November 1918

"You are sure he has been discharged?" Sherlock asked, pacing the floor of Mycroft's Pall Mall rooms.

"Yes, I'm positive, Sherlock. He was discharged last week and should be boarding the ship to Southampton today. With any luck, he will arrive in London tomorrow," Mycroft said patiently from his favorite armchair. Lately he was finding even the simple walk from his rooms to Whitehall difficult, and he supposed it was time for him to consider retirement. Now that the war was finally over, he might actually be able to do it.

Before that, however, he had to make sure all Great Britain's soldiers made it home safely. And the number one priority was, unofficially, Dr. Watson. Mycroft could not remember ever feeling as grateful for anything as the doctor's survival, although that was nothing compared to his brother's depth of feeling on the matter. Mycroft doubted Sherlock had slept a full night since the start of the war for worry. Now his anxiety had reached the surface; the younger man was hardly able to remain still even for the few days left before Dr. Watson's return.

"Do sit down, you're making me tired walking around like that," Mycroft finally said, gesturing Sherlock toward one of the armchairs. "Dr. Watson will be here before you know it; I hope you are prepared for how he may return." The reports of some of the returning soldiers, not only the physical wounds but the mental and emotional tolls were devastating. It seemed as if this war had destroyed an entire generation; and for nothing. Mycroft could not help feeling bitter; aside from war reparations, nothing had been resolved. There wasn't even a clear victor.

"I am prepared, Mycroft," Sherlock said simply. His tone brooked no disagreement, and Mycroft nodded. He was not going to presume to tell his brother how to treat his closest friend after all these years, not when he knew he had no experience in the matter. Of friendship, that is. He never had been able to see the point; it seemed like a great deal of work, but there was no doubt Dr. Watson's influence had done Sherlock good over the years. Mycroft was very willing to see the value in something, even if he had no use for it himself.

"Mycroft? I said, is it all right if Watson and I stay here for a day or two?" Sherlock asked, and Mycroft jerked out of his reverie.

"Yes, of course. I take it you are returning to Sussex as soon as possible?"

"I am planning to, yes. I don't know what Watson will do, of course." Sherlock said it casually, but the worry was in his voice. At the age of sixty-seven and only just returned from war, the likelihood that Dr. Watson would be able to return to practice was small. Mycroft tactfully did not take up the topic; it would be more than enough right now for them to be reunited.

The next day, Sherlock left before Mycroft went to the office, presumably to wait at Victoria Station. Mycroft shook his head; if he'd waited, they probably would have been able to find out when Dr. Watson's ship was due in and then figure out which train he was likely to make, but then Sherlock could be curiously impatient at times.

By the time Mycroft returned to his rooms, skipping his usual dinner at the Diogenes (an event rare enough to ensure confusion among the other members as to which club they had actually entered), Sherlock and Dr. Watson had only just returned. In fact, he met them in the entranceway of his building.

"It is good to see you back, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said warmly, shaking the doctor's hand. He noticed with dismay how thin and frail Watson was looking. On top of that, he'd clearly missed the train he had wanted to be on and been forced to change at Winchester.

"It is good to be back, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Watson said, a trace of his old smile returning to his face. "I am sure I will grow tired of London before long, but right now it seems the most beautiful place in the world." Sherlock smiled at this, although Mycroft saw the concern in his eyes at the state of Watson's health.

"Come, you must dine with us tonight," Mycroft said. Dr. Watson's tired eyes brightened and he climbed the stairs with some difficulty, matched by Mycroft. They caught each other's eyes and began to laugh.

"You are the only one who has remained in shape," Mycroft called up to Sherlock, some five steps above them.

Sherlock scoffed and seemed about to reply, but swallowed the retort on seeing what a difficult time his friend was having. "I have not had to fight a war these last five years," he finally said. "Or run one from the seat of government." Oh, yes, Sherlock had changed over the decades. There was a time when no apparent weakness would have been excused so kindly.

Once in Mycroft's rooms, he had his cook prepare a sumptuous dinner, in celebration of the war's end.

