Miss Selene

It had come as a surprise, when Sherlock decided to retire from detective work. He’d been only fifty, and when he said he was moving away, John had assumed he meant Paris or New York or Tokyo - a metropolis, because that was the sort of environment where Sherlock Holmes belonged. Right in the middle of things. Sussex had come as a relief because it was closer, but the idea of Sherlock living in a tiny village - and not even in a village, more like just outside of one - took some getting used to. However, the new, quieter life clearly suited Sherlock, and even though John missed the excitement of their work, he had to admit it was good that they had stopped before their reflexes got too slow. He thought he was in good shape, but he doubted he’d be able to chase anyone across rooftops.

John had been worried at first that Sherlock would no longer have any use for him if there were no cases for John to assist with, but he had been wrong about that. They found opportunities to see each other as often as possible, and there was even a case from time to time, since Sherlock still accepted work that was interesting enough. Last year, when John had been a bit depressed when Rosie left for university, he’d spent ten days with Sherlock and they solved several cases within that time - he knew Sherlock had only taken them to cheer him up. Perhaps something like that would come up again this time, and if not, that was okay too - John would be more than happy to enjoy a quiet long weekend in the countryside with his best friend.

They walked together to Sherlock’s car and drove the short distance to the stone cottage, which stood in a secluded spot away from prying eyes and out of the way of random passers-by. The cottage was picture-perfect, complete with a white picket gate set in a low stone wall, a flowering front garden and roses climbing up the walls. It wasn’t a place where Sherlock of twenty years ago would have willingly lived, but it suited his softer, gentler nature of recent years and the loving warmth of his relationship with his husband -- or partner, more precisely, since they weren’t married, but at some point John had started thinking of Sanjay as Sherlock’s husband anyway. 

Right now, however, the house was clearly empty when they arrived, aside from the two dogs who greeted them - an Irish setter called Bonny, and Doyle, a boisterous one-year-old retriever that nearly knocked John off his feet with his enthusiasm.

“Down, Doyle,” Sherlock commanded to absolutely no effect. “Sanjay’s at work, he’ll be back after lunch.”

“Oh, didn’t he need the car? I could have taken a cab from the station.”

“No, it’s fine, he likes the walk from the bus stop when the weather’s nice. Doyle, down! I swear to god, this dog is a menace,” Sherlock said sternly as he tried to stop Doyle from jumping up and down in excitement, but John knew that his strictness was faked - there was no one in the world who loved and spoiled their dogs more than Sherlock did.

“Let him be, it’s great that someone’s so happy to see me,” John said indulgently, more than happy to pet one dog with each hand. 

“I’m happy to see you, but forgive me if I don’t slobber on you to show it. Tea?”

“Please.”

They took their tea on the patio. John sank into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction, enjoying the view of the extensive back garden, full of flowers and fruit trees intended to provide plentiful and varied sources of pollen to the bees that resided in the colourful beehives at the back.

“Mmm, I needed this,” he hummed appreciatively as he took his first sip of the hot tea, sweetened with a generous dollop of honey. He normally took his tea unsweetened, but one did not simply refuse Sherlock Holmes’ honey.

“The tea?” Sherlock said, stirring even more honey into his cup.

“No, just being here. I always feel like I’m in a different universe when I’m here.” It was the absolute truth, and it wasn’t just about leaving the city behind, hearing birdsong instead of the hum of traffic, smelling flowers and grass and damp earth instead of exhaust fumes. It was Sherlock, being with him, seeing how happy and fulfilled he was in his new life. It energised John like nothing else.

“You could move here, you know,” Sherlock said softly, looking at John through his eyelashes.

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it, actually.” He wasn’t sure how Lara, his wife, would like being away from London and her daughter and grandchildren, and buying real estate in the current economy wasn’t an easy thing to do, but then again, the train connection to London was pretty good, and selling their flat would bring a nice sum. They certainly couldn’t afford something as nice and large as Sherlock’s cottage (Sherlock and Sanjay were only able to afford it thanks to the Holmes family money) but if they found something simpler and smaller… it was a possibility. “But Lara helps out a lot with Veronica’s kids, you know, I don’t think she’s in a hurry to leave, she loves being a grandmother. But when the kids are a bit older… it could be nice.”

“I loved visiting my grandparents in the country when I was a child. Tell Lara she should consider that before all the good properties are snapped up. There’s a house in Cocksbrige that’s just become available and should be within your price range.”

John raised an eyebrow at him. “You’ve given this some thought.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes, well. It’s tedious having to pick you up at the station all the time, and then you clutter up the guest room.”

John grinned at him, warmth spreading through his chest. “I miss you too.”

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered as he gave a tiny smile, clearing his throat.

“Think about it, John.”

“Yeah, I will. I think I deserve a nice retirement too, don’t I?” He’d occasionally thought about this ever since Sherlock and Sanjay had moved here. It wasn’t far from London, but it still wasn’t practicable to see Sherlock as often as he’d like. If he could move somewhere within a reasonable distance, he’d have everything he needed.

“And how are the bees?”

“Good. It’s been a good summer, enough rain and not too hot for once.” Sherlock launched into a lengthy monologue about his bees as John had known he would, and John tuned out. He had no interest in the intricacies of beekeeping, but he enjoyed watching Sherlock’s enthusiasm, the animated way he talked about about his favourite topic, the glint in his eye. It would be good if he could see it more often.

“... but then it turned out that the bees in the hives on the eastern side noticed the increased number of exits from the hive much quicker than the bees on the western side, and… John. You’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

“What? No, I am. The number of exits. I’m listening.”

Sherlock smiled broadly. “You know you don’t have to pretend to care about bees. It’s fine. Now.” He puts his cup back on the table and straightens a little in his chair. “Have we wasted enough time talking?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Are you finally going to give it to me?”

“Give you what?” John asked, but of course he knew what Sherlock meant. He’d been hoping that somehow Sherlock wouldn’t notice, but he had known there was only a small chance of that. 

Sherlock gives him a pointed look. “You brought Lara’s suitcase instead of your usual duffel bag.”

“So? Maybe my shoulder hurts.” John knew there was no point in dragging it out, but something stopped him from giving in too easily.

“Except it doesn’t. The only reason why you’d choose a suitcase is if you wanted to bring something that you couldn’t bring in your duffel bag. Not because of size, the case is actually smaller in volume. But something that could get damaged in the bag. Creased. Like sheets of paper that you printed out because you’re old-fashioned.”

“I’m not old-fashioned,” John bristled automatically.

“You’re old-fashioned enough to prefer paper instead of the screen for your manuscript.”

“Hmm, that’s just a wild guess. You couldn’t deduce anything like that just from the suitcase.”

“Couldn’t I? The only thing you’d want to bring as a physical copy would have to be something with sentimental value - there aren’t many things like that. But you’re right, it wasn’t just the case. There’s also the fact that everytime I visited your home in the past year, you computer was conspicuously absent, hidden away. You normally leave it lying around, but suddenly it was nowhere to be seen, so clearly connected to something personal.”

“Maybe I just watch a lot of porn.”

Sherlock chuckled. “That never made you hide your laptop before. Your eyesight has also deteriorated slightly in the past year from too much screen time and squinting at your notes in bad lighting, although I admit it could be attributed to other factors as well. However, I know from Rosie that you’ve been using her room as an office while she’s away. She complained that her desk was full of your old case notes when she came back home for Easter.”

“Ah, so you didn’t actually deduce anything. Rosie just told you.”

“She only told me what I needed to confirm my suspicion. You’ve been writing.”

John sighed. “Yes.”

“About our old cases.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve brought the manuscript for me to read.”

“Yes. But only I wanted to give it to you just before leaving.”

“Afraid of my scathing critique?”

“Can you blame me, given how you reacted to my blog?” John said, but that wasn’t the true reason, although it was part of it. Of course he was worried Sherlock would think his writing was bad, but it was more than that. What he had written was far more personal than any account of a case he’d ever published on his blog. It wasn’t about the cases. It wasn’t even about Sherlock, not really.

John had had a vague idea about writing a proper book about his work with Sherlock almost from the very beginning, but he had only started actually writing it last year, almost immediately after he came back home from his extended visit to Sherlock’s. There was nothing like your only child leaving the nest to make you think about time passing, face the fact that you were getting older, that most of your life was behind you. John had thought about that when Rosie left for university, her small bedroom quiet and eerily empty even though most of her possessions were still there. He had thought about his life then, and all the choices he had made that had led him to where he was - the right ones, and the wrong ones. He had made a lot of the wrong ones. And after spending almost two weeks with Sherlock, in that perfect cocoon of happiness and domesticity and love that was Sherlock’s home and where John would only ever be a guest, he had known what he had to do. He had come home, and found his old case notes, and started writing. The cases served as a basis for the plot, but the real story was elsewhere, and even though John had known ever since he first opened a blank document that he’d eventually give the story to Sherlock to read, he still dreaded Sherlock’s reaction.

