It was safe to say that it had been years— possibly decades— since the detectives gave up their residency in 221B to allow Mrs. Hudson to care for another set of crime-solving, vigilante-types who had aspired to be like the pair since their childhoods; it had been years since they moved onto a small stretch of green land in Sussex Downs. Aside from John's company and the comfort of regular and mundane routines, the land was lonely. Sherlock was ready to care for something else, ready to finally put his life-long dreams into action. He was ready to finally have a hive of small, fuzzy, and yellow companions buzzing around to pollenate the fields of lonely wildflowers.
But, John had concerns— concerns about his companion's dwindling health, the state of their aching joints and shaking hands; concerns about their increasing forgetfulness. When he relayed this to Sherlock, the ex-detective's thin figure shook with laughter, his existing crow's feet crinkling extensively as the humour reached his eyes and he clapped a veiny hand against partner's shoulder. "My dear," he laughed, having become familiar with pet names over the years, "Do you really think achy knees will fatally inhibit my abilities to be a beekeeper?"
John shrugged, letting Sherlock's laughter infect him with a hearty chuckle. "I suppose not," he answered, "But, I don't want you out on those fields all by yourself."
Sherlock shook his grey head with amusement, running his weathered hand along John's bent back. "I won't be out there alone," he grinned, "It will be just like the old days. Except, your limp is no longer psycho symptomatic, and honey will take the place of the most dangerous criminals in London."
John smiled fondly, leaning his head into his companion's frail shoulder as he replied. "That doesn't sound too bad," he answered.
"It could be dangerous," Sherlock answered, easing John's evident and persisting indecision with a small joke.
John chuckled, finally assenting whole-heartedly to the idea of beekeeping. "I could get behind it, I suppose," he said, running his liver spotted hand along the small of his partner's back.
"I'm well aware of that, John," Sherlock replied with a soft chuckle, "I've already made plans with a small bee farm a couple miles north of here, we're scheduled to be there in a couple hours."
John sighed. "Of course we are," he said with a wary flutter of laughter, squeezing his hand against Sherlock's side.
Holmes hummed, pressing his lips to John's forehead for a moment before standing up. He handed John his familiar cane, aiding him up from his seat on the rickety porch swing with a strained grunt from both of the withered old men.
They entered the house, the elderly floorboards whining underneath their weight as they made their way through their home to prepare for their brief departure. Sherlock clicked the kettle on as John fumbled to put on proper trousers and tug a tattered, ugly sweater over his head.
The two men drank their tea in comfortable silence; familiar slurps and the light jangling of spoons filling the small space between them. John collected the empty cups with a breathy sigh, and tossed them into the sink with an involuntary grunt. Sherlock grabbed a tattered grey coat off the hook, and the two men were out the door with relative ease.
A short, but beautiful, drive took place, John gently humming against the vast and vibrant green grass and the shocks of purple and blue wildflowers of the countryside. They reached their destination, and a sweet lady— a few years older than the couple— shakily handed Sherlock a case full of bees before he was able to mutter out bits and pieces of her colorful past. John thanked her as the ex-detective paid her.
An endearing sense of excitement buzzed from Sherlock in perfect time with the box of fuzzy, new companions and John laughed with adoration. Not since their last case in London had he seen Sherlock so elated, and every inch of doubt washed from the doctor as he decided that this was going to be the best possible way to spend their last years together.