Work Text:
John had, of course, been skeptical when Sherlock Holmes announced he was retiring to the country to keep bees. Everybody had been. The great Sherlock Holmes living a life of quiet contemplation? He'd be climbing the walls the second day. He'd be self medicating within a week. He' be back in london inside a month, or he'd be dead in three.
But when the roofers turned out to be robbers and the moving men turned out to be money launderers, well, the country had certain deversions after all.
And, yes, for the most part little mysteries of life were of a much smaller scale. They weren't without their amusements. "Who stole Mr. MCGregor's carrots" was an actual topic of debate amongst the locals they ran into on their morning walks or at afternoon tea. A Mr. J. Peter Updike, if you could believe it. John barely could.
So it went that John treated a few local patients, minor complaints.
Sherlock composed for his violin, minor masterpieces, if you could believe it. John could.
John grew heirloom tomatoes.
Sherlock became a renowned apiologist.
And John a renowned apiologist apologist.