Sherlock inclined his head to the side, his piercing eyes fixed on John and no doubt reading every single thought that passed through John’s mind, and somehow that made John feel braver - Sherlock already knew John thoroughly. One extra glimpse into John’s soul would hardly matter.

“I’m sure your literary style has improved over the years,” Sherlock said. “But if it helps, I promise not to read it until you leave.”

John scoffed. “Yeah, right.” He had no illusions about Sherlock’s ability to resist temptation. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Wait here.” He walked back inside the cosy lounge and then to the entrance hall where he’d left his suitcase, and then he carefully took out the thick folder he’d placed in the front pocket. 

“There you go,” he said brusquely when he joined Sherlock back on the patio, handing the manuscript to him.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said with obvious sincerity in his voice, but John couldn’t fully look him in the eye. His heart was thumping rather hard.

Sherlock glanced at the front page through the transparent front flap of the folder.

“The Adventures of Sheridan Hope?!” he read, almost comically surprised. “Who the hell is Sheridan Hope?”

“Well, he’s you. But not really. Your alter ego. This is not a biography, Sherlock. It’s not facts. And I didn’t want to make it seem like it was, so I didn’t use anyone’s real names.”

“Right,” Sherlock said, looking at the manuscript rather doubtfully. John could tell he was itching to open it. “So I’m Sheridan Hope. And you are…?”

“Doctor James Weston,” John said reluctantly.

“You know, if you wanted to hide our identities, you should have taken the name changes a bit further. No one will be fooled by Sheridan Hope and James Weston.”

“Shut up,” John bristled. “You’ve only read the title and you’re already criticising. Wait until you’ve read the whole thing at least, all right?”

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, a little subdued, then he carefully set the folder to the side with an admirable show of self-restraint. “I appreciate you letting me read this, John, truly. It will be nice to relive our glory days, so to speak.”

“Do you really never miss it?” John asked, grasping the first opportunity to shift the conversation away from his book (if he could even call it that).

“Oh, I do, sometimes. The thrill of the chase, the two of us against the rest of the world,” he smiled at John, a warm, fond smile that compelled John to smile back. “But the truth is I have no interest in facing the world anymore. And besides, this life isn’t devoid of excitement,” he added with a glint in his eye. “You really should have been here two weeks ago.”

“Oh? What happened? Did some of your bees escape? Stage a coup against the queen?”

“Coups against the queen are more common than you’d think, actually,” Sherlock said with smile. “But no. There was a murder.”

There was a moment of silence when John tried to determine whether Sherlock was pulling his leg and was actually referring to one of his beehives getting attacked by wasps, or something of that sort.

“A murder? Here?”

“Yep. People are just as capable of criminal behaviour in the country as in the city, John. There’s just less chance of someone noticing it.”

“So a murder happened basically on your doorstep and you didn’t think to tell me until now?”

“It was Rosie’s last week before home before the start of term, you wouldn’t have wanted to come here anyway. But don’t worry, there’s still a chance for you to solve the mystery.”

“What do you mean, for me to solve?”

“Well, I gave the matter some thought, and I realised there were three alternatives how I could share this case, if you want to call it that, with you. One, I could simply tell you what happened--”

“And you rejected that idea immediately as being way too straightforward.”

Sherlock smiled. “Naturally. Two, I could write it up and we could exchange manuscripts…”

“Hang on, you had no way of knowing I’d bring it with me.”

“No, but I had hopes. I knew you’d been writing, obviously I hoped you’d share it with me at some point.”

“And the third option?”

“I could tell you the facts, show you the evidence, take you to the place where it happened, and you could try to solve it.”

“So it’s still unsolved?”

“No, I was able to clear it up.”

“Right, so I’m just supposed to make a fool of myself for your entertainment, is that it?”

“Of course not, John. I have no doubt that you can get to the bottom of it. I thought you might enjoy it. Didn’t want you to get bored."

Sherlock seemed actually a little hurt by John’s reaction, and John realised that his nerves about the manuscript had made him a bit too sensitive. Of course Sherlock wasn’t planning to make fun of John - he’d essentially planned a game for John.

“I’m never bored here,” said John, and by here he meant with you. “But okay. Let’s see if I can solve this faster than you did.”

Sherlock clapped his hands together with obvious glee. “Excellent.” He stood up and grabbed the manuscript. “Let me just put this away somewhere safe and let’s go.”

“Go?”