Retirement: Even the world's only consulting detective must have one.

'John, where are you? SH'

'On my way. What's happened?'

'I need you to be back as soon as possible. It's an emergency. SH'

'No it's not'

'Is the flat on fire again?' John typed after a few minutes of silence from his friend.

'Because in this case you should be calling the fire brigade, not me. I'm a doctor, do you remember?'

'Of course it's not that, the flat is all right. SH'

'You're also a soldier. SH'

'And my blogger. SH'

John laughed a bit at that and was met by curious glances from the passengers seated in front of him. He hated public transport because it took him an eternity to go back home from the surgery. It seemed to him that it took him longer every afternoon, or maybe he was getting more tired every day. His head heavy and feeling a bit fuzzy, he was on the verge of falling asleep when his phone had vibrated in his jacket with the text from the mad detective he called a colleague and a friend.

'In which capacity do you need me now?'

'All of them. SH'

'Are you hurt?'

This imbecile should have started there, John thought to himself. He always had to go around the matter to create mystery, while he could be tranquilly bleeding to death in some dark corner. He could imagine him, right now, on the sofa or in his room in Baker Street, enveloped in the blue and silver gown, which Mrs Hudson and he gave him the previous Christmas and which had become his new favourite. He could see him in his pyjama, listless and laying on his back, probably on the point of losing consciousness because of his injuries. He would take the time to reach for his phone and type all those lazy answers before going to the point, though.

'No. I don't think so at least. SH'

'What are you trying to say? Don't fool with me, I'm not in the mood.'

'My spine hurts. SH'

He was expecting a more sophisticated answer, but, once again, Sherlock was playing with mystery. He frowned and started to answer, but received a new message before he could finish.

'I'm not hurt. I don't think I hit anything. I looked in the mirror and there is no visible sign of injury, John. SH'

Amused and curious, he imagined Sherlock, a smirk on his face, standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom while rolling up his pyjama t-shirt to try to find an lesion on his body. Only Sherlock Holmes could spend hours injured without noticing, as his body was transport to him.

'When did the pain start? Do you have any other symptom?'

'When I woke up. No. It didn't hurt when we came back last night. SH'

The night before, they had been wandering around Whitechapel and had gotten in trouble with some petty criminals. They hadn't been in any real danger, but they had run at least two kilometres to escape the criminals who were after them. There had been no need for a confrontation or a fight, but John had to admit he had been left exhausted. Right now, he could barely keep his eyes opened. The only thing he wanted was to go back home, drink a cup of tea and go to bed.

'I don't remember you hurting yourself yesterday.'

'Neither do I. SH'

'I'll visit you when I arrive, don't worry.'

'Unnecessary. SH'

'That's not what I wanted to talk about. We have a case. SH'

John groaned in protest. His whole body wanted to rebel against it. He couldn't go out again tonight.

'Am I really necessary? Sherlock, I'm exhausted.'

'Are you? SH'

'Of course I am. Not all adults can afford to sleep until noon because they have been playing at catching criminals the night before. Some of us have a job.'

Ok, that had been a bit unfair: Sherlock never obliged John to follow him, but John found it every time more and more difficult not to accompany him in his adventures.

'I work. SH'

'Your job at the surgery is boring and tedious. I can't imagine how you can stand treating old hypochondriacs and children full of mucus all morning. You should resign. SH'

'MY work pays the bills. You like taking a hot bath, don't you?'

He didn't get an answer immediately. The rhythmic movement of the Tube was having a relaxing effect on him and it was becoming more and more difficult for John to stay awake. It was so tempting to just let go, drift off to sleep and completely forget that he was surrounded by strangers and not in his comfortable bed. The ring tone warning him that he had received a new message woke him up and he rubbed his eyes before reading it.

'Bad day? SH'

'Not really. I'm tired and I might fall asleep before I get home. I feel frustrated because I'm not already in my room.'

'Or in the living room.'

'Right now, I would even sleep on the sofa.'

'Falling asleep in a public transport, where does you addiction to danger stops, Captain Watson? SH'

This made John laugh, and he was certain that a few kilometres away, in Baker Street, his friend was laughing too at his own joke. He would be imagining the brave doctor John Watson losing his battle against sleep. But he was really tired; he hadn't been lying when he had said that even the sofa would do. He knew that he would regret it in the morning, when he would wake up with a dull ache in the neck, though.

'You didn't sleep on the sofa by chance?'

'Of course I did. SH'

He should have known: Sherlock would never decide to sleep during a case; he would fall from exhaustion on any surface, once again unaware of the needs of his body.

'Your backache started after you woke up on the sofa?'

'Don't be ridiculous, John. I always sleep on the sofa and it's never happened before. SH'

'You know what it means, don't you?'

