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Sherlock woke in the draughty room, one side of his body noticeably warmer than the other. After a quick inspection, with only his eyes, as he dared not move and invite any more of the icy air into the toasty cocoon of the quilt, he discovered the cause of the heat; a familiar warm body pressed against —and atop— his entire right side. John’s leg was thrown across both of his knees, pinning them in place. A strong arm was draped across Sherlock’s bare stomach and a forehead pressed against his cheek, a neatly trimmed beard tickling his neck.
John’s hair was sleep-tousled, rather than swept carefully to the side, as he often wore it now. He said it made him look distinguished. Sherlock just thought it made him look hot. A silver fox, he had called him once when John was lamenting his more-grey-than-blond hair. The beard was new. Sherlock liked that too - it made John look rather rugged.
Sherlock sighed happily, stretching his legs and wincing at the stiffness in his lower back. His ruggedly handsome and very distinguished husband mumbled something in his sleep and Sherlock turned his head slowly to kiss his forehead. It was a treat to stay in bed so long with John- he was usually up puttering around the small cottage in the early morning. Sherlock wondered what the special occasion was, not even realising that he had pulled away slightly to study John, hoping for a clue.
“Thought you might enjoy a birthday lie-in, is all. I’m not sick, and don’t tell me you’ve deleted your birthday. That never works.”
John delivered this entire speech without lifting his head, or even opening his eyes.
Deep blue eyes, which now lifted to look directly into Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s breath hitched- Christ, he didn’t think he would ever tire of looking at John’s handsome features. After nearly thirty years together, each wrinkle and grey hair had a story from their shared life; a life of heartache and happiness, of loss and love, of regret and resolve. John was more beautiful and more precious to him today than the first time he’d laid eyes on him in the lab.
John kissed him gently, allowing him as long as he needed to sort through his thoughts, as he always did.
Instead of answering, Sherlock feigned a sigh, though it came out softer and without the usual edge.
“I don’t have birthdays, John. What a ridiculous notion.”
John grinned and kissed his shoulder.
“Oh? Well, isn’t that too bad? Guess I’ll have to find someone else to appreciate your gift then. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’m sure there are plenty of people in Sussex that would enjoy a—”
Sherlock kissed him, not even minding the puff of morning breath as John chuckled against his mouth.
“John. You know I hate surprises.”
“Yes, love. And, conversely and confusingly, you also hate when surprises are ruined. And waiting. You hate that too.”
Sherlock huffed indignantly.
“You act like you know me.”
John rolled his eyes at the predictive retort, but he was smiling as he slid out of bed, artfully ignoring Sherlock’s grumbled protests about the cold air.
“I know that you’ll follow me into the kitchen in about five minutes because you’ll absolutely die of curiosity any longer than that.”
Pulling on his warmest dressing gown, John sauntered – actually sauntered! – from the room. Still cocooned in bed, Sherlock listened to the sounds of John being domestic: pouring coffee, getting out plates, milk and the butter dish (three distinct clinks of porcelain and glass), slicing bread. He knew John would give him a larger slice of bread and twice as much butter. John had to watch his cholesterol now, but he’d always been on a crusade to feed Sherlock up. Sherlock let him, though he occasionally complained, just for old times’ sake. He flipped through his mental inventory to decide on a flavour of jam for today. They’d been to the farmer’s market in town earlier in the week and had purchased several flavours from local preservers, as well as several varieties of honey.
John popped his head back in the room.
“Up you get, sleepy head. Your first surprise has a bit of a time restraint today, I’m sorry to tell you.” John gave him a look. “And your hair alone will probably take even longer than usual.”
Sherlock threw a pillow at his husband, widely missing his mark. He feigned shock at his husband’s sass.
“Rude, John. Rude.”
The winter sun was coming in slanted through the window above the sink when Sherlock padded in in his slippers. They’d been a Christmas gift from John as his old ones “resembled a sad mangy rodent” with holes in the fronts where a rogue toe occasionally peeped out. These new ones were made of sheepskin and were obscenely warm and comfortable. He shuffled to the table, where John had already laid a heaping portion of toast and lined the jars of jam and honey in front of his plate. Enticing curls of steam rose from his coffee mug (another present from John, this time just because he’d seen these hand thrown mugs for sale from a local potter in their favourite coffeeshop and the colour had reminded John of Sherlock’s eyes). Such an old sop, his John.
Sherlock selected a jar of Seville orange and ginger marmalade and picked up the knife, smearing it onto a thick Brioche slice. Across the table, John pretended to be engrossed in the paper, but Sherlock noticed he had his mobile on his lap and kept sneaking glances at it. He pointed with his knife, one eyebrow cocked.
“Expecting an important call at… half-eight?” John rarely had his mobile with him these days (“Who would call me? The only person I talk to is within two metres of me at any given time during the day.”), and on the rare occasion he did want to make a call, or even more rare, received one, he had to hunt it down in the cottage, cursing all the while.
“Mmm? No, not expecting any calls. Who would call me? You’re right there.” John picked up a piece of his own toast, smeared with a dark red jam (the red currant one, Sherlock guessed) and took a large bite, chewing and suddenly becoming very interested in the newspaper.
“John…” Sherlock set the toast down on his plate, wiping the corners of his mouth with his thumb. John hmm’ed distractedly but did not look up. “You know I always know when you’re lying, even when you’re staring holes through the paper.” He chuckled as John sniffed and turned the page (he had the entertainment section! Oh, honestly, John.) “You’d make an absolutely terrible spy. Worst liar on the planet.”
“Good thing I’m just a barmy old country man now, hm? Eat your toast. You’ll need your strength, old man. And I was serious about your hair. Looks like something nested on the right side of your head.” John, his dear ol’ sassy John, spoke through a mouthful of his own toast, punctuating the end of this absolute nonsense with a large and noisy slurp of his coffee. He smacked his lips and stood, messily folding the paper and setting it on his chair (“in case I want to finish reading it later.” He never, ever did. Sherlock tossed it in the recyclables bin around six each evening).
“Try some of that honey yet?” It was said nonchalantly over his shoulder as John set his plate in the sink and turned on the taps. Much too nonchalant. Purposely, decisively nonchalant.
“Aha!” Sherlock crowed, sloshing the coffee in his cup as he set it down hastily to point at John’s back. “It’s something to do with the honey, isn’t it? Ooh, is there a clue…?” He picked up the jar nearest his plate and tipped it, looking this way and that at it. The label was handmade, printed on a laser printer, the black ink turning purple on one edge. He looked at the underside, feeling John’s amused gaze warm the side of his face. Finding nothing, he set that jar down and inspected the others, ignoring John.
“Well?” His brow furrowed as he scowled at John, now not even trying to hide his amusement as he leaned against the sink with his arms folded, blue eyes twinkling, the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth creasing with mirth.
“Well, what? You’re the detective. Solve it, genius.”
“Pfft. I’m the detective? What was the point of you for all those years, then? Bodyguard?”
“Arm candy?”
Sherlock looked up properly then and smiled. “Definitely that.”
Just as Sherlock had hoped, John came back to the table then, nudging Sherlock’s knees apart and slotting himself in the space created. He leant down and kissed him sweetly, chastely, pulling him to his feet and wrapping his arms around his waist. Sherlock’s arms wove automatically around John’s back, their bodies, though ever-changing, still fitting perfectly together, each freckle, wrinkle and softening spot finding its perfect mirror image in the other. John’s left hand drifted south and without warning, slapped Sherlock on the arsecheek. Sherlock yelped and nipped at John’s nose in protest, even while John’s giggle filled him with warmth.
“Go and get in the shower! I’ll be right in, just going to tidy this mess up. They’ll be—” At Sherlock’s widened eyes, John snapped his mouth shut comically. “Shit.”
“Ooooh!” Sherlock clapped his hands together. “They?? Who are they, John?”
John swatted at him again, but Sherlock dodged him, chuckling as he made his way down the hall to the loo. “Alright, old man, I’m going! Must look my absolute best for the Mysterious They!”
