(A/N): This is kind of different for me. I hope you enjoy it. Comments and con crit are, as usual, more than welcome. I'm always working on improving my craft.
...
...
April
"John."
"Yes, Sherlock?"
They are in the sitting room, Sherlock draped upon the sofa in his customary thinking position, John curled in his chair with a steaming mug of PG Tips. Sunlight floods the room, adding a trace of something cosmic to John's eyes. Sherlock stares for several heartbeats, then glances away, ambivalent.
"I've been thinking."
"Oh?"
"We're old."
The perpetual furrow just above John's brow deepens. "Getting there, perhaps. But I wouldn't go so far as to say that we are old right now. Our joints aren't riddled with arthritis. We can make it up the stairs without much discomfort. When we ride the Tube no one offers up their seat."
"Yet," Sherlock observes.
John sighs and puts the creased newsprint aside. "What are you saying?"
"Let's get out of here."
"Here?" His flatmate looks bemused. "Here as in Baker Street? London? England? What exactly are you suggesting?"
"London." Sherlock scowls and brings his fingertips together beneath his chin. "I cannot stand it anymore."
He means precisely the opposite.
John knows this, they both know this. Sherlock loves London with the same strange and zealous fervor as ever. The mad, rushing maelstroms of human traffic and frantic activity, the volcanic symphony of sight, sound, odor, touch, taste, the ferment of crime and justice—it suits him right down to the ground and always has.
It has, at least, until now.
"I've got an idea of where we might go," the consulting madman continues.
"Tell me."
"Sussex."
John makes a little sound of disbelief. "Whatever for?"
"Bees, John."
"Sorry?"
"We'll go to Sussex and keep bees and ignore the locals and solve a few domestic murders on the side—"
"Oh, domestic murders, lovely," John breathes, sarcastic—
"—And it will be quiet and I will be able to think."
"Be that as it may, don't you think this is a bit preposterous? Us, leave London?"
Sherlock rolls onto his side and studies John, eyes flicking from the ash coloured hair with its infrequent threads of honey, to the veins twisting and knotting over the callused fingers, to the sunshiney little crinkles at the outer corners of each eye. "Don't you want something new?" he wheedles, knowing full well that John Watson will not easily be able to resist such a proposition.
Changeable, dangerous, excitable John. Adrenaline in his blood and thrill at his core, thrashing a tempo fit to outmatch his heart.
Sherlock uses this to his advantage, and John, well. John pretends to mind.
"I suppose a change would be… good."
"It's settled, then."
"Alright."
John goes back to his paper and Sherlock watches, wondering why, after all this time, his internal organs still flutter weakly at the sight of a small man in a jumper, why his mouth goes the slightest bit dry, why his thoughts die a quiet death in the nadirs of a silver haze, washed to shore as nothing more than wreckage; fragmented, rendered useless, lying limply.
...
"Why've I got your socks in my suitcase?"
"Not enough room in mine," Sherlock explains, dismissing John's anger with a careless wave of one gloved hand.
"You bloody sod."
"I'll carry some of your medical journals, if you'd like."
"Don't bother." John grabs a leather holdall in each hand and struggles upright. A brief flicker of distress crosses his face but he schools it and gives Sherlock a long, wry look. "When we get to Sussex, I'm chucking at least half your socks in the sea."
"Fine, but mind the cashmere ones. I'm rather fond of those."
They stand for a moment, shoulder-to-shoulder, staring into their flat for the last time.
"I don't feel as unhappy as I thought I would," John says, after some time. The back of his hand brushes Sherlock's wrist. "Do you?"
"I don't know."
This seems to satisfy John, for the moment anyway, so he turns and clatters off down the seventeen steps to deposit their luggage into the waiting cab.
Sherlock rests his left cheekbone on the door frame for a moment. Then he closes the door. The click of the knob is too loud in the surrounding stillness.
He walks downstairs with a lump in his throat and gets in the cab, tells John how good it feels to be rid of the goddamn place.
"You'll stop missing it eventually," his blogger replies, and there, yes, that's it, that's why, thinks Sherlock, that's why.
.
May
.
"Shit," says John. "Shit."
Sherlock, who is lying on the ground before him in a strikingly graceless heap, is peppered with at least forty vicious stingers.
"Why the hell aren't you wearing your protective gear?"
"I forgot it," Sherlock groans, skin all ablaze.
"You forgot it?"
"Yes, John. Now can we please skip the lecture and see to removing these stings?"
John drops to his knees and begins the arduous task of flicking the angry stingers away from the afflicted area with one edge of an old oyster card. "Not very professional," he admits, "but effective."
