A rare week with time passing hastelessly. Out of London and into the woods where stillness laps at leafed fringes of possibility.
Entwined fingers; John, Sherlock. Loosely held – the air is thick.
Why so still? Ah, no wind…
There are no leaves rustling, John. Listen: only birds.
John hears not one leaf rustling nor whispering. Squirrels scitter over the dead leafcarpet and high into pines, whilst to the pace of the boys' slow steps birds sing. The near silence is almost harsh compared to the city's cry, many's voice.
Poetic, Sherlock.
They kiss against a tree. It is too big for their outstretched hands to meet around its girth. It is gnarled and vast and beautiful, kept with devotion by its quiet home for hundreds of years, probably, its rings ripples in time. Hundreds of years, like their legacy. Upon Sherlock's shirtclad back its bark scrawls. John's lips upon Sherlock's heart scrawl, gently mark him, gently.
Oh, hot and slow. Slow slide of tongues, hasteless in the woods.
Their gaze meets a roe deer. Her glossy red rump stills and she watches them, eyes imparting still wisdom. Noble creatures three, smiling and still; she soon melts back into leaves and drifts away.
Their minds and hearts are up with the birds: only their bodies remain below.