I do not own Sherlock (BBC series). Minor spoilers for season 3. This work was not edited, so sorry if there are any mistakes. Thanks for reading!

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"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"Can I- uh- ask your opinion about something?" John frowned as Sherlock prodded a hairy black something with a fork.

"On what?" Sherlock asked, keeping his eyes trained on the- the whatever it was.

John sat back and cleared his throat. "Well. Valentine's Day is coming up, and-"

"I'm sorry, what?" Sherlock looked up. "What did you just say?"

John sighed. "Valentine's Day? It's the holiday when you give presents to the people you care about-"

"Oh, yes. The one with the hearts and chocolate." Sherlock waved the fork at John from across the table.

"Yeah, that's right. Anyways, it's coming up and I need a gift."

"What do you need a gift for?" Sherlock squinted at the specimen through plastic goggles.

"For Mary?" John said, as though it was obvious. Which, it was. Really. "My wife? Its normal for people to get their wives gifts on Valentine's Day, Sherlock."

"Is it?" Sherlock sounded bored.

"Yes. It is. The problem is, though, I don't know what to get her."

John folded his hands on the kitchen table and waited. A minute passed and there was no response.

"Sherlock?" John probed.

Sherlock let out a long breath. "Does it really matter that much? You get Mary gifts all the time."

"But Valentine's Day is special," John insisted. "And I've got to make up for-" He stopped short.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's face. "Make up for what?"

John winced. "For…last year's Valentine's Day."

"What happened last year?"

"You don't remember." It wasn't a question.

"No. Of course not. I barely know what month it is, let alone if it's a holiday or not."

"Right." John really didn't want to talk about it, but Sherlock would eventually get the information one way or another. "Last year, you had just come back a few months earlier and I promised Mary we would have a special night, just the two of us."

"So?" Sherlock grabbed a jar of green liquid and carefully dribbled some of it on the specimen.

John coughed as smoke filled the air. "So, that same night you called me with some big case you needed advice on. You said it was urgent, I had to come immediately and so I left Mary alone-"

"- at the restaurant," Sherlock finished for him. He smiled fondly at John. "I remember now; that was a fun case. Bloody hearts everywhere. Can't imagine Mary was too happy with you after you left her though."

"Well, no. Not exactly. She did let me go with you-"

"Let you go?" Sherlock scoffed. "What are you, her pet?"

"-but now I owe it to her to make this Valentine's Day better," John finished. He pointedly ignored the whole 'pet' comment. He wasn't Mary's pet; he was her husband. There was a difference, no matter what Sherlock said.

"You think a gift will make up for last year." Sherlock pulled off the goggles, stood up and walked over to the counter.

"It should help a bit, yeah." John watched Sherlock rummage around. He wished Sherlock wouldn't run experiments in the kitchen where food was supposed to go. Sherlock never ate much food at the flat anyways, but still.

"Do you have any ideas?" John asked when Sherlock returned, brown bag in hand.

Sherlock opened the bag. "Why ask me? I'm hardly an expert in the area of romance." He pulled out a dead rat.

John gagged at the smell and covered his nose. "What the hell, Sherlock?!"

"What?" Sherlock blinked at John, then the rat. "Oh. Sorry." He put the rat back into the bag and kicked it under his chair.

"It's for an experiment," he unnecessarily informed John.

"Yeah, I got that." John wrinkled his nose. He knew better than to ask about Sherlock's experiments. His friend had a bad habit of explaining too much at times.

"Look, John, I don't know what to tell you." Sherlock tugged off his gloves and let them land on the table. "Buy her a nice bouquet of her favorite flowers or something."

"I already did that last year," John said with a groan.

"Of course you did," Sherlock muttered and John's head snapped up.

"What?"

"Nothing. Um." Sherlock glanced around the room. "How about…"

John turned in his chair as Sherlock walked into the living room, moving towards the fireplace. What was he doing?

"-this?" Sherlock faced John with the skull in hand.

A short bark of laughter escaped John before he could stop himself. "What- Sherlock- no. No. I can't give my wife a skull-"

"Why not?" Sherlock turned the skull over in his hands. "It's a very personal gift, I assure you. Isn't that the idea? To give the person of your affections an object with some sort of meaningful value?"

"Well, yes. But I don't think a skull is appropriate for me to give her. Can you imagine that with a red bow on it?" He jerked his head at the skull.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Hm. Don't see why not."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock-"

"You were the one who asked for my help," Sherlock reminded him and placed the skull back on the fireplace. "Not the other way around."

"I know." John chewed the inside of his cheek.

Sherlock sat back in front of John and examined him over clasped hands. "You're really worried about his, aren't you?"

"I want her to know what she means to me," John confessed.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and said gently, "What does she mean to you, John?"

"Mary?" John chuckled slightly. "Mary is- she's everything to me. After you- well, you know-"

Sherlock nodded quickly and gestured for John to continue.

"- she was the first and only thing in the world that seemed real to me, at the time. She was this, this sun that gave off a warmth and love I couldn't feel for the longest time. Even now, she's my light. She's my savior. She reminded me life is more than just the- the bad parts. And I want to be there for her, always, the same way she was for me."

John swallowed thickly. Mary was better than any person he ever imaged spending the rest of his life with.

Sherlock was quiet. Unusually quiet. Then he said, "Write it down."

John stared. "What?"

"Write. It. Down." Sherlock pulled a pen out of his pocket and gave it to John, who took it numbly.

"Write her a love letter," Sherlock said. "And give it to her on Valentine's Day. That's what they do in those pointless movies you watch, yes? Take her to the same restaurant as last year- or even a better one- and give her the letter. Buy her some more flowers, or something. I don't know."

His chair scraped on the floor as he stood up but John was too busy gaping at the pen to notice. Why hadn't he thought of this?

"Sherlock?" he called out.

"Hm?" came the hum from the couch in the living room.

"Have I ever told you that you're a genius?"

"Frequently. But it's nice to hear, none the less."