Later, when Sherlock has been properly remedied, they sit on the little porch overlooking the sea. The sun is the only thing that breaks the stunning monotony, painting a line of flaming gold up the incalculable expanse of navy as it sinks closer to the equator.
"You're an idiot," John informs him.
"I'm old," Sherlock retorts. "My memory is not what it once was. I am becoming forgetful."
"There are worse things."
"Not to me." Sherlock takes an overlarge sip of Earl Grey and savours the way it scalds his esophagus on the way down.
John gives him a funny look. "You're more than a mind on legs, Sherlock."
"Obviously."
"You know what I mean."
A swarm of gulls swoop lazily overhead. Sherlock is silent for a moment. "The earth is tilted 23.5 degrees on its axis," he says, finally, "and its speed of revolution around the sun is 18.5 miles per second. The sun's rays reach the earth's surface obliquely and bathe it in light."
"And here I thought you didn't know anything about the solar system," John remarks. He doesn't tell Sherlock off for changing the subject.
"I didn't. But you seemed to think it was important."
"Oh," says John, simply.
.
June
.
They kiss, one day.
John comes in from the village pub, lined face flushed and merry with intoxication, and stumps over to the acid-scarred kitchen table where Sherlock is documenting the mating habits of Ethiopian fireflies.
"John, I realise you are inebriated far beyond your usual capacity but I am trying to—"
And the rest of Sherlock's sentence is swallowed by John's mouth on his, warm and wet and spicy with malt beer.
"You're a right sodding miracle," John mumbles when he pulls away.
Then he goes to his room and shuts the door.
In the morning, Sherlock's stomach is full of bees.
John comes in for breakfast, suffering a wicked hangover and remembering nothing of the events of the previous night save for a lost bet with Jarred Poncey that resulted in three shots too many.
"God, this is miserable," he grunts, settling on the sofa with a wince.
Sherlock leaves a glass of water and two paracetamol on the counter. He flees to the dunes with his notebook and does not return until nightfall.
...
Sherlock solves two murders in one week.
He and John venture inland to a posh restaurant to celebrate, ordering far too many appetizers and glasses of Sauvignon blanc, but too high on victory to care. It's only a fraction of the elation they used to feel; catching their breath in some back alley with the whole world writhing at their feet, but it's glorious just the same.
They split the bill and walk home in companionable silence, shoulders bumping.
"You know," says John, "I rather like it here."
"It's dull," Sherlock confesses.
"Peaceful."
"Tedious."
"Serene."
"Boring."
John laughs, and the way he looks at Sherlock is terrifying in its brilliance.
"Any luck with Mazie Brown?" The detective blurts, feeling utterly out of his depth.
"What are you—oh, her?" John snorts. "I'm old enough to be her father."
"Don't look it."
"Don't I?"
"No," murmurs Sherlock. "You've not changed much." But then, he is a bit biased.
"That's a comfort."
John laughs again, and Sherlock does too, just a little.
...
"Just fetch it for me, will you?"
"No."
"Damn it, Sherlock, why not?"
"You don't need it."
"Yes I bloody do!"
"You think you do. It'll only make things worse."
"You're not the one who has to walk with a fucking limp again after thirty years."
"Temporary stiffness of ligaments—"
"It's not going away, Sherlock! Fetch the ruddy cane or I'll—"
"John—"
"—forbid Molly from shipping you fresh cadavers and—"
"John."
"What?"
"It's gone, your cane is…gone."
"Sorry?"
"Well, where it is is at the bottom of the Thames, actually."
"What the hell, Sherlock?"
"You hadn't needed it for so long it seemed pointless to keep it."
"So you tossed it in a river without my consent? Christ."
"John, I'm sor—"
"The hell you are."
"It's just a cane. We'll get you a new one."
"Forget it, I'm going out."
"But—"
"Sometimes you're a fucking bastard, Sherlock."
"John—!"
John.
.
July
.
Summer by the sea is so much better than summer in London.
- A fresh breeze sweeping off the water counterbalances the heat at all times.
- One need not endure stifling cab rides when it's only a six minute stroll to the shops.
- The sky is not obscured by a noxious urban haze.
- The laid back atmosphere of the village compels John to do things he wouldn't normally.
Like take of his shirt and vest and parade about the cottage bare-chested and humming. This means Sherlock gets to see his scar.
It's a lovely thing, the gnarled flesh that glows like a brilliant star burst upon John's shoulder.
Sherlock wants to trace it with his fingertips, make a map of it beneath his touch, pay his respects to this ground zero, the wound that drew them together.
Sometimes, he feels sickeningly, obscenely grateful that John is so small (if he was bigger, after all, he would not have been shot, and then where would they be?).
