The first rays of dawn barely peeked through the gap in the curtains at 221B Baker Street, but you were still lost in the comforting depths of sleep. The other side of your bed was, as usual, empty. Sherlock was an early riser, his mind always buzzing with a thousand thoughts that couldn't wait for the sun to properly wake. You burrowed deeper under the duvet, intending to catch a few more precious minutes of rest. Then, a gentle pressure touched your forehead, a soft, fleeting kiss that barely registered before it was gone. You mumbled and grumbled, never a morning person, and you reluctantly opened your eyes.

You sat up, blinking against the dim light, and there he was, Sherlock, standing at the edge of the bed. He was impeccably dressed in his best suit, a sleek, all-black ensemble that you had always secretly adored. In his hands, he held a large bouquet of your favorite flowers and nestled among the blossoms was a card, its edges crisp and clean. A surprised warmth spread through your chest, an unexpected rush of affection that took you by surprise. You hadn't expected him to remember, not really. Sherlock was famously oblivious to social conventions and dates, his mind perpetually consumed by cases and puzzles that seemed to absorb every ounce of his attention.

He was the aloof, emotionless man the world knew him as, incapable of grand declarations of love, his affections hidden beneath layers of logic and deduction. You were used to it, understood it, did not expect it, and it was something you never minded. But here he was, this brilliant, enigmatic man, standing before you with flowers and a card, every detail meticulously chosen. It was your one-year dating anniversary, a fact you had thought might go unnoticed in the labyrinth of Sherlock's mind. A soft smile touched your lips, a silent appreciation for this man who, in his own way, was capable of extraordinary displays of thoughtfulness. Even if those displays were disguised in the guise of his own peculiar personality.