been a boy raised without a mothers gentle guidance, he was doomed to feel a deep affection for her from the start.

And then there was Watson.

Watson. What was there to say about Watson?

Holmes had known Watson was different from the moment he met him. Holmes had been so caught up in the success of his haemoglobin experiment that he was hardly in the state of mind to control his emotions, to smooth out his mask and become the perfect English gentleman society demanded he be. He could hardly stop himself from being consumed by overwhelming glee, from grabbing a perfect strangers hand and tugging him toward the catalyst of his joy.

And Watson, wonderful Watson, had not begrudged him for this, like many men would. He seemed genuinely interested in his work, asked questions, and seemed to look upon Holmes with awe. It was so different to the reactions Holmes had grown to expect in those days. He was still relatively young then, he had not had the time or experiences needed to perfect his social skills, and even though he was able to don the costume of the perfect English gentleman, it was a tight and uncomfortable fit.

Despite this, Watson was filled with curiosity. It was understandable, Holmes had reasoned then, his entire life had just crumbled to ruin. Two gunshot wounds sustained in a foreign land with nothing gained but a measly army pension and indescribable trauma, and that was before the typhoid fever ravaged him. Watson had been a broken man when they had met, of course he had latched onto Holmes.

But Holmes hadn’t expected to latch onto Watson in return. 

As Watson healed, changed and grew ever stronger, he did not abandon Holmes. When he attained his own patients and medical practice, he still stayed by Holmes’s side, despite the fact that he now posed the means to live well enough on his own.

Furthermore, it didn’t matter how many times Holmes explained the thought process it took to arrive at a conclusion, Watson reacted with that same awe every time. Holmes certainly hadn’t expected that.

Even after Holmes could no longer hold up the act of the perfect gentleman in Watson’s company, he still stayed. Even when he indulged in excess amounts of cocaine or morphine, Watson would berate him, but he would be there to do so. Even when Holmes made a mess of the living room and scattered his papers about, Watson would grumble and bully him into picking them up, but he remained. When Holmes was in the midst of a black mood, when he didn’t wash or eat for days, when he let loose a barrage of words he didn’t mean, Watson would still be there, day after day.

And there was even more still. The more time Holmes spent in Watson’s company, the more Holmes began to appreciate Watson not for what he brought to Holmes’s life, be that personal or professional, but for Watson himself. 

Watson was brave, courageous and sympathetic. Watson was kind, caring and compassionate. Watson was endlessly curious and interested in the world around him. Watson’s eyes were endless seas of expression, his laugh better than any melody Mendelssohn or Bach could ever hope to produce. Watson exuded safety and tranquility even when he was merely sat in front of the fire with one of his adventure novels, sipping upon cheap brandy and smoking a foul smelling cigar. 

Holmes loved Watson. He loved everything about Watson. There was no argument there; Holmes was a talented liar, but denying he loved Watson would be like denying the sky was blue. 

But was he in love with Watson?

Holmes had never thought himself capable of romantic love or carnal desire. It was a foreign concept to him; a language he had never been able to crack. He could observe it and understand it from the outside - love and desire made people do illogical things, it could topple kingdoms and build them anew. But he could never empathise with it.

This ‘deficiency’, as others may call it, had never bothered him. Why should he want to marry when it was of no interest for him whatsoever? It would be a miserable existence to force himself to conform to something he knew wasn’t right for him.

But what separated romantic love from platonic love? And which did he feel for Watson?

Did he want to kiss Watson? To hold him and embrace him? If Holmes was being completely honest with himself, he did, but not in the manner of lovers. On occasion, the thought to drop a quick, appreciative kiss to Watson’s cheek had possessed him, but he did not want to kiss him on the lips. In fact, the idea of kissing someone deeply, in the manner of a lover, repelled and disgusted him, even if that someone was Watson.

The two of them often walked about arm in arm, and on occasions in which they were pressed together in a hansom or narrow hiding spot, Holmes had often wanted to press himself impossibly closer. It was an odd thing, as for his entire life, he had been adverse to touch. During his childhood, he could only stand to be touched by his brother, as somehow, Mycroft had perfected a way of touching him that didn’t make him want to crawl out of his skin. At times where Watson had touched him, they had been fleeting, professional touches, but pleasant nonetheless. He had often caught himself gazing at Watson’s strong arms and thinking how nice it would be to be held by him.

As for carnal pleasures… Holmes was completely repulsed at the thought. He held no ill will toward any men with a preference for their own sex, or women, for that matter; but it was not for him. Any of it.

Holmes found himself nearing the turning for Baker Street, but made the last minute discussion to veer toward Regents Park. He still had much to ponder.

Hanahaki, as his book had stated, appeared to be a disease caused by romantic feelings specifically. Holmes was almost completely certain that what he felt for Watson was not romantic in nature. It was strong, yes, and just as influential as romantic love could be, but it was not so.

Holmes sighed, frustrated, and balled his hands into fists within his coat pockets. The bite of his fingernails against the soft flesh of his palm was grounding. 

This was inconvenient to put it mildly. He was not one to confront personal issues head on. On the contrary, he was the type to completely bury personal or emotional problems under work, or when that proved ineffective, multiple syringes filled with morphine. He would suppress it until the problem went away or he was confronted with a new one.  

He would have to deal with this particular issue, though. He had no choice - it was that, or die. 

After awhile, Holmes decided it was time to head home. The decision was mostly dictated by the flowers that filled his clean handkerchief. 

He was exhausted.

He stood at the bottom of their seventeen steps and stared up at them in a mute despair. They had never seemed so steep before.

He steeled himself with a deep breath, which quickly dissolved into a fit of coughing. Perhaps he should have taken the hansom home after all.

Ascending the stairs was a struggle; he clung to the banister like a lifeline and had to rest at the landing between both flights, but he made it. He stopped to catch his breath at the top, and only when his breathing evened out did he even think about entering the living room. 

It was a good job he did too, for when he opened the living room door he saw Watson was waiting for him at his writing desk, his legs crossed over the knee, his arms folded and wearing a frown at a cross between annoyed and concerned. Holmes was vaguely reminded of being sent to his fathers office as a boy with his tail between his legs after being discovered to have broken something priceless.

“I told you last night that you were to rest,” Watson said in greeting. 

“I am fine.”

“I heard you coughing during the night, and it took you far too long to regain your breath after climbing the stairs. You are not fine, Holmes.”

Of course he had noticed. Watson was hardly as dim as he portrayed himself to be in his writings. Holmes couldn’t argue with him; his doctor was right as usual. 