.
August
.
They pick their way down to the beach.
Sherlock pokes a decaying seal corpse with a stick.
"You're mad," John says and pulls him into the frothing waves by the wrist. Sherlock does not bother to hide his grin behind a hand. The frigid water pools around his calves and leaves moisture clinging to his skin like a second, transparent epidermis.
"Beautiful," says John, gazing into the vermillion sunset.
Sherlock studies him: the blond halo of eye lashes, the slope of his nose, cobweb of lines carving themselves into his skin, the smile, wide and open.
"Yes," he agrees.
.
September
.
It rains. Sherlock trades his beloved Belstaff for an unbecoming slicker. John laughs and laughs and laughs.
Sometimes they visit the local bookstore and peruse the isles; Sherlock, for thick volumes on beekeeping, murder, and chemical inequalities; John, for ridiculously inaccurate crime novels that he'll only read when Sherlock's not around.
...
All the while the itch grows, burns, begs beneath Sherlock's skin.
"I need a cigarette," he admits, finally.
John whisks him off to a museum several miles away. It's musty, filled with exhibits of storms and shipwrecks and other seafaring calamities.
"John," breathes Sherlock, gaping at a historic 18th century etching of two pirates beheading another, "John, this is brilliant."
.
October
.
"Know what today is?" asks John, reaching past Sherlock for the blackberry jam.
"Hmm. Some trite national holiday? It's October, so let's see… Halloween?"
"Halloween isn't till the 31st, you barmy idiot."
"I deleted it to make room for last week's shopping list."
"Of course you did." John looks up, then, and what happens to his mouth is more complicated than a smile.
He's sad. Sad and something more.
"What is today, then?"
"It's twenty-six years since I got shot."
Oh. Oh.
Sherlock's brain goes offline as he stares at the ex-army doctor, organs quivering, mouth full of cotton. "Is it?" he murmurs lamely. (An idiot, he'ssuch an idiot, more so than any ordinary person ever was.)
"Yes."
"Right."
They meet eyes across the table, and, while it may only be Sherlock's imagination wickedly supplying him with details that are nothing more than a wistful mirage, it seems that John's weathered cheeks go a bit pink.
And his tongue, his clever little tongue, darts out to wet his lower lip. "Do you want to touch it?" he asks, in a voice lower, quieter than usual.
"I—yes."
Without taking his eyes off Sherlock's John removes his jumper, unbuttons the shirt beneath it, and slides it off his shoulders.
Stately, before Sherlock's eyes, lies the wound, the skin around it paler now that summer's glow has faded.
An idea strikes him and without questioning it, he swipes his thumb across the scarlet ink pad at his right and presses the thumb against John's scar.
The red makes it vivid, blazing.
"There, look," murmurs Sherlock.
John blinks at it, eyes curiously bright.
"Happy birthday," Sherlock whispers to the ruined flesh, getting to his feet and sweeping off before John can speak.
...
(Their backs are growing bent and their limbs are not so full of vigor as they once were, but it's still beautiful, what they have together, the totality of their union, it's still blind and reckless and glowing, a tumble over an infinite abyss, gunfire and screaming bullets, a single burning flare, a mad rush of thrilling terror and glory that will be their end and their beginning)
Yes, indeed.
.
November
.
"It never ends, does it," John remarks one evening, when they're sat in the living room watching telly and eating take-away Japanese.
"What doesn't?" Sherlock wants to know.
"This," replies John, eyes fixed on the rugby match, except that doesn't make any sense, and Sherlock runs his fingers along his kneecaps; first the left, then the right, thinking.
...
They are not a couple.
They brew tea for each other. Sherlock fetches John his woolly jumper when the temperature drops too far. John rubs Sherlock's foot where it aches from an excursion into some nearby hills. They take their meals together. Sherlock buys John jam without the seeds, just as he likes it. John allows Sherlock to conduct an experiment in the bathtub involving sheep's liver and turpentine. They make each other laugh at the most inappropriate moments. Sherlock teases John about his height, or lack thereof. John calls him a twat in return and makes the madman's coffee with so much sugar it virtually turns to syrup. They are an exquisitely mismatched pair of almost's and very nearly's, and they are not a couple.
Well, they are, but not in that way.
.
December
.
They drink an awful lot of tea and John insists on smothering the place in baubles and fairy lights. Sherlock, of course, puts up a terrible fuss, but John promises to buy him a disposable lancet for Christmas and, well, how can he resist that? The cottage smells perpetually of roast chicken and various spices, and John unearths a dreadful old album of carols from one of the boxes kept under his bed and plays it nonstop for three weeks straight.
