Work Text:
Since my retirement I have lived in a simple albeit fully-functional cottage not so far away from the coast. The first floor consists of a living room, a kitchen, and a small study. The two rooms upstairs, facing east and west respectively, are meant to function as bedchambers. The east chamber I took for myself, for the west — though it was slightly larger in size — had a leak in the ceiling when I moved in. It is an old place after all, built some one hundred years ago, and its owner before me was, I learned, constantly away and neglected to keep up with maintenance. I had the leak patched, the rotting flooring where rain had been dripping fixed, and turned the west chamber into a storage room, where books and equipment that no longer engage my interest now lie gathering dust. I sometimes think that it could probably be put to better use, but at the moment there isn’t much else to do with it. I have half an acre of land to myself, which I use for beekeeping, and recently I have also considered taking up horticulture.
The nearby village is ten minutes away by foot. It is a small community of only around two hundred people; as a result everyone knows each other and all their business, and are all to a certain degree interested in sticking their noses into each other’s business. That is starkly different from what I am used to, having lived in London for nearly all of my adulthood. London is like a great swarm that travels rapidly and mercilessly. Men devote all their energy to keeping his footing within that swarm. They walk briskly and with direction, keep their head down, speak only the bare minimum that is necessary, and cannot be bothered to care. That way of life is almost simple, and a blessing, in a way, for people like me who find little joy in meaningless social interactions. But I am happy to say that I was able to form agreeable but reasonably distant relationships with my current neighbours. Thanks to Watson, my name is not exactly unknown even in this secluded little village far out by the Sussex coast, and I’ve been subject to a few curious inquiries, here and there, about some of our old cases, but overall the villagers are understanding enough to not make a fuss over it and leave me alone. They now mostly know me as the solitary old man who takes long walks by the coastline and comes to the fair to trade honey every so often.
I receive very few guests. Mycroft, who rarely even called upon me when I was but a cab ride away in London, can hardly be expected to take the pains of a train ride down to the Sussex coast. Lestrade has visited twice, though due to his failing health I fear he will not make a third one. As for Watson — Watson is still practising medicine in London. An occasional social call on the weekend is all I get from him, and those have grown fewer and farther between. It is only natural, of course. After all, my career, which had ended for good, was the link that kept us together. I can no longer provide him with the thrill of adventure and stories to output to the Strand. He has no more to expect from me, and nor should I from him. I am only glad to know that he is in good health, doing well, and living a fulfilled life.
It is quiet down here. Sometimes I find myself missing London, and my seat by the fireplace at Baker Street. But mostly, I am content to be here and stay here. As Watson had relayed in his story, in the past I have expressed some manner of disdain towards life in the country. And indeed, if someone told me ten years ago that I would one day leave behind the din of the city for the peace and quiet of the countryside, I would surely have scoffed at them. Alas, how we change over the years!
Additions made June 1931
Five years after I wrote the above, and shortly after the conclusion of the Great War, Watson sold his practice in London and came to stay with me here in Sussex. How funny it is that in the end we still wind up rooming together — so Watson had remarked. Indeed, fate — may I call it that? — certainly works in mysterious ways. The west chamber was thus cleared out and became Watson’s bedroom. I say his bedroom, but the reality is that I spent as much time there as I did in mine.
It had taken me until then to realise that I had been wrong about Watson all this time. He did love me for the man I was, beyond the work I did, beyond the idea I represented on paper. It had also taken him until then to finally see how deeply I longed for him to be by my side, how indispensable I’d always found him to be. In retrospect it is almost amusing how insecure both of us were. Nevertheless, I cannot put into words how lucky I was to have him. With Watson by my side, I found that I had wholly ceased to miss London. Perhaps it had not been London that I was missing after all.
Watson passed away five years later, and then for a long time I was confined to bed by an illness of unknown origin during which, I am ashamed to say, I let his chambers fall into disrepair. The roofing eventually began to leak again as a result of the frequent rain. When I recovered and regained my energy I tried my best to restore it to a presentable state and have since kept it that way, though I never put it to any practical use again. It is rather like a stronghold of memories. Once I sit down there I remain for hours just staring out the window, often until the sun sets.
There is an apple tree right outside that window. Watson planted it there the year before he died. It has since grown so tall that its foliage has nearly covered the entirety of the window now. Today is the first day it flowers.