This had been John’s favorite spot in the garden. Nestled just under the tree to get enough shade, but not too far back that he would feel the cold on a less warm day. He’d spent a good solid hour setting up the chair just right, placing, sitting down, grumbling to himself, and then getting back up to repeat the process all over again. Sherlock had hid his smile, keeping his face turned towards the earth as he dug the spade into the dirt. John was adamant about getting the chair in just the right spot.
“If I am going to spend so much time out here, I better be comfortable,” he had said.
Sherlock hadn’t bothered to point out that if John wanted comfort while still outside, the porch around front was a perfect spot. He could even watch the road from there. But John persisted in getting the chair in just the right spot until, face a bit red and brow sweaty, he settled in the chair with a quiet sigh of relief. His John is—was, he corrects himself again— oddly stubborn about some things.
And territorial. Sherlock had never sat in the chair, because it was John’s. It was an important distinction. Even a life spent together didn’t change some behaviours. The cottage was both of theirs. The bed. The plates (though not the mugs). The sofa. All of those fell around shared territory, but others, like John’s chair or his pillow, were always just John’s.
He supposed it didn’t matter much now. Sherlock placed the book and tea cup on the little table nearby and ran his shaking fingers along the chair, feeling the pockmarks in the wood, a quiet tale of twenty summers spent outside. The slats were different colours, the need to replace and repair telling a different story. He rubbed his hand back and forth over it, even now still hesitant to sit.
The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, creeping towards sunset, and with it the coldness of night would soon settle into his bones. He ached; his joints and chest and head all hollowed out. He was tired. The chair beckoned to him and he slowly lowered himself into it, finally bringing his back to rest against it.
And there was John. In the curves of the wood and the quiet strength. In the comfort it brought to his tired body. He pressed his fingertips against his lips and finally understood why John had picked this spot. It gave him a perfect view of the garden and hives. He slowly closed his eyes and imagined John furtively looking up from a book to glance at him as Sherlock tended the flowerbeds. The sunset would be lovely from this spot, placed just so in a perfect cocoon of solitude.
He picked up the book from the table and turned to the first page. John’s voice whispered in his ear, the thrill in his voice picking up as he embellished each adventure. It was never about the cases, no matter how often Sherlock berated him for ignoring the evidence in favour of telling a story. No, they had always been about the two of them, sharing a life. Sentiment: even in the early stories, it shouted from every page. Sherlock lives means John Watson lives. The inverse, of course, had always been true, too. There had been a time would he would have scoffed at being lonely. Not now. Five days without John was an eternity.
He tucked a finger into the book to mark his place. Closing his eyes once more, he turned his head, and pressed his cheek up against the wood. For a moment, the roughened surface was replaced with the scratch of a wool jumper against his skin. The warmth the wood retained even as the sun set was John’s warmth.
John was here still, waiting. Five days was certainly long enough. Sherlock let out harsh breath, his chest tight. Far too long to keep someone waiting. He let out another breath, thinner and weaker than the last. The quiet settled over him and filled him. John would be cross.
His hand slackened. The book tumbled from his lap. The tea grew cold.
And in the garden, the hum of the bees slowly quieted as they settled in for the night.
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