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It was hard, at first, realizing they needed to slow down, that they were both getting older.
The first indicator came when Sherlock, usually so agile, missed his footing scaling a fence and had fallen, breaking his wrist. “I’m getting old, John,” he was cradling the wrist against his chest and looking so sad that John’s heart broke.
“No, you’re not. I’m the old one, remember? Come on, let’s get that set.”
John could feel his own age creeping up on him; running after criminals and jumping over fences was not something most 55 year-olds did. His wounded shoulder could predict on-coming rain and his hair was thinning out on top. But only just; most of it was still present, and if he looked at it in the right light, it was still mostly blonde.
That was 20 some years ago. They were in their seventies now and lived in Sussex since they’d retired. John’s hair had gone completely silver and Sherlock’s had just tipped the scale from mostly dark to predominantly silver. John thought it looked marvelous on him, “Makes you look more dashing than ever.” The lines around Sherlock’s fine mouth and still lovely eyes were from laughter, John had made sure of that.
Ewan was grown and had a family of his own. John and Sherlock were the proud grandfathers of twin girls, Elizabeth and Victoria, both of whom inherited their father’s ginger hair. Ewan and his wife lived at 221B now. Unbeknownst to John and Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson had willed the Baker Street property to them both shortly after Ewan was born there. Ewan, Gwen – his wife – and the girls would come for visits as often as they could. Ewan and Gwen were both teachers, so their summers were free. It was John and Sherlock’s great joy to watch the two little ginger girls playing in the garden, their coppery, curly heads bobbing among the flowers.
Their days were slow and lazy now that there were no more calls to crime scenes or mysteries to solve. The days in Sussex were filled with little comforts: reading together and sharing favored passages or simply walking the perimeter of their property, inventorying and cataloguing the different plants and animals they would find. Sherlock keeps his bees and John tends the garden.
And John had become quite a gardener. He had all the local women envious of his flower beds and vegetable and berry patches. He would give out bouquets or jars of jam to them when they would stop by for tea. Sherlock would reluctantly give bottles of his honey to the neighbors who didn’t annoy him too much. Sherlock had become more social over the years, John had seen to that too.
On warm days Sherlock could be found amongst his beehives, playing the violin. Thankfully the long ago broken wrist hadn’t hindered his ability to play. Sweet music would drift across the garden to where John would be mulching or pruning or weeding something.
Sometimes, John would join Sherlock in the shed when he was expelling honey from the combs. It was sweet work and more than once, John had stripped them both bare, dripped honey onto himself and pressed into Sherlock’s lean body. Both of them would emerge from the shed sticky, spent and wanting a shower. The last time this happened, a lone bee found its way into the shed and John had gotten stung on the thigh, mid thrust. Sherlock had carefully removed the stinger and finished stroking John off with the honey that was left in the half-filled bottle.
Winter nights would find them warm and snug in their cottage while the world outside was swaddled in snow. Age had not dampened their desire. The spark was still there, so close to the surface it only took a glance or brush of a hand to fan it to a full-on blaze. They would take their time, re-mapping oft-travelled territory. Their bodies fit together with such ease now, it was like a garment that took on the shape of its wearer. They slid against and into each other so gently, by turns taking, and giving, pleasure to the other.
“John, I love you.” Sherlock would whisper, “Please let me.” And John always would, slipping into Sherlock’s mouth with a groan of “Yes” on his lips. The sight of those full lips taking him in still drove John to the edge, even after all these years. Sherlock would hum with that voice that was like warm honey and John would come, sighing Sherlock’s name and countless ‘I love you’s’, the orgasm no less intense for its diminished output. Sherlock would gather John to him and curl his long body around John’s still wonderfully compact one. “May I?” He would ask, and in answer John would push back into Sherlock and hand over the bottle of lube that was stashed away under the pillows. Sherlock would slip into John with such slow, delicious pressure, both men would be moaning from the pleasure of it. Slowly, Sherlock would rock into John, grasping his hip and nibbling at his shoulder. “My John, my John,” he would rumble into John’s ear. “So perfect,” and he’d drop a kiss onto the faded scar. “Oh, my love, my love.” He’d come shuddering and pulsing into John. Often they’d fall asleep like this; still linked, still joined. Wrapped up in each other, safe and happy.
This was their land of milk and honey.