Despite his protests, Sherlock did take his time in the bathroom, showering and styling his more-grey-these-days-than-black hair, cropped much shorter now on the top than the unruly curls of his younger days. He examined his face in the mirror as he ran the razor carefully over his cheeks and chin, noticing the few extra wrinkles around his eyes and the lines bracketing his mouth, the sag of his cheeks. But his eyes still sparkled with youthfulness, and John still looked at him like he was the most desirable thing on this earth (Sherlock knew the feeling well, as he knew he looked at John in the same way!)
“Not bad for sixty, eh?” He said to his reflection, rinsing the razor under the tap and patting his face dry. He splashed on a bit of aftershave and fixed a wayward tuft of one sideburn before sidling out of the loo to find his John.
He didn’t have to look far; John was standing in the middle of the kitchen with his shoes and parka on, smiling softly in that patient way he always did. The way that Sherlock was still certain he didn’t deserve, even after all these years. He handed Sherlock his (matching - they really were disgustingly quaint in their still-young age) parka and shooed him to the door with a hand on his back.
“Sorry to rush you, Princess, but we’ve someone to meet. And soon.”
Sherlock allowed himself to be bundled into the car. John closed the door firmly before going around to the driver’s side, always the gentleman. It was a short drive into the village from the cottage and Sherlock spent it warring internally. He hated ruining surprises with deductions, but he would surely be dead, were he a cat, for all his insatiable curiosity.
They arrived at a cottage just out of town before he could make up his mind. He didn’t recognise it, though that wasn’t too much of a surprise. He still delegated the socialising to John, who knew every person in their village, complete with family trees, backstories, anniversaries, birthdays and the like. Sherlock loved that about him, but he was content to not know any details about anyone, and vice versa. No one here knew he was a very-much-fomer-thank-you consulting detective and he liked it that way.
He was so caught up in his own head, he scarcely noticed the woman who’d come out to greet them until her hand was outstretched in front of him. His manners were deeply ingrained now, thanks to John’s best efforts, not to mention all the schooling before him, so he automatically reached out to clasp it.
“How do you do? I’m sorry, I believe I missed your name. I’m Sherlock.”
She smiled patiently at him - oh how like his John - as she replied. “Anne. Anne Waters. Your husband tells me it’s your birthday, and I believe I’m the lucky one that gets to introduce you to your present. All ten thousand or so of them.” Her eyes twinkled conspiratorially as she glanced at John and Sherlock’s gaze followed, his eyebrows raised comically in delighted confusion.
Ten thousand??
He and John followed as she led them around her home. It was freezing, but the sun was shining and the warmth felt wonderful. They rounded the corner and the pieces clicked partially into place, as a row of colourfully painted boxes came into view. Bees! Sherlock chewed his bottom lip, trying to work out why they’d come to visit bees in January. Surely John realised they would be overwintering, not active. It was sweet of him to remember how Sherlock had said idly last summer that he’d love to visit a working apiary, and maybe even someday keep his own, but he’d maybe prefer a visit more when he could feel his fingers and the bees were active.
Nonetheless, he smiled when Anne stopped near the first set of hive boxes and turned to face him, her arm sweeping out.
“I’m sure they’d love to meet you formally, and they will, but since your birthday is today, John thought a preliminary visit was in order. Sherlock, meet your bees!”
Sherlock turned to look at John, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “My bees?”
Anne smiled.
“I’m moving to the States to be closer to my daughter in the spring. John and I got to talking at the market this fall and he said you’d always had an affinity for the little gals. So. For the next few months, I’ll show you everything you need to know, and then leave my darlings in your capable hands.”
Sherlock gaped at her, and then at John. John grinned at him, though Sherlock could see the tension around his eyes that betrayed his nervousness. He hurried to take his hand and squeeze it reassuringly. He was surprised, that was all. But he didn’t think he had ever been given a more perfect gift.
“Whaddya say? Sherlock Holmes, apiarist? Have a nice ring to it?”
“I think I could get used to that, certainly. Seems safer than any of my previous titles, that’s for certain.”
John’s grin reached his eyes then and Sherlock impulsively reached out and hugged him, whispering his thanks in his ear.