"I haven't had a meal like that in the whole five years I've been gone, thank you," Dr. Watson said when they were finished. He looked satisfied, and some color had returned to his face. The conversation remained pleasant, never turning to the war. There would be time enough for that; tonight was for joyful reunions and reminiscences.

"It is my pleasure, Doctor," Mycroft said. "I have few enough people to share my table with, and my brother has never had much natural culinary enjoyment." Sherlock glowered at him, but Dr. Watson began to laugh.

"Yes, that is true. You remember how Mrs. Hudson used to despair of your appetite."

"Only when on a case," Sherlock said, but he smiled, and Dr. Watson conceded the point.

"How is Mrs. Hudson, by the way, Holmes?"

"Well. She has been living near her sister these last ten years and still writes me regularly. She spends a great deal of time complaining how her neighbors are too quiet and orderly. It seems she misses my indoor gunfire and chemical experiments."

Dr. Watson laughed aloud, and Sherlock looked distinctly proud of himself for his friend's cheerful mood.

"I dislike bringing you both back to reality," Mycroft said, when the laughter had died down, "but I have to ask, what are you planning to do from now on? You know you are entitled to a military pension?"

"Yes," Dr. Watson answered. "I am really unsure. I have no attachments, no business or practice I must return to. I have some more stories I intend to publish, and I thought I might do more in that line. Writing would seem to be the only profession left open to me." He looked down, his expression growing dark. The war had taken more than his health; Dr. Watson seemed to think it had also robbed him of his usefulness, although most men of his age would no longer be practicing their professions.

"That is no small thing," Mycroft said gently, for his brother seemed to be at a complete loss for words.

Dr. Watson brought himself back with an effort, "No, it is not. I should not be so discouraged, not when so many are worse off than I am."

"Would you stay here in London?" Mycroft asked. "I am sure I can find you suitable rooms." He knew someone at the Veterans' Office owed him a favor.

"Oh no, we have already talked about that," Dr. Watson said, a true smile appearing on his face now. "I am not blind where my own health is concerned, as so many doctors are. I know I should not be living alone anymore, and as your brother is used to me as a fellow-lodger, there is no reason why I should not join him in Sussex. There is, after all, nothing holding me in London."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked, concentrating on his brother only. He knew Dr. Watson would likely have a difficult time recovering from the war, if indeed, he ever fully did. He also knew Sherlock was impatient and acerbic at the best of times; not the best companion for a recovering veteran to have.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, his face determined. "It will be a fresh start for you, Watson. Sussex is quiet, the perfect place for you to recover and write as much as you please." And for himself, he might have added, it would be a return to the times he had been happiest; he and Watson living together, bulwarked against the rest of society. It was written all over his brother's face; Mycroft barely had to deduce it.

"It is fitting, in a way," Mycroft said finally. "You started off as fellow-lodgers after Dr. Watson returned from war, and now it seems it will end that way." He was not overly superstitious, and would not shy away from mention of their own mortality. It had to come to them as it came to everyone; that was only rational knowledge. There was no use ignoring it.

Sherlock, however, laughed lightly, "Oh, I don't know if it will ever end. With us in my sitting room at Sussex Downs, it will feel as if it is always 1895, will it not, Watson?"

Watson smiled, "Those were good days, Holmes. If that is what my retirement is to be, I have little to complain about."

Strangely enough, Mycroft could almost believe it himself. There was little enough of the mystic in him, but in the presence of his brother and Dr. Watson, he could almost believe in…something, whether it was immortality, the kind brought by pen and ink, or fate, the kind that brought two people together. Or, today, miracles. The kind that saved one man from being one statistic among millions and brought him back to live out his days in a bee-covered cottage in Sussex with his closest friend.

It only proved there was something worth believing in, after all.

A/N I was going to put an epilogue on this, but thinking it over, I don't think it fit the tone of the rest of the story, and I like the ending of Holmes and Watson essentially riding off into the sunset together. So, thank you all for reading/following/reviewing/favoriting! :)