“I had an errand to run—”

Watson cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “An errand that was so important that you couldn’t send the boy to do it for you?”

Holmes clutched the paper-wrapped book tighter within his arms. He wasn’t one to cower before of a scolding, but the revelations of the morning and the flowers growing in his lungs had subdued him somewhat. Besides, Watson could be extremely assertive when he wanted to be. Holmes was easily reminded of the soldier his friend had once been.

Unfortunately, it did nothing to quell the love that sat heavy in his heart.

“Well,” Holmes sniffed, “I shall retire to my room if that so pleases you, doctor.”

“It would,” Watson said with an air of satisfied superiority. It was a rare occasion to win one over on Sherlock Holmes, so Holmes let him have his satisfaction with gritted teeth. “But you would do well to take some breakfast with you; you need to eat to keep your strength up.”

As he spoke, he gestured to the breakfast table where a dish sat in Holmes’s customary seat, covered by a cloche. Holmes’s stomach rolled at the mere thought of food, but he was too tired to argue further.

His plate was laden with a couple of slices of toast, scrambled eggs and several rashers of bacon. Mrs Hudson’s cooking was superior, but the salivating smell of breakfast instead caused nausea to curl in the pit of his gut. He compromised by taking a single slice of toast, poured himself a lukewarm cup of tea and retried to his room without so much as a backward glance.

He took a few bites of his toast, but it only exacerbated the sick feeling.

With his meagre breakfast abandoned on his bedside table, he took up the book once more. He read through the remaining paragraphs on Hanahaki with trepidation. 

'Red roses are the most common flower to be expelled, though other flowers have been reported, such as red tulips and forget-me-nots. The roses’ association with Hanahaki lead it to become the flower most associated with romance.’

Holmes frowned at the little white flowers on his bedside table. He may have a feeble knowledge of botany, but he knew what a rose looked like. The flowers he had been coughing were no roses, nor tulips or forget-me-nots.

He may not know flowers were, but he knew how he could find out.

He scooped the flowers up within his handkerchief and exited his room via the door to the corridor. Watson was hard at work, pouring over a manuscript in the living room, and was unlikely to notice Holmes’s absence. 

During the majority of the year, their rooms at Baker Street were often filled with cheerful blooms. Every spare surface would at one point find themselves adorned with a vase with freshly cut market flowers sitting within them. 

This was, of course, Mrs Hudson’s doing. The lady adored flowers and would buy them whenever she saw them. In his more impish moods, Holmes theorised this was where the majority of their rent money was spent. 

Her birthday also conveniently fell in the middle of spring, when bountiful bouquets were at their most abundant. Both Holmes and Watson had made it their habit to buy her one on the day.

Holmes very rarely found himself in Mrs Hudson’s quarter of the house. Whenever he was in need of his landlady’s services, he would simply ring the bell, or catch her when she was delivering a pot of tea. He could hardly summon her for this, however. 

He tapped lightly at the kitchen door, and waited until he heard her responding call to push the door open. 

The good woman was sat at the kitchen table, polishing the silver. She looked up with surprise as he entered. 

“Why, good morning sir!” she greeted, setting down the knife she was polishing. “Is there something you require?”

“Yes,” He offered her his most charming smile and lay his handkerchief down on the kitchen table. “Since you are the flower fancier of the household, I thought it best to ask you to identify these flowers for me.”

“Oh, is this for a case?” Excitement coloured her voice as she peered over the flowers. Mrs Hudson had always reacted with poorly suppressed glee whenever Holmes asked her to assist him in his work. He never gave her any truly dangerous jobs, just little tasks that could be completed behind the scenes. 

“You could say that, yes.”

“Why, these are Baby’s Breath,” she exclaimed, “What dear little flowers.” Holmes didn’t have to warn her not to touch them; she was cleverer than she looked. 

“Baby’s Breath,” Holmes repeated as he retrieved his bundle from the table. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

“What does it mean?” she asked, “Was someone given these?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Mrs Hudson motioned for him to wait, and she disappeared into her own personal rooms. She reappeared moments later with a small book in hand. 

“Perhaps this will be of help,” she said, handing him the book. 

The cover was a smooth green, and was adorned with an oil painting of a vase of flowers. In a graceful hand, the title stated ‘The Language of Flowers’. 

Holmes had no idea whether the language of flowers would adhere with Hanahaki disease, but it was an avenue that there would be no harm in exploring. 

“Thank you again.”

She smiled, “Just leave it on the sideboard when you’re finished with it.”

After braving the stairs for a second time that day (and severely regretting doing so) he returned to his room and settled back down on the bed. Both the second ascent up the stairs and the flowers in his lungs leeching off his energy had served to make merely sitting up a draining task, so he piled his pillows against the headboard and leant back in an attempt to make himself comfortable. 

He opened the book and quickly located the page on Baby’s Breath.

Baby’s Breath symbolises sincerity, purity, and love in many forms. It also sometimes symbolises innocence, everlasting love.

Love in many forms. The passage certainly accurately described how he felt for Watson, but did the flowers expelled by the sufferer correlate to the sufferers feelings? Roses were, apparently, only associated with romance due to their connection with Hanahaki, but could the species of flower vary in order to correlate with the sufferers feelings?

He looked back to his book on diseases and frowned. Hanahaki was listed as a disease caused by romance. Baby’s breath flowers did not necessarily denote romance. 

One thing was clear: he needed more information. 

Upon consulting his commonplace books, he was able to find a doctor specialising in rare diseases - a Doctor Yates of Kensington. Holmes hastily scribbled a note requesting an appointment and called the page to take it down to the postbox. 

He could only hope he would receive a quick reply.  

It was two days before the reply would come, and in that time Holmes’s condition grew steadily worse.

He was practically bound to their upstairs rooms; venturing downstairs to take in the evening newspapers proved to be a mistake when he had to face ascending the stairs once again, and even walking the short distance from his bedroom to the breakfast table winded him. 

Watson had, of course, noticed his decline. He had prescribed him strict bedrest and piled him with lozenges and bitter cough syrups, neither of which did any good.

Holmes was coughing up even more flowers now, to the point where they were becoming difficult to hide. He somehow succeeded by wrapping them in handkerchiefs, stuffing them in his pillow case, and even hiding them in the toe of the other Persian slipper, which had finally been christened with a purpose. It was only a matter of time before Watson would notice them. He wasn’t blind.

He was unable to do little else but think. Until he was able to speak to Doctor Yates, he only had one hope of survival - to tell Watson of his feelings, and to have them reciprocated. This was, Holmes concluded, next to impossible. 

Holmes was well aware of the affections that his friend held for the fairer sex, and he was also well aware these same affections extended to their own. Watson had never said anything explicit on the matter, but he had alluded to relations with men when on his travels, as men in the army are wont to do, though these military habits had continued long into retirement. From what Holmes could gather, Watson had never had a serious romance with another man, but he was unmistakably attracted to them. Why risk his freedoms if he wasn't?

Holmes only had to observe Watson’s reactions when talking to a handsome gentleman - they were almost the same as when he spoke to a beautiful woman, but kept on a tighter leash and unobservable to anyone but him. 

Herein lay the problem - the relationships Watson held with these men and women were carnal. Holmes’s work took him everywhere, and as a result he had been in enough brothels and the back rooms of gentleman’s clubs to be familiar with what they smelt like. Watson would often return from an evening out with these smells clinging to his skin and clothes, with the occasional addition of a perfume or aftershave. 

Holmes would not be able to offer Watson these carnal encounters, and therefore, a relationship with Watson would be impossible.

Only speaking to Doctor Yates held the hope of a different solution. 

As soon as Mrs Hudson delivered the morning post, Holmes was upon the many envelopes, tossing Watson’s aside and searching for a Kensington postmark with bated breath. 

There! He found it at the bottom of the pile, and he dropped his other correspondence to the floor with little care. Using his breakfast knife, he slit the top of the envelope and eagerly unfolded the heavy paper within. 

Mr Holmes it read.

I would be happy to answer your enquiries regarding Hanahaki disease. Please call upon me at my home at midday tomorrow (Thursday), I will be in my office. 

Regards, 

Doctor Harold Yates.

Holmes glanced at the clock - it was ten a.m., he had two hours before he was due to meet the doctor. 

Still, he could not wait that long. After consuming enough of his breakfast to waive Watson’s wrath, he returned to his room to dress. 

Suddenly, dressing required the most amount of energy he had ever exerted in his life. His arms were so heavy he could barely lift them to pull his undershirt over his head, and buttons were another challenge entirely.  

But somehow, he managed. He stepped out into the hallway to retrieve his hat and coat.

“Where are you going?” Watson’s voice sounded from the breakfast table, and Holmes bit back a curse - he did not account for the fact that the door to the living room may be open. A careless mistake, and one telling of his current condition. 

“I have an appointment,” Holmes said. He tipped his hat onto his head and resolutely did not look at Watson.

“You’re not well enough,” he didn’t have to be looking in Watson’s direction to know that he had his hands on his hips and was wearing his best disapproving frown, the frown that he reserved only for Holmes.

“It’s important.”

“Then I’ll come with you,”

“No.” Holmes didn’t mean to look up, and he wished he hadn’t. Watson looked hurt, though he was obviously trying very hard to mask the emotion. It made his heart clench with guilt.

“Holmes.”

“I am going to see my brother!” Holmes exclaimed suddenly; he hoped the lie wasn’t too obvious. He was a good actor, but the more time he spent in Watson’s presence, the more he could tell Watson was getting better at reading him. That, and it was growing ever harder to focus on anything else other than the growing ache in his chest. “Surely I can be trusted to do that by myself.”

Watson stared him down for a few moments more before he deflated with defeat. His hands fell limply at his sides and he wore a sore expression.

“Fine,” he said, “But you must promise me that if you find yourself in trouble, you send me a wire straight away.”

“As you wish,” Holmes said, before he backed out of the room.

Doctor Yates lived in a large white villa in Kensington. Luckily for Holmes, the driver pulled up right outside the steps that led to the house.

These steps, while not very steep, were troublesome, and Holmes had to stop to collect his breath before he knocked on the door.

It was answered by a young maid with a plain, neutral expression which did not shift when she saw Holmes, which Holmes took to mean that he did not look as sick as he felt, which was a great relief. 

“I am here to see Doctor Yates,” he informed her, and his voice only held the slightest croak. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

She gestured for him to step inside. “I will inform the doctor that you’re here.”

He could only hope that the doctor would not mind the fact that he was over half an hour early, but he only had to wait in the narrow corridor for less than a minute before the maid escorted him into Doctor Yates’s consulting room. The room faced the back garden, light poured in the large windows, illuminating the large room and its towering bookshelves, overflowing with heavy volumes. Doctor Yates sat at his mahogany desk in the centre of the room, its surface piled high with papers.

Doctor Yates himself was an unremarkable looking gentleman of about forty. He did not stand to greet Holmes, and instead waved Holmes to sit on the narrow, straight backed chair before the desk. 

“Mr Holmes,” he said in greeting, “Your letter said that you wished to discuss Hanahaki disease?”

He cut straight to the point, which Holmes appreciated. For one reason or another, Holmes had felt his nerves jump with every moment leading up to this encounter, and he did not want to prolong his suffering by being forced to make pointless small talk. He was doubtful his lungs would survive the strain. “That is correct, yes.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, in which he had gathered the flowers from his various hiding places throughout his rooms. He opened it and gently tipped some of the blooms out onto the surface of the desk. 

“I began to cough these up a little over a week ago,” he explained, “I had a cough for approximately two weeks before this, and began to feel short of breath.”

Doctor Yates donned a nickel pince-nez and took a pair of tweezers in hand. Using these, he gently lifted a flower from the desk and peered at it with a criticising gaze. “Fascinating,” he murmured, “These are Baby’s Breath.”

“Yes. According to my research, roses are the flowers most commonly expelled. Have you ever encountered a case in which Baby’s Breath were expelled?”

Yates examined the flowers with awe. He rotated his wrist to view them from all possible angles. “I admit, I haven’t.” 

“According the to the language of flowers, Baby’s Breath represents a pure love. Which brings me to my main point: I do not feel romantic love.”

Doctor Yates’s eyes snapped from the flower to Holmes’s face, his gaze penetrating. He carefully lowered the flower back to the desktop, rested his elbows on the desk and rested his chin upon his interlinked fingers. “Indeed?”

“Indeed. Of course, my research is limited but again, I have come across no instance in which a Hanahaki sufferer has caught this disease without also suffering romantic feelings. I wondered if you had come across such a case within your studies?” 

Doctor Yates eyed him with suspicion. He sat back in his chair. “Mr Holmes, Hanahaki is a disease caused by as of yet unreciprocated romantic feelings. It is the very basis for the disease, I would say that it is impossible for a feeling of platonic love could cause it, or any other type of love for that matter.”

“Yes, in cases documented so far, but I can assure you that what I feel is not romance,” Holmes argued. 

The doctor released a harsh, barking laugh that had Holmes’s stomach twisting in annoyance. “But you must! If you have Hanahaki, you must be in love.”

“I am not,” it took every ounce of self control to ensure that he did not snap. “In love platonically perhaps, but-”

“Platonically!” Yates laughed openly at that. “Surely you must be mistaken.”

“See here,” Holmes picked up one of the blooms and held it in front of Yates’s face. “Baby’s Breath signifies innocent and pure love, also other forms of love that are not romance.”

Yates sighed, “You forget that romantic love can be innocent and pure,” he said with a pungent air of self-importance. 

“I understand that, however-”

Yates held up a palm to silence him, and Holmes bristled with annoyance. “Have you ever been in love before, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes stopped short, words dying at the back of his throat. “No,” he admitted. 

Doctor Yates spread his palms, as if the matter was the simplest thing in the universe. It made Holmes seethe internally. “There you are, then. A first love is a very innocent thing.” 

Holmes stared at the man, dumbfounded. Then he deflated with a sigh. He was not going to be listened to; he could argue with this man all day, but he would never see Holmes’s point of view. He would never be believed. 

It was futile. 

“All I can advice you to do is to confess to the young lady,” Yates continued, “That is the only chance you have. You’re a young man of higher standing; I am sure she will accept your feelings and this will all be a bad dream.”

Young lady.

Holmes burned with the urge to correct him, but knew better of it. Despite the insistence that his feelings were of deep platonic love, professing strong affections for a man would be enough to sully his reputation forever. Perhaps Yates would see it fit to confine him to an asylum. No, he would have to let this go.

Holmes stood and regarded Yates cooly. “Thank you for your help,” he said, and stalked out of the door.

He was surely doomed, he thought dully, as he stared down at yet another bloom. How could such a pretty, innocent thing be the messenger of his impending demise?

God was truly a cruel fiend. 

There was nothing left to be done; Holmes was rarely such a pessimist - he had persevered with cases that seemed impossible, to the point where he had run his iron constitution into the ground, and despite everything, he had been able to succeed. But he also knew when he was beaten. 

It was time to get his affairs in order, he decided, and hailed a cab to Pall Mall. 

His brother did not like to be consulted without an appointment; Mycroft was intractable when it came to his schedule - he liked to plan his days down to the last detail to ensure he had plenty of time to laze around the Diogenes Club like a giant house cat. Holmes could only hope his brother would make an exception for him in this dire circumstance.

He tried to keep his spluttering to a minimum whilst in the cab, lest the cabbie believe he had some sort of infectious disease and kick him to the curb. He was in no shape to be walking across London, especially as the smogs hung thick in the air. 

Luckily, he arrived at the Diogenes without incident, and the cabbie only gave him a disapproving look as he paid his fare. 

When he entered his brothers office, he was greeted with a sight of Mycroft’s great head buried in a book of numbers. He did not look up as Holmes entered. 

“What’s wrong, then?” His brother’s irritated voice greeted him as he shut the great volume with more force than was perhaps necessary. “You know I prefer for you to make an appointment.”

“I’m dying, Mycroft.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Holmes had succeeded in surprising his brother. Mycroft froze and turned to face him.

Holmes felt his brothers analytical gaze scanning him intently, and whatever he found in Holmes’s expression must have confirmed that this was no practical joke, not that he was ever in the habit of making any.

“Your lungs, then.” It was an easy deduction to make, for Holmes felt his lungs tremble with every consecutive breath. Mycroft leant back heavily in his chair, and waved Sherlock to sit in the one opposite. “What is the diagnosis?” 

“Have you heard of Hanahaki disease?”

“I have heard the name, but I admit that I am not familiar with it.” 

Holmes quickly provided his brother with a summary, and Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

“You surprise me, Sherlock. I was under the assumption that you were as completely apathetic to the softer emotions as I.”

“Your assumption would be correct,” Holmes huffed and slumped back in his chair, “I could not be more certain that these feelings are not romantic in nature.”

Mycroft did not try to argue with him as Yates did. One thing Holmes's appreciated about his brother was that he took his words as gospel, unless he was able to observe evidence to the contrary. “Regardless, you must tell the doctor how you feel.”

Holmes let out a hollow, humourless laugh. Of course Mycroft knew. 

Since their introduction a few years prior, Watson and Mycroft had gotten along surprisingly well. Perhaps it shouldn't have been so, as Watson was so genteel that he got along well with almost anyone. Watson had begun to accompany him in the majority of Holmes’s excursions to visit his brother, and Mycroft had evidently observed him in Watson’s company more than enough times to accurately deduce Holmes’s feelings before Holmes himself. Mycroft had always been quicker than him. 

“It wouldn’t do any good. If, on the slim chance he holds any tender feeling for me, his feelings will not compliment my own. Watson would not be content with the only type of relationship I can offer; he will want more, and I wouldn’t be able to give that to him.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Sherlock, you must. It is your only chance.”

“I will not.”

“Sherlock, this is no time to be stubborn!” 

The room rang with Mycroft’s sudden, booming shout and Holmes flinched at the outburst; it had been a long time since he had had he heard him speak with such emotion in his voice.

Mycroft seemed to be regretting his momentary lapse of control, for his head drooped and he stared at his entwined hands resting on the desktop.

It was a while before he spoke again.

“I assume that you have consulted a specialist.”

“Yes, but he was no good. He was of the opinion that I was confused and that what I am feeling is in fact romantic love. I doubt I was there for longer than fifteen minutes.”

Mycroft grimaced, “These specialists have an irritating habit of blinding themselves toward any fact that does not fit what he already knows,” he sighed. 

“Evidently. I have come to the conclusion that nothing can be done for me. I came to ensure that my affairs are in order.”

Mycroft regarded him with a look that resembled a exasperated glare, his fingers folded on the desk in front of him. It was a look that Holmes was very used to - he had been on the receiving end of it enough times during childhood - but eventually Mycroft relented with a heavy sigh. 

“I still have your Will,” he said at last. He opened a draw to his left, and after a moments rummaging, pulled out a large envelope and set it on the table between them. “I assume you have no desire to change it?”

“No,” Holmes confirmed. It was here that he dissolved into a sudden bout of coughing, one that had Mycroft’s brow creased in a subtle expression of worry as Holmes spat a bloom into his handkerchief. Holmes folded away into his breast pocket as if nothing had happened. 

“Watson may refuse it, of course,” he continued. His voice caught and he had to clear his throat. “You must insist.”

“I’ll be firm,” Mycroft assured. 

