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The Downs had taught Sherlock patience. Bees required it; so did chalk grassland, orchids, soil samples, the butterfly surveys he undertook with the local conservation group. London still arrived by email, telephone and video: murders in locked rooms, missing husbands, blackmail. He solved them between tending the hives. Crime had become something that visited rather than something inhabited.
John arrived on a Wednesday.
Sherlock knew him before the gate clicked. The tread was slower, breathing shallower. When he looked up, John seemed altered beyond the mathematics of twelve months: thinner, greyer, his face drawn around the eyes.
“Sherlock.”
“John.” Sherlock waited. Words came slowly with John. That had always been the case.
“I... I’m sorry.” John rubbed his palm against his coat. “Every day we spent apart feels like a year.”
“That makes no sense. It would be several lifetimes, and neither of us has that.” Sherlock stood, turned away and walked towards the cottage. There were specimen envelopes on the table, three jars requiring labels, a queen to inspect before dusk.
“Sherlock, please.” John’s voice broke.
Sherlock stopped but did not turn. “Help me pack, John. The game must go on.”
Behind him, a gasp broke the silence. A hesitant step, then another.
Sherlock turned. John’s eyes glistened, his lips slightly parted.
“Do keep up.” Sherlock smiled softly at him.