Can you guess the little Easter egg?

Little Irregular Things

Within six months of Sherlock's…death John Watson was torn between thinking someone was playing a cruel joke on him and just starting to think, just starting to hope that maybe, Sherlock could still be alive. It had started only a few days after the funeral, little things just showing up out of nowhere, things not where he left them. It wasn't till about a month after the fall that John started to get worried…and paranoid.

Cups wouldn't be where he put them, some put away or taken out entirely. Papers spread haphazardly on chairs and tables. Even the fingers in the fridge(don't ask why they were still there) ended up in the microwave once. He knew it couldn't be Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft had no reason to be this subtle. He had entertained the idea that he was sleepwalking before striking that from list.

He had thought about talking to Lestrade about possibly having a stalker. It was the only thing he could think of to explain what was going on. But then he started to actually look, like Sherlock would, and he found that all things had a connection. Everything had a connection with Sherlock. If it weren't for the fact Moriarty was dead he would think this another sick game of his.

He would get postcards from all around London and a few from Baskerville, brochures from museums and menus from places they'd eat including Angelo's. Figurines and stuffed animals started popping up a month and a half in along with the rumors; Games pieces, hounds, bank notes, pink balls and phone covers. The rumors were nothing bad at first but there was whispered talk of graffiti taggers going crazy in the underground and such.

Two months in he started finding notes in his pockets along with other tiny babbles. Quotes from books and magazines and newspapers, from poetry and philosophy and mystery and sience. They always seemed to fit his moods. Ones to calm him down when he was angry and make him, well maybe not happy but better when he was sad. Ones to encourage and inspire when he felt doubt. It was then the taggers started hitting more public places.

When he had first seen the reports he hadn't known whether to gape or to laugh. The phrases 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' and 'Moriarty was Real' were popping up any place that could be found, in bright yellow spray paint. That was also the day he got a deerstalker hat in the mail. He had stared, half-wanting to throw it out in a rage half-wanting to keep it desperately. It ended up stuffed away in the back of the closet.

After that nothing changed until a three and a half months in. The first sign was him coming home to a book about pirates proudly displayed on top of his laptop. The notes and reminders of past cases became more spaced out. In their place came new odds and ends and notes. They could be mundane or exotic and completely random things. He was seriously considering talking to Lestrade now when Mycroft finally came for a visit.

The visit was short and to the point but when he got up to leave John stopped him. He asked in they did vacation in Edinburgh when they were little and if Sherlock ever tried to blow up a squirrel. Mycroft had snorted and replied yes before stepping out the door. When John was sure he was gone he stood and opened one of the kitchen drawers.

He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the two newest scraps of paper before adding them to the growing stash in the drawer (each written by different hands). Written on them were the exact things he just asked Mycroft. That meant they were real. That meant all the other things on the other notes might be true too. They might be about Sherlock.

Four months in he found a package at the door to 221B with a decorative sugar bowl inside with writing on it that read 'It's not in the sugar'.

Five months in it was a package of jam with no return address and nothing more than an 'I find this to be rather enjoyable with tea and scones'. He researched it and found it to be a slightly expensive brand from a shop in north England. He didn't touch it for a month (he remembered the sugar bowl) before finally having enough and telling Mrs. Hudson to check on him every hour. It turned out to taste rather good and nothing happened to him.

Now six months in and John sat in a café and thought on what he was going to do. If this was some kind of joke or trick he wanted it to end. If it was real…if it was real he wasn't sure what he would do about it. Sherlock was many things but he wouldn't do something like this without a reason and so help him if it wasn't a good one he would find out what John Watson could do when angry.

His thoughts were interrupted by the chirping of the Raina's phone nearby. She was waitress at this café that he'd gotten to know quite well. She and John would sit and talk about minor things like her college classes and what her husband and her brothers had gotten up to. She also had a keychain that proudly bore the words 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'. He saw her glance at it before going back to the crossword she was doing.

He let his thoughts drift again until she came and set a plate of pie in front of him. At his look she only shook her head and said it was the last piece before Arion baked the next one and that it was on the house. As she walked away he picked up a fork to begin when a small scrap of gray paper sticking out from the bottom of the plate made him freeze. He cast a glance at her but she gave nothing away.

He looked around conspicuously next before digging in. As discreetly as he could he slipped the paper into his jacket pocket before continuing on like nothing happened. Better safe than sorry. A few more minutes before he's paying the bill and saying goodbye and trying not to look like he's rushing home. Not a half an hour later he's sitting in his chair with his mind in racing and one scrap of paper before him.

He doesn't know why but he knows that this is different, different from everything, that it will change everything. He wants his mind made up before he starts, he knows this step forward he'll take either believing or not. A minute more and he reaches for it. He'll wait he's decided, in this flat and with this cane, he might not like it but he knows he can't chase him. So he'll wait for a text or footfalls up the stairs and a brilliant man to come home.

Later that night when John is asleep with that piece of paper clutched tight, the door to the flat will quietly open and a figure will step in without a sound. They'll move silently into the kitchen and leave the gift they we sent to give. They'll quietly slip out and the flat will be still till morning. John will come down and find a bouquet of balsamine, almond, bellflower, celandine, iris, ivy, oak, and lemon blossom. A quick check and the message is understood.

He'll smile and start a cup of tea amid the babbles and objects gathered in the last months. He'll grab a marker and circle one date on the calendar a few pages ahead of the current date. The bouquet will sit on the kitchen table till John finds a vase for it, the scrap of paper laid across it with the writing facing up and reading,

'On the anniversary of our beginning you'll find me at my end.'