“Good,” Holmes stood, slowly and whilst using the arm of the chair to guide his way. Despite his care, the movement had triggered a small dizzy spell, which he ignored. Once straightened, he nodded at his brother. “Well then, Mycroft. Take care.”

“Take care, brother mine.”

Holmes turned to leave, his strides shorter than before. Mycroft would undoubtably notice. 

“And Sherlock?”

Holmes turned, fingers on the door handle.

Mycroft was smiling at him in that sad, fond way that he did when faced with his little brothers suffering. He had not seen that look in some years, and his chest tightened at the sight.

“Yes?”

“Trust in your doctor,” Mycroft said softly. 

Holmes swallowed heavily, and left the room without another word. 

He staggered from the hansom to the door of 221b Baker Street and fell against it gasping for breath. His hands were trembling so violently that he almost dropped his key multiple times, and he could hardly insert it into the lock. 

The stairs loomed above him, and all Holmes wanted to do was crumple to the floor in a heap. 

But he didn’t want to die in the cold, impersonal hallway. He had always said that, if he had a choice, he would like to die in the midst of a case, perhaps fighting a great villain. Only after he had won the fight, of course. 

That was impossible now, so he decided to go with his second option: at home, surrounded by the wonderful life he and Watson had created together. 

It was that thought that propelled him up the first flight of stairs.

As he rounded the landing, he looked up the final flight to see Watson standing at the top, staring down at him like a great mountain’s summit, so far away yet just within reach. 

Holmes stubbornly averted his gaze, then started his final ascent. His lung burned with the exertion and his legs were heavy with the lack of oxygen. He stumbled sideways and his shoulder slammed into the wall. He was far too exhausted to muffle the cry that ripped from his throat.

Suddenly, Watson was at his side. His arm was tugged over the good doctor’s shoulder and Watson bore most of his weight.

“I have you, my boy,” Watson murmured into his ear, all earlier disapproval had melted from his voice. Despite the fact that Holmes was at that moment focusing on not toppling to a heap on the floor, the sound of his dearest friends voice so close elected a shiver. “Not far to go now.”

He was gasping for breath by the time they reached the top of the stairs, and Holmes was unable to stop himself falling to his knees. Watson went with him, an arm around his waist to control his decent. 

And then the coughing started anew. Great, heaving hacks that had Holmes doubled over above the carpet. Watson patted his back as he struggled for breath and tears blurred his vision.

It was over as suddenly as it started, and a whole pink flower sat innocently on the carpet.

Well. That certainly complicated matters.

“Holmes,” Watson breathed, his voice heavy was disbelief. “Did you just… cough up that flower?” 

Holmes closed his eyes in despair, gasping for breath. There was no way he could continue to hide this from Watson now.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes rasped. “Have you ever heard of Hanahaki disease?” 

Watson said nothing; a silence that spoke volumes.

Filled with a morbid curiosity, Holmes picked the flower from the floor with trembling fingers. 

This certainly wasn’t a Baby’s Breath flower. It was much bigger, for a start, almost perfectly spherical and coloured a sweet baby pink. It was much rounder and softer in its angles than a rose, but its petals were layered in much the same way. 

It’s pink petals were also spotted with scarlet blood.

“It’s a pink camellia.” Watson provided, his tone grave. “Holmes. How long has this been going on?”

Holmes closed his eyes. It was as if his body were being tugged down by a mighty anchor, and he was slowly sinking into a great ocean. “Would you be a good fellow and help me to bed?” he asked.

Watson, the dear man, nodded immediately. He helped Holmes from the floor and he once again bore the majority of Holmes’s weight with no complaint, and together they staggered into Holmes’s bedroom. 

Holmes fell to the sheets with a relieved sigh, which triggered another round of spluttering. He rolled onto his side to brace himself against the mattress, and he was distantly aware of Watson removing his shoes for him. 

As soon as the fit subsided, Watson asked, “You coughed these up previously?”

Holmes looked up to see Watson standing at his bedside table, staring down at the cluster of Baby’s Breath flowers he had expelled that very morning. 

Holmes smiled bitterly. “Yes. As you can see, a new flower has joined the mix.” Holmes reached out to drop the camellia to the pile. It made a pretty pyramid.

“Then you know what you must do?”

Holmes gathered his courage and met Watson’s eyes. They were wide and fearful, a look Holmes hated to see on his dear friend, but behind that there was also a hint of steely Watsonian determination. 

“What’s that then?” he asked innocently.

“Confess!” Watson exclaimed, “Tell me who it is, Holmes, and I shall bring them here at once.”

Holmes smiled sadly and dropped his gaze. “I am afraid it is not that simple.”

“Why?” Watson demanded, his tone growing evermore desperate. “Holmes, you must tell me who it is. Are you afraid I will think less of you?”

“It’s not that-”

“Whether they are rich or poor, statesman or servant, man or a woman, it doesn’t matter in the least to me. You will always remain my dearest friend.”

Oh, Watson. 

Holmes swallowed the sudden, heavy wave of emotion that engulfed him. 

“It’s not that simple,” he repeated hoarsely, then curled up on the bed with his back to his friend.

He was much, much worse the next day.

He could hardly breathe, and he could almost feel the fluttering of the flowers petals against the walls of his lungs every time he struggled through an inhale. Each bloom that he coughed up was stained red with splatters of blood. 

Watson, bless him, tried all he could to help, but there was very little that he could do. He encouraged Holmes to take small sips of water between fits, and thumped at his back in attempt to dislodge the flowers, but still Holmes suffered. 

“You have to confess,” Watson said quietly as Holmes lay curled on his side in bed as he recovered from the latest wave of coughing. “You are dying, Holmes.”

He was well aware of that. “I can’t,” Holmes rasped. 

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Watson sighed and buried his face in his hands. “Holmes,” he said, his voice muffled by his palms, “You have two to three days at the most, you understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” 

“Then why?"

Holmes had no energy left to say anything, so he didn’t. He wouldn’t have been able to if he’d even wanted to, for he immediately began to hack again.

“You said I wouldn’t understand,” Watson began as the fit subsided.  “Make me understand, Holmes. Explain it to me.”

Perhaps there was no harm in explaining now; he would die either way.

Holmes took a deep breath, and mercifully did not begin coughing anew. He stared resolutely at the celing, his vision swimming.

“It is love,” he pressed, “It is love, I know what love is, what it feels like. But it is not romantic love, nor is there any carnal desire. 

“This person… I would give my life for this person, I adore them with everything within me. I love everything about them - their courage, their kindness, their curiosity, their smile… I trust this person with my entire being, and yet the mere idea of romance or intimate relations with them repulses me. Instead I only wish for physical intimacy, innocent touches, to hold and be held, I yearn for our souls to be one.

“I wish to be committed to this person forever, to remain by their side through everything and more. But I cannot ask for such a thing. How could I? How could I ask them to give up romantic caresses and carnal pleasures - what everyone else naturally desires - for a committed partnership without these things? It is selfish.”

He dissolved into yet more great, shaking coughs that had him doubled over. He clutched his aching ribs and heaved as another camellia tumbled past his lips to land on the blanket.

Holmes fell back against the pillows and gasped for breath. His lungs felt so heavy, as if the roots that wrapped around his flesh were thick and wooden, that creaked with every pitiful inhale.

Watson sat unmoving on the bed, his hands folded in his lap, staring at the camellia with an unreadable expression. Holmes’s heart ached to see it, and he closed his eyes. 

“I am incapable of romantic love, Watson,” he murmured, “And I might die because of it.”

The silence that befell them was heavy and oppressive, not even the distant sounds of horses hooves against cobblestones and the crackling of the fire could do anything to relieve it.

“Who is it, Holmes?” Watson asked, his voice low, “Please. Please tell me.”

Holmes cracked his eyes open, a feeling of mute despair filled him when he saw his vision was beginning to fail him - Watson was no more than a blurry haze above him, his blond hair dissolved into a halo around his head.

“You, my dear Watson,” he finally croaked. 

After his confession left his lips, his ears were filled by an intense ringing. 

Was this it, then? Death? 

Holmes had often heard it said that those on the brink of death are suddenly filled with a feeling of overwhelming peace. There is no more fear, just a feeling of true, indescribable tranquility. 

Holmes had never believed it until he experienced it himself. 

He felt himself floating, and then being enveloped within strong arms, and his nostrils were filled with the scent of Watson.

Watson was holding him, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other around his shoulders, his hand supporting the back of his skull and pressing his forehead into Watson’s shoulder.

Not dead, then, but Holmes had no idea what to make of this.

“Watson?” He would not have recognised his voice if he hadn’t felt each syllable grate against his ruined throat. His voice was hoarse, and he sounded so small and uncertain. He had no idea what to think; was this pity? A way of softening the blow of rejection and impending doom? “Watson, please—”

“Oh, Holmes.” Watson gasped against his ear, his voice thick with emotion. Holmes felt something warm and wet drip into his hair. “Oh, Holmes.”

Holmes sat there, with Watson taking the entirety of his weight, unable to think. 

Watson pulled away to cup Holmes’s face in both of his hands. It was an awkward position, as Holmes was still completely reliant on Watson to hold his weight. Watson’s eyes were red and wet, and Holmes’s heart stuttered in his chest.

This was it - he was about to be rejected with the reason for his reluctance staring him directly in the face. 

The last thing he had wanted to do was upset Watson, but it had happened, and it was likely to be the last thing Holmes would ever see. 

Then Watson smiled.

“Holmes,” he breathed, “I have been in love with you since the day we met.” 

His raspy breaths stopped as he processed this information.

Holmes stared at him, dumbfounded. “What?” he croaked. 

“I wasn’t going to say anything because I knew your nature. I knew you would never be interested in me, and that was fine - I accepted this years ago. Just being by your side was enough.”

Holmes’s jaw dropped open. He braced himself on Watson’s shoulders to push himself into a sitting position. His core ached with the effort of it, but he needed to see his Watson properly. 

“You are… in love with me,” he said slowly. 

Watson hadn’t let go of Holmes’s face, but one arm wrapped around his waist to support him whilst he caressed his cheek with his thumb. “Yes.”

Holmes hadn’t expected this. It had been an outcome he had considered, yes, but only because he had to consider every eventuality. He hadn’t expected it to actually happen. 

“Romantically?” 

Watson nodded. “But that’s ok,” he added hurriedly, “I don’t mind that you can’t return my exact feelings. It is a joy and a privilege merely to help you, to be by your side… That is enough for me. And to know you feel similar… Well,” he beamed, and another tear slipped down his cheek. “Holmes, I could not be happier.”

Before he could think about what he was doing, Holmes’s hand shot out to wipe that tear away. 

“But I don’t want a romantic relationship,” Holmes argued quietly, “As you said, it is not my nature. I would never be able to give that to you. Watson, you shouldn’t settle for me, you would never be satisfied.” 

A look of annoyance crossed Watson’s face, and his grip on his waist tightened. 

“Don’t you tell me what I should or shouldn't do, Sherlock Holmes,” he snapped, “I love you, no one else. What would dissatisfy me would be leaving you for someone else who could fulfil my needs, because that someone wouldn’t be you,” he shook Holmes slightly for emphasis. 

“I want to be with you forever, I want to commit to you. If I can never kiss you or lie with you, then so be it, so long as I can stay by your side. I love you.”

Holmes was distantly aware that he probably looked quite stupid, gawping at Watson as he was. He simply didn’t know what to say. 

“And besides, if you did love me romantically, you wouldn’t be the Holmes that I fell in love with, would you?” Watson reasoned. 

“I… suppose not.” Holmes mumbled.

“There you are then,” Watson’s smile was back, and Holmes basked in it. “Well then, Holmes, what do you say?”

“What do I say?”

“Will you have me?”

Holmes’s eyes welled with tears, and he quickly fell back against Watson’s shoulder in an attempt to hide them. He was not very successful, for he was immediately betrayed by the sob that clawed its way out of his ruined throat. 

“Yes,” he gasped into Watson’s jacket. “Yes, of course I will have you.”

Watson’s arms were back around him, holding him impossibly close. This time, Holmes returned the hug, squeezing Watson to him as hard as his weak arms would allow. 

They had never hugged before, Holmes realised, and he was glad of it. Their first hug was one charged with emotion, full of meaning and the start of a new life together. It held as much weight as a first kiss.

Holmes buried his nose in the crook of Watson’s neck and inhaled deeply. The scent of Watson’s favourite tobacco, clean cotton and ink filled his nostrils and Holmes drifted in it, completely surrounded by Watson. Finally, truly his Watson. 

He inhaled again, desperate to fill his lungs with the scent of him —

“Watson!”

“What?” Watson’s voice was tinged with alarm, and he took Holmes’s shoulders to push him away and look into his face, his gaze searching.

Holmes hardly dared believe it. He pressed his palm to his chest and took a deep breath. Oxygen flooded his system, and with it, elation.

“I can breathe,” he gasped and turned to face his friend, who was looking at him with an expression of disbelief. “I can breathe!”

