It was a usual Thursday morning in London - the echoing footsteps on hard concrete pavements, the gloomy, drizzly weather and the occasional vehicle blundering noisily down the street.
Sherlock stood where he always stood, by the cash register, waiting for customers to show. He'd occasionally check up on the flowers, whether the water needed changing and what not. But other than that, he'd stay by the cash register and wait, calculative cerulean watching the tangible activity moving past the streets.
And, as always, the bell would ring and the door would swing open, and his gaze would always instinctually glance his customer over, his engine of a brain processing the facts within mere minutes, his customer's personal life now untangled for his mind's eye to see. Most often than not, his deductions when said aloud, would put his customers off. Something to do with invading their privacy, apparently. Put them off, yes, but never enough for them to actually leave empty handed.
Sherlock Holmes was too gifted a florist to be passed up, even if he did spew insults like they were water. He'd only begun to start growing fond of the horrified looks and snide remarks - always sent his way as people left his shop with beautiful bouquets full of variegated flowers in their hands - when he met John Watson.
And then things went terrifyingly wrong.