One, two, three minutes and still no answer. His last message had probably taken by surprise the genie who felt the nearly compulsive need to solve any puzzle. The question had surprised him, and John knew that, proud as he was, he wouldn't admit he hadn't the faintest.

'Come on, think. I'm getting more tired day after day. Your body is starting to hurt when you sleep in an uncomfortable position. It's pure physiology.'

Once again, he got no answer. He felt a childish sense of victory and answered immediately.

'We are getting old.'

'No, it's not true. SH'

'Of course it is. I'm already 41: I can't go out to run a marathon at night and go to work fresh as a daisy the next morning after two hours of sleep. And apparently you cannot either.'

'You're not old John. Don't be ridiculous. And I'm certainly not either. SH'

'I would know if I was getting old. SH'

'One day you got a bullet in your arm and you wouldn't have noticed if it hadn't been for me.'

Sherlock stopped answering again. Knowing him, something else must have caught his attention: the new case was probably keeping him busy in his mental palace. This didn't bother John: he was used to the fact that Sherlock, from one moment to the next, would stop talking because he was lost in the jealously preserved structure in his brain. What would it be this time? It didn't seem urgent: if it was, Sherlock would already be heading for the crime scene at the moment. Oh God, let's hope there is no crime scene at the flat.

'How can I know? SH'

'What? What are you talking about?'

His thoughts and ideas were foggy in his half-asleep mind. How long would it still take to arrive? Shit, he was really going to fall asleep.

'Really John, catch up on the conversation. How can I know that I'm getting old? What are the signs? SH'

'Well, I don't know… You start to wake up to pee three or four time every night. You wake up at 6am, you start complaining about everything, talking about the past with nostalgia and saying that young people are not what they used to be. You watch the news in the afternoon. You like to go for walks in the park to feed the ducks in the pond.'

'I'm serious, John. SH'

John's brain reproduced the message with Sherlock voice, half irritated, half trying to keep a straight face. John tried not to laugh while imagining Sherlock with each of the ridiculous characteristics of a typical old man.

'I know, I know, I'm joking. They are not to be excluded, though.'

'I seriously doubt that I will find feeding wild ducks satisfying one day, John. SH'

John could picture Sherlock, a few inches shorter, but still wearing his huge coat and his scarf, seated in front of the duck pond, lazily throwing bread to them, while muttering 'bored'. This image repeated itself in his head, and he busted out laughing. Once again the other passengers looked at him, half surprised half outraged. John bit his lip to try to regain control.

'Well, you can also have joint pain. And the first signs are wrinkles and grey hair, so I guess that should affect you before the irresistible need to feed ducks in a park.'

Two minutes after, his phone rang twice. This time, Sherlock's message was accompanied by a file.

'I think I found a wrinkle. I'm not sure whether it qualifies as two small wrinkles or a big one that is divided into two. What is the scale to measure them? I sent a picture. SH'

The attached picture was confusing. John had to blink and move the screen away from him to make sense of the pink fuzzy patch, which ended up being Sherlock's brow. He recognized it after a few minutes thanks to the dark locks on the corner of the image. Another ring warned John that he had received other pictures – or at least one other. This one had been taken from the same angle, but from more distance. Sherlock's face had the most ridiculous expression John had ever seen: he was frowning and his lips were tightly closed, just as John had imagined a few minutes before.

'Really, Sherlock? Stop taking photos in the bathroom, I'm coming.' However, John felt amused by the Sherlock's childish curiosity regarding this subject. So he had never thought about the possibility of getting old? Well, he was like a child trapped in an adult body in a way, but still, he must have imagined himself getting old.

'Waiting is boring. Just look at the damn photos. SH'

John looked at them quickly, although it was not necessary: he spent so much time with the man that he knew his face by heart. Maybe Sherlock wasn't aware of the changes in his body, but John was. It was his duty as a doctor to spot any change in Sherlock's face that could indicate a health problem. Well, he couldn't deny that he also spent a lot of time just observing his friend's face, his pale skin and heart-shaped lips. He also killed time by looking at Sherlock's eyes: a game he kept jealously secret consisted in guessing their colour every morning when he got downstairs. Would they be blue, green or grey? John was also aware of the signs of change: he knew with precision that the previous year, when his friend became 37, the first wrinkles appeared on his brow.

'Two little ones. It's no big deal. I also have some. Don't worry, you still look good.'

'I know it's no big deal, don't be ridiculous, John. SH'

'You said I look good. Why? SH'

Because John's brain had abandoned him at least three minutes ago, before he could realize the magnitude of what he had just admitted.

'Because it's true.'

He wasn't going to lie, but he wasn't going to elaborate either. This was a dangerous topic and he was not going near it when he was so tired that he could barely coordinate his fingers on the keyboard of his mobile phone.