Watson’s face lit up like a firework in the night. He let out a bark of laughter and pulled Holmes into his arms once more. This time, Holmes immediately threw his arms around Watson’s neck. Never before had the unique blend of tobacco, cotton and ink smelt so wonderful. 

His elation was cut short, however, when he felt that all-too familiar tickle at the back of his throat. He pulled back suddenly to hack into his elbow. 

The all-too familiar sensation of a flower hurtling up his trachea.

A Baby’s Breath flower landed on the blanket between them, and Holmes’s heart sank.

It hadn’t worked. He had confessed, but the flowers remained. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough for Watson…

He despaired… until he noticed that this flower was not the same as the hundreds of others that had proceeded it. Instead of a bright white, vibrant bloom, this flower had curled into itself as if threatened. Where it had once perhaps been a pure white, it was now brown and mottled with decay. 

Watson picked up the flower and examined it, then he laughed. 

“You may be cured, my dear boy, but your lungs are still filled with flowers,” he said as he reached over to the bedside table to deposit the shrivelled bloom among its perfect counterparts. “They can’t live in your lungs forever, they must go somewhere.”

Holmes was once again flooded with relief, and he sagged with it, his forehead dropping once more to Watson’s shoulder. He found he quite liked to rest his head here, and rejoiced with the realisation that perhaps now he could do it whenever he wished. 

“You love me,” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You really love me.”

Watson chuckled into the side of Holmes’s head. “I really love you,” he affirmed. “However I am in awe of the fact that you love me.”

“How could I not?” It was Holmes’s turn to cup Watson’s face now. He needed Watson to hear him, believe him. “Watson, my dear Watson, you are fantastic! There is no man quite like you - you are the only one in all of England, nay, the empire. Perhaps the entire world.”

Watson laughed, his eyes crinkled at the corners with happiness in the way Holmes so adored. 

“You should remain in bed until you cough up all the flowers, just to be safe,” Watson continued, “The cough will likely persist for some time - you shouldn’t put any extra strain on yourself.”

Holmes huffed. Despite the lingering exhaustion, he felt a lot better. It was amazing just how little time had passed between being at deaths door to feeling almost fighting fit. “It sounds terribly boring.”

Watson chuckled. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll keep you company.”

Watson was true to his word. After leaving to don more comfortable clothing and collect one of his yellow-backed adventure novels, he was back at Holmes’s side. 

Holmes dozed for the next few hours, held in that dreamy state between wakefulness and sleep. When Watson began to idly massage Holmes’s scalp, he fought to stay conscious just so he could bask in Watson’s sweet attentions, but it was not to be. Watson’s soothing ministrations put him straight to sleep.

He awoke as the afternoon crept toward dusk, and Watson was still next to him. He sat by Holmes’s head, reading his book by the soft gaslight. 

Holmes groaned and rolled toward him. In his sleep-addled state, he didn’t consider the consequences of burying his face into Watson’s hip and throwing a possessive arm across his lap.

Luckily, Watson didn’t seem to mind. He chuckled happily and resumed his stroking of Holmes’s hair. He hadn’t had his hair played with since he was a very small boy, and he decided that he liked it immensely. It felt divine.

They were silent for a while as Holmes dragged himself back into the land of the living, and Watson continued reading, the turning of his pages a soothing rustle in the quiet room. 

“We should probably talk about this further,” Holmes said at last. 

“Yes, we probably should.” Watson agreed. He closed his book and set it on the bedside table. 

Still, Watson said nothing, so Holmes took the lead. “What do you wish to gain out of our… ah. Our relationship.”

He extracted his face from Watson’s hip to peer at his face, and saw his friend was wearing a giddy grin. 

“As I said before, being by your side is enough for me,” he helped Holmes wiggle upright and lean his back against the headboard. They now sat shoulder to shoulder, just as they had done many times before. “I think it’s best if you make your boundaries known and we’ll go from there. I’ll assume that hair-petting gets the go-ahead.”

Watson’s tone was teasing and Holmes flushed. 

“Well, I’m comfortable with physical affections,” Holmes said. He didn’t look at Watson as he spoke, and in his peripheral vision he could see Watson smirking, the blackguard. “I have always found I craved physical affection - hugs and friendly pats and such - but I have always shied away from being touched.”

Watson’s smirk furrowed into a frown of confusion. Holmes had always appreciated just how expressive Watson was; it was very easy to know where to stand with him. “How so?”

“Touch has never really felt right to me,” Holmes shrugged. “It has always made my skin crawl. But you… While you don’t touch me often, somehow you have always known how.”

“You’re not just saying that to spare my feelings are you?”

Holmes shrugged again, “Why would I? What would that achieve? When have I ever endeavoured to spare your feelings?”

Watson chuckled. “That’s true. But I don’t think I’ve ever touched you in a different fashion to how I would touch a patient or another close friend of mine. Perhaps you’re just more comfortable with me?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Holmes hummed, “There are only two other people I can bare touch from, and that is my brother and Mrs Hudson.”

“It’s a very elite club, then,” Watson smiled, and Holmes mirrored it unconsciously. “So, can I hold you?”

Holmes huffed and slumped against Watson’s side. “If you wish,” he said as he rested his head on Watson’s shoulder.

Watson chuckled again; these chuckles emitted in the lowlight of Holmes’s bedroom were no different to others he had heard in the past, but the intimacy of the situation gave them an entirely new sound. Holmes vowed to continue encouraging Watson to laugh in this manner for as long as they both lived.

With his heart in his throat, he reached out for Watson’s free hand, which was resting on his lap. He pressed their palms together and entwined their fingers. Watson’s palm was warm against his cold flesh, a warmth that was only amplified by Watson’s fingers enclosing around his.

Holmes started down at their entwined hands. He was pale, paler than usual thanks to the illness, and his skin was snow compared to the bronzed tan of Watson’s skin, a remaining token of his army days. When Holmes rotated their conjoined hands, he admired the light, golden hairs just above Watson’s wrist. 

Watson’s hand was smaller than his, his fingers stouter, but much broader than his with a thicker layer of protective fat over the bones that stood out much too clearly on Holmes’s own. They were rough from callouses and repeated hand-washing, but retained a delicate touch that Holmes felt privileged to be on the receiving end of. 

“Perhaps…” Holmes recalled his waking moments, how he rejoiced to find Watson still at his side. He wondered what it would be like to wake up tucked up next to him, under the same blankets, sharing body heat during the long winter nights. “Perhaps we could even share the same bed on occasion.”

Watson rested his head on top of Holmes’s own, and began to caress the back of Holmes’s hand with his thumb. “That sounds wonderful,” he murmured. 

They settled into a comfortable silence for a while, and Holmes could feel himself begin to doze off again. But there was still something weighing on his mind. 

“I wouldn’t think any less of you if you were to visit brothels from time to time,” he muttered. Saying the words out loud felt like an insult to his dear Watson, but he couldn’t let the matter go. “I would hate to feel like I’m depriving you of a need.”

Watson said nothing for a few minutes, and Holmes was beginning to feel like he had overstepped some sort of boundary before Watson spoke again. “I want to commit myself to you entirely,” Watson said quietly. “My… urges are not as they used to be. I am sure I can live without.”

“I have never felt the desire to lie with another, and so I cannot empathise with that feeling, I can only rely on accounts I have read,” Holmes said. “I have read that for most men, restraining themselves from partaking in carnal pleasure is a considerable feat. Many fail. I wouldn’t want to put you in that situation.”

Watson squeezed his hand. “Thank you for your consideration,” he said, “But I should like to try. If I can’t resist… Well. We’ll consider that should the time come. I’d like to think I’ll be just fine with the intimacy you are comfortable with.”

“If you say so,” Holmes conceded with a sigh. 

“Can I ask something from you?” Watson asked. 

Holmes tilted his head and hummed an inquiry. 

“May I call you Sherlock on occasion?” 

Holmes found himself smiling, and he settled back onto Watson’s shoulder. “I never liked my name,” he admitted, “But I have to admit that it sounds wonderful in your voice.”

“Really? I think it’s a beautiful name. Unusual, just like you,” Watson smiled fondly into the distance. “It has a wonderful sound to it - Sherlock,” then, his smile turned bashful. “I have always enjoyed saying it. I’d always look for an excuse.”

That he did. There had been many occassions in which Watson had reffered to him by his full name, quite unnecessarily. Holmes had accepted it long ago as one of Watson's unique quirks.

“I like your name,” Holmes countered, “John is a very strong name.”

“It’s horribly common.”

“Maybe, but it suits you.” 

Watson turned his smile to face him. “Are you comfortable with kisses?” he asked, rather suddenly. 

Holmes had to think about it for a moment. “I think… yes. So long as it’s not on the lips. Perhaps a quick peck would be alright, but….”

“Understood,” Watson said, then pressed his lips to Holmes’s temple. The kiss was long and drawn out and Holmes’s stomach fluttered at the contact. Finally, Watson pulled away. “Alright?” he asked.

“Yes. Quite alright.” He was grinning like a fool.

“Good.” Watson shifted so he could take Holmes’s face in both hands, then began to press kisses all over Holmes’s face. From his forehead to his cheek, to the tip of his nose and the centre of his chin. 

The actions were so unexpected that Holmes found himself laughing. That, and Watson’s moustache tickled. “Watson!” he spluttered as his friend continued his assault. 

“What? Would you like me to stop?” Watson asked between kisses. He, too, was wearing a wide grin, one that told of unspeakable happiness. 

He didn’t, so Holmes said nothing.

It took a number of days for Holmes to cough up the remaining flowers, all brown and shrivelled by the time he was able to spit them past his lips. It didn’t matter much to him, however; it took a while for him to recover his strength after God only knew how long of the flowers sapping his very life force.

He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be, and coughing the shrivelled, dead flowers was much easier than coughing the full, live ones.

And Watson remained at his side the entire time.

“What would you say to a spot of afternoon tea with my brother?” Holmes asked after an entire day free from flower petals making an unwanted appearance. He was still tired, but his lungs felt lighter than they had in a long time. 

Watson glanced up from the book he was reading. They were lying in bed, pressed together hip to hip. Even though Holmes was on the mend, neither of them were in any hurry for Watson to return to his own room. Holmes was surprised by just how natural sharing a bed with Watson felt. “Do you feel up to it?”

“I am more than capable of a short ride in a hansom, yes,” Holmes was reminded of the events that occured just one week ago, where he had snapped an approximation of the same words toward his dear doctor. He had been convinced he was at deaths door at that time; now he felt light with the knowledge of his future with Watson at his side. “And the last time I saw him, I gave the impression that I wasn’t long for this world.”

“Well then,” Watson said with the smile that made Holmes’s heart swell with affection, “We had better pay him a visit.”

The next morning, Holmes sent his brother a telegram forewarning him of their visit, and received a reply less than an hour later with the confirmation that Mycroft would meet them that afternoon in the Strangers Room of the Diogenes Club.

“Sherlock, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft greeted them jovially upon their entrance to the room. He sat at a tea table just big enough for three, the cake stand piled high with an assortment of sandwiches. Sherlock nodded politely as his brother, whilst Watson outright beamed. “Sit down, my dears.”

They did not discuss Holmes’s illness, and Holmes was glad of it, for he was more than keen to put those days behind him and look forward into this new, exciting future.

A quick glance at Watson, and Watson’s answering smile told him that his partner felt much the same. 

All in all, they spent a little over an hour in Mycroft’s company. Holmes and Watson drained their teacups and stood to leave. 

“Oh, and before you go,” Mycroft added as the doorman was summoned to show them out. Holmes and Watson turned to face him again with questioning glances. “If either of you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to contact me.”

“What did he mean by that?” Watson asked once they were walking along the streets of Whitehall once again. “I would have thought you already contacted him whenever you needed anything.”

Holmes smiled softly. “I believe that was my brothers subtle way of telling us that he supports our relationship.”

Watson’s jaw went slack. “He knows?”

“How can he not? I’m alive, after all.” Holmes’s slipped his hand into the crook of Watson’s elbow, and Watson patted it absent-mindedly. “Mycroft knew the nature of my regard for you before even I did.” 

“If he had simply told you about your feelings, he could have saved you a whole world of hurt,” Watson joked.

“Perhaps. But Mycroft has always been my mentor; he would never tell me anything I could work out for myself.”

“True enough,” Watson smiled as they ambled down the street. “And it all worked out for the best in the end.”

Holmes beamed. “Indeed, my dear doctor. And now! Tchaikovsky is playing at the Royal Albert Hall in one hour; I believe we should still be able to obtain seats. What do you say?”

Watson’s expression took on one that spoke of deep affection, and Holmes suspected his looked much the same. “How could I possibly refuse?”

They set off for Kensington arm in arm, just like they had done for years. This commonplace, everyday action now held so much more meaning, and Holmes found himself smiling as he squeezed Watson’s arm affectionately.