Work Text:
- deadhead lavender
His joints permit it, on this warm day, so Watson takes his secateurs (from the ever encroached-upon corner of Holmes' bee shed where he keeps his gardening tools), and neatly snips away at the lavender. The cottage smells of summer, later, when he spreads the blooms on a side table to dry.
- bottle honey
It is Holmes who works the hives; Watson is only ever a reluctant assistant. It is he, though, who bottles the honey once it has settled. He works stickily through the early afternoon, until there are two dozen small jars labelled on the worktable. A sweet breeze comes through the screened windows. A few bottles are earmarked for neighbours and friends; the rest Holmes will place in the 'honesty box' at the end of the drive. It is camouflage, Holmes says. He wants the locals to believe that he is a retired gentleman beekeeper; Watson knows this to be a polite fiction.
- go for a walk
Holmes left for a walk, early this morning. There was a familiar, strained quality to his speech; Watson knew immediately that he needed to be alone. But he should be back soon, and so Watson walks slowly down to the edge of the cliffs. He sees Holmes in the distance, the low sun at his back. There is a fluid easiness to his stride that makes Watson think his melancholy has burnt itself out, and when they meet Holmes allows Watson to slip his arm into his.
"Hello, Holmes," he says. "Better?"
"Yes," Holmes says, and subtly, without being asked, he takes just a little of Watson's weight.
"Good," Watson says. "It will be a fine evening."
"Yes," Holmes says, and they walk in silence back toward the cottage, in the long dusk of this early summer day.