This is my my first try at writing about retired Sherlock and John, you know, with the cottage in the countryside with bees and flowers in a garden. I imagine they got married when Sherlock hit forty, so he's sixty-one here and John five/six years older (not older than Mycroft at least). This is fluffy and not at all angsty and it was an idea that flew into my head which I had to write after some research. Enjoy and please review!

A rose in our garden

Sherlock presented the blossoming rose to his husband with great pride, and perhaps a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Wow. What an incredible rose. One of the prettiest in this garden. Are you happy with what came in your package last autumn?" John commented as Sherlock placed a hand on the small of his back and guided him closer.

"Do you smell it? It has a very strong fragrance. And it attracts bees," Sherlock beamed. He was delighted by the neat result of his hard work. He took John's left hand gently and moved it towards the blossom, glad that he had managed to make the plant grow so tall that his husband wouldn't have to bend so far and get back pains. John was after all a bit older than the still lithe detective.

One pale finger stroked John's wedding ring occasionally as Sherlock whispered into his ear, "Touch the petals."

He heard John inhale and watched him extend his arm until a thin, purple leaf fitted between his sensitive surgeon thumb and index finger. A joyous gasp escaped John.

"So smooth! This is definitely smoother than the others in the garden."

Sherlock hummed in content at John's reaction. "The surface of the petal has been described as velvety. Like your thighs around my waist last night."

"Sherlock! It's the middle of the day and we're looking at a beautiful flower. Stop mentioning last night!" John said in a scandalized tone but the smile that brought out handsome wrinkles around his mouth and beside his eyes spoke only of amusement. Sherlock dipped down and rested his chin on John's shoulder before sliding his hand over John's and feeling the rose himself.

"This is the most perfect rose I have ever secured. The rounded shape of the furred bud before it blooms, its resistance against infections, the hues of dark violet bordering on vermilion. It's very old, too. From the 1850's."

"I thought you didn't concern yourself with trivia."

Sherlock's free arm wound itself around the doctor's waist, seemingly to keep him warm but really to hug his husband to him. And John was pliant enough to allow him to press his slender body into his.

"This isn't trivia. These are important details I mean to keep in my head forever."

John's right hand came up and lightly held onto Sherlock's wrist that lay against the stomach. "Well, the colour does remind me of your blasted tight purple shirt that hides nothing when it comes to your torso," John growled playfully, maybe a bit warningly since he was territorial about Sherlock and knew how the greying, tall man still attracted heaps of men and women.

"Who is obsessed with last night now, my little pervert," Sherlock mumbled affectionally and John turned his face to the side and they shared a short but loving kiss. Then John broke away and looked down at the rose again.

"Tell me more about it. What's it called, Sherlock?"

Sherlock kept his embrace steady around his husband and revealed in a clear voice with his heart beating anxiously, "The rose was created in 1854 by the skillful French hybridizer Jean Laffay outside Paris. Now, he can be called obsessed with purple because he spent most of his life breeding purple roses. The name he gave this rose is Capitaine John Ingram."

The two men stood silent but the nature around them kept buzzing, moving, working in the warmth of summer. John tightened his grip around Sherlock's arm and the ever observant, attentive detective studied how he clenched his jaw and the small tremble in the lovely lips.


The doctor had his eyes fixed on the rose right in front of him and his Adam's apple quivered, though not from excitement like last night in the dark. Sherlock smiled softly and nuzzled John's neck. "John."

"What the fuck did you say, Sherlock?"

While John's voice held a stern tint, his husband of twenty-one years was able to detect the unashamed shock and incomprehension.

"Captain John. Laffay named the rose after a soldier in the British army. It was one of the last roses Laffay created before he died in 1856. But he had had so much time to become experienced and so, this rose is often described as a first-class specimen. It's hardy, healthy, and strong. The fragrance is pleasant, the colour is striking, and the blossom is magnificent. It's perfection and I tended to the plant with great care and love so it could bloom like it does."

Sherlock stepped to John's side and lifted the doctor's chin as he took in the tears that trickled down the now flustering cheeks. John gave an audible sniffle and looked at Sherlock with glassy eyes.

"John. My John. I love you with all my heart."

"And people actually believe you can't be romantic," John let out with a thick voice and let Sherlock wipe away the wetness with his thumbs. Then the doctor whispered, only for Sherlock to hear, "You are the best man I've ever known and I love you, too. You've tended to me since the first day we met. Thank you."

John gave a laugh and shrugged slightly, as if embarrassed by his moved emotion but then he gazed at the blossom again. "It seems like a bonus that this rose, my rose," he corrected, "is purple which sort of is the colour I associate with you. So in a way, I'm glad that a part of you is inside John."

Sherlock brightened and caressed John's arms in reassuring strokes before stepping closer and turning his voice huskier, his stance seductive and his eyes intense.

"Just what you said last night," he murmured and saw arousal flood John's senses at once.

"Sherlock, I…" John stuttered feebly before yielding to the roaring fire of lust that had been ignited and opened his mouth for Sherlock to plunder it. And Sherlock took what had been offered and with one last glance at the best rose in their garden, he moaned and tugged John with him inside the cottage to make love, even if it was the middle of the day.

So, now that you know the big thing in this story, you simply must google Rose Capitaine John Ingram and watch the pictures because that rose is so beautiful. I thought; what if there's a rose with John's name or something, but I never imagined there would be one so fitting for him, with both the name, the characteristics and the colour of Sherlock, basically! And then the story practically wrote itself with its great, original plot. And by the way, people above middle age are sexually active and there's nothing wrong with that. Especially for Sherlock and John, he he :) What did you think? Review if you are kind.