In the evenings, they settle on the sofa; John at one end with his laptop or newspaper, Sherlock stretched across the rest with his toes pressed hard against John's upper thigh.
"Daft git," John murmurs affably.
Sherlock, staring up at the crossbeams, looks down at him. Smiles. Says nothing.
...
The year dies.
"I feel my age," Sherlock tells John, as they stand together watching Arctic zephyrs of snow and sleet swirl beyond the window. "I didn't before."
John brings his hand up to rest upon Sherlock's shoulder. "Age happens," he murmurs.
"Not my area."
"Inevitable, though."
"Then I shall have to double my efforts in devising a solution to mortality."
"You most certainly will." And then: "You ought to play something on your violin. That always seems to chase the black dogs away."
"Not tonight."
"Please?"
It's been decades, but it is still so hard to resist John when he's like this (the little quirk of his lips and look of earnest anticipation tying a knot in Sherlock's throat), so difficult, in fact, that Sherlock cannot resist it at all and instead finds himself taking hold of the blasted instrument and swinging it up onto his shoulder for an impromptu performance that has absolutely nothing to do with the sweet sparkle in the eyes of the man opposite or the ecstatic giggle that arises as a result; no, this is of his own volition, he tells himself, entirely and undoubtedly.
(He plays until his fingers cramp up and his neck aches and John whispers "never stop, so beautiful, never stop, never, never, never," and he's sure something's about to burst from his chest and start howling at the sky)
.
January
.
"Does everyone in this bloody town think we're together?" Together, says John, and it's significant, weighted: together.
"How would I know? I spend most my time evading human contact."
"Yes, well. There is that."
"Does it embarrass you?"
"Why should it? God knows I've spent nearly half my life correcting that assumption. More annoying than anything, really."
"And what if it weren't an assumption?"
John blinks at him.
"What do you mean?"
"What if it were—if we were—" The sentence breaks. Sherlock tries again. "Sometimes I want to—"
(touch, kiss, fuck, hold, inhale John)
"To…?"
"To," he repeats, braver the second time round, "with you."
"With me?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
And that's it, really. John's face is unreadable as he sets the groceries gingerly down and pushes past Sherlock into his bedroom.
.
February
.
They ignore Valentine's day with fastidious effort.
John goes pub crawling with a few neighbors. Sherlock stays home and drinks too much coffee. His stomach swims, his eyes burn.
...
The first vestiges of spring put everyone in a jolly mood.
"This is the best time of year," John declares, as they walk together, arms brushing beneath their umbrella.
Sherlock nods and wants to say something thoughtful, something about the infinitesimal bravery of tiny blue flowers pushing their way out of the earth, but instead he says, "On average, the adult small intestine is 6.9 metres long," and John roars with laughter.
"I thought it was interesting," Sherlock protests, wounded.
John flicks rainwater from his coat and hides a face-splitting grin behind his turned-up collar. "Unbelievable," he mutters, and Sherlock just stares at him across that little space left between them, suddenly remembering how much he always liked John, even when they'd barely knew each other years ago, how powerful that first click between them was, how it's never really lost its glow, but then he makes the mistake of showing these feelings on his face and he can see the precise moment when John's delight fades to cold denial.
"I forgot to get the milk," Sherlock says, after a while.
"S'alright," John murmurs.
They don't say anything after that.
.
March
.
"Have I ever fully expressed to you how fucking infuriating I find bees?"
Sherlock marches in from the outdoors and flings himself down in John's armchair, back aching.
"Not in so many words, no."
"They're menacing creatures. Truly."
"Enough to make you want to move back to London?" John chuckles, but there's hopefulness there, a longing for days gone by, for the good years—as they call them—and he averts his eyes, laughter dying under Sherlock's solemn scrutiny.
"Not really."
John glances at the kettle. "Tea?"
...
"It wouldn't work," John says later that week.
It takes Sherlock an absurdly long time to realise what he's talking about. "I disagree."
"We've too much history, it would just—friendships like ours, they don't—we can't."
"I see."
"I'm sorry."
Which is really the last goddamn thing Sherlock wants to hear.
.
April
.
A year's passed and it seems like they've only fallen further into the rabbit hole.
Everything is touched with the bitter realism of unreciprocated affection, yet the sun rises anyway and John gets more beautiful, more terrible, more difficult to look at.
This is the way it's written and this is the way it ends.
...
(expect perhaps this isn't the way it ends, because John comes into his room one morning with sleep rumpled hair and eyes alight and says something stupefying)
"I think I was wrong."
...
I
think
I
was
wrong