'Anyway, you've really never thought about what would happen when you get old? Everyone thinks about it at least once in their life.'

'I'm not everyone. SH'

'You've got a point, but what did you imagine when you were a child? Every child, even a Holmes, imagines what they want to be when they grow up.'

'I wanted to be a consulting detective. SH'

'That's it?'

'Well, at one point I entertained the idea of having my own ship and crew. SH'

'Ok, I understand. But listen to me Sherlock: being a pirate is not a retirement plan.'

'Boring. SH'

'I might never retire, that's all. SH'

'Everyone has to retire one day: Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft and even the only consulting detective in the world.'

'Why? SH'

'Because, one day, when you go out running after London criminals you will find that they are faster than you. You'll be tired and ill, and you won't be able to keep on with this lifestyle. You simply won't be able to.'

'I need more information. I'm taking your computer. SH'

'Go on, take it, no problem. Please, I insist.'

'Sarcasm? SH'

'The Science of Deduction strikes again.'

The next message he received was not from Sherlock, but from Sarah, who had made changes to his schedule for the rest of the week. He had been working at the surgery for quite some time and he hadn't thought about his future in the field of medicine up to that day. His job paid the bills, but he thought about it more as secondary, while helping Sherlock with cases and writing up their adventures was what he really liked. How long could he continue like this? The thought of working at the clinic for another fifteen or twenty year made him sick. No, no it' wasn't a possibility.

'It is said that individuals can stay active until 65 years old, some can even stay active until 70. Given my abilities, I am sure I can stretch this limit a few years, which means at least 30 years of productivity, John. SH'

'Where did you read that eating Chinese and having tea and biscuits every three or four days will make you live until 77 with our life pace? And I'm not even talking about the fact that you barely sleep and that you stupidly run into trouble not to get bored.'

' .uk. SH'

'There is a medical questionnaire. I will fill it in to confirm my hypothesis. SH'

'A stupid test on the web… you must be joking.'

'This questionnaire is perfectly valid. It was written by the most prominent specialists in gerontology and lifestyle in the UK. SH'

'Do I need to remind you that I'm your fucking doctor?'

'No need to be jealous, I know perfectly well that you're my GP. SH'

'I am not jealous.'

'Oh, I think you are. SH'

'Fuck you. Next time you need a bullet out of you biceps, go ask .uk to do you the favour.'

'That's stupid. SH'

'No, I'm not stupid. I'm not the one asking a web page how many years I still have to live. Am I the only one to think that THAT is STUPID?'

'I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about the questionnaire: according to it, I have less than five years to live. SH'

'Ridiculous. SH'

'Not professional at all. SH'

'Nobody, not even I, know for how long a person is going to live. SH'

'I should have listened to you John. From now on, you are the only doctor I'm going to listen to. SH'

'John. SH'

'John? SH'

'Are you angry? SH'

'John, I'm bored. SH'

'I'm sending a virus to .uk. SH'

A teenager, walking past the inert body of a blond doctor, ran into the man's arm, waking him up brusquely and sending his mobile phone flying.

'Fuck, Sherlock. I fell asleep.' John wrote the last message while rubbing his eyes to stay alert and not fall asleep again.

'You are not going to die in five years, I will not allow it.'

'Really? SH'

'Of course ;)'

'How can you make sure of it? SH'

It was an easy question: he would continue to do what he was doing every day since they met. However, he waited a bit before answering.

'Because I'll be there to make sure you eat and sleep, and that you don't get shot as usual.'

'What will you do when you retire? SH'

Did he have retirement plans? He had thought about being old, but quickly and without going into details. He had thought of a nice wife with kind eyes at his side and two grown-up kids who would visit them from time to time, but would usually be too busy to go to their parent's cottage, where John would have a private practice. However, time had passed; a war, a bullet wound and Sherlock Holmes had passed. This well-thought future didn't seem appealing anymore. That day, with years of adulthood behind him, he understood that it would not make him happy. It seemed so boring.

'I don't know. I'm not sure. I would like to have my own private practice somewhere in the country… Maybe. I'm just imagining.'

'Sounds good. SH'

'John? SH'

'What?'

'Stay awake. SH'

- I am awake, he whispered in the palm of his hand, while repressing a yawn

'John. SH'

'I'm here.'

'I like bees. SH'

The blond doctor had to read the message twice to make sure he had read correctly. What did that have to do with their conversation?

'Whaaaat?'

'I've always thought that apiculture was interesting, but life in London doesn't seem compatible with raising bees. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't let me have any in the flat. SH'

'Don't even think about it.'

