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“Do you remember?” Sherlock said as we stared into the fire. “Do you remember how we outsmarted England’s most nefarious villains? Like Magnussen?”
“We didn’t outsmart Magnessun. You killed him.” I pulled the blanket closer around us.
“Minor detail,” he scoffed.
“Roylott?" he continued.
“Put away for the rest of his life,” I said as I curled my fingers around his. ”You were brilliant.”
“You were brave,” he said. “We made a good team.”
“Do you miss it?” I asked, resting my head against his shoulder.
He didn’t answer.
“Sherlock?”
“I do. Sometimes. The thrill. The danger. The glory. Don’t you?”
I considered the question. It had been a year since we’d moved to Sussex. The twelve months had been blissful. Getting up when we felt like it. No responsibilities other than the bees. Making love at any hour of the day. Or not at all. Long walks and long naps. Reading by the fire.
Retirement had mellowed Sherlock. I hadn’t expected this. I had expected him to rebel against the march of time. But he’d accepted it with grace. He was different now. Reflective. Serene.
“Yes,” I said honestly. “But growing old with you is more than I could've hoped for. I love our life.”
“John.” He smiled and leaned down to purr in my ear, “Take me to bed.”