'That's what I thought. SH'

'But it's compatible with life in the country. SH'

It took John longer than necessary to understand what his friend was saying. Was he implying what John thought he was implying? He sat straight and thought carefully about his next answer.

'I guess we could have your bees and my practice at the same place.'

'I have a house in Sussex that we could use. SH'

'You have a house?'

'Technically, but I've never seen it. I inherited it from my grandfather. I should talk to Mycroft about it. SH'

John imagined Sherlock Holmes in twenty years. His eyes wouldn't have changed: intense and sharp when analysing. John would still be able to see the naivety in his movements when he told him something from the popular culture that he had decided to forget or simply not learn. The lines around his eyes would be more pronounced, he would have some wrinkles on his brow and grey hair would start to appear among his dark locks. He wouldn't change much: John imagined him running around in the living room, muttering something about being bored or experimenting in the kitchen. Was it wrong to dream about that? Probably, but he was tired and he wanted to indulge in the pleasure of imagining spending the afternoon at his desk, writing about their latest adventures, while Sherlock went out in his white protective clothing to work with his bees. He also imagined that they would sleep in the same bed at night, exchange the news of the day and the progression of their work. John would tell anecdotes about his patients and Sherlock would be rude about it. However, John would be there to be his moral compass and the detective would look at him with a half-confused half-sorry look that would make him look as handsome as he used to be in his thirties. John would be allowed to drag his fingers in his dark locks and taste his heart-shaped lips. John had no idea how they tasted, but, in his imagination, they were sweeter than the honey produced by bees Sherlock didn't have yet.

'Wake up. SH'

John moaned with frustration and locked away the vivid dreams which were becoming more and more frequent.

'I'm awake.'

'Good. SH'

'How do you feel about having a cat? SH'

'I prefer dogs.'

'Then we should have a dog. SH'

'What are we talking about?'

'Our retirement, I thought it was obvious. SH'

'A cottage in Sussex, where you could have a private practice and I could raise bees. And there are good chances we shall have a dog. SH'

He could imagine his future and was more than happy when he left the Tube only a few streets away from Baker Street. John was fidgeting with his phone while walking. Was Sherlock conscious of what he was saying? It was Sherlock after all, and John was never sure he understood social interactions.

'John. SH'

'I'm not far away now. Do you have any idea of what you are talking about?'

'Our retirement. SH'

'John, there wouldn't be any of your girlfriends there, right? SH'

'I wasn't even thinking about it.'

- Of course not, you big idiot.

'Good. I don't like them. SH'

'Why?'

'I'm not good at sharing, John. I think that after all these years, even without any gift for observation, you should have noticed it. SH'

'And?'

'You are mine, John. SH'

The shiver that went down his spine forced him to stop just in front of the door to 221b. He read the message again, his mind going blank and his pulse racing.

'You are my friend, my blogger, my flatmate, you are my John. SH'

'I don't want to share you, John. SH'

He had to lean against the door of his own flat: he couldn't get in and face Sherlock in this state. He had no idea of what he was saying, of how the ambiguity in his words were bringing up all the bad ideas John had locked away in a dark corner of his mind where they could not hurt anyone: his complex about his sexuality, Sherlock's lack of thereof, the feeling of camaraderie that was rooted so profoundly that John sometimes confused it for love.

'I don't want to share you either.'

'Obviously. SH'

He meant to ask what was so obvious, but the door suddenly vanished behind him and he nearly fell. Two arms caught him and he discovered that it was none other than Sherlock holding him to prevent him from falling.

- Are you going to come in? The deep baritone voice went straight to his heart, making it beat madly. Obvious: it was obvious in the way John tensed when he was close, in the way his soldier instincts told him to move a few centimetres away and stop there, his fist balled and jaw clenched, in the way his blue eyes never looked away, but never hiding the vulnerability that only Sherlock could see either.

- Sherlock, I… He shifted his weight on his good leg, anxious.

The eyes of the detective, which were blue with traces of green that day, went anxiously over John, deducing everything about him. He moved a few centimetres forward in the direction of the doctor and watched the effect he was having on his friend. John pupils where blown and made his eyes look very dark. He closed the space between them and covered John's lips with his own. He kissed him tentatively first, before gently sucking in his inferior lip.

- Was it not good? asked the detective, breaking the kiss quickly. He stepped back and tried to keep a straight face while analysing his beloved John, who didn't seem ready to react anytime soon.

- No, no, no… it was good. What the hell? muttered John. He felt so confused that he was starting to doubt whether he was conscious or not. Had he fallen asleep again?

- I think I had been quite obvious when I said you were mine.

Had he? John had no idea what was going on at this point. This beautiful and mad genius was thinking way faster than him and, like on every case, John was having trouble catching up with the events. Before he could answer, the detective smiled and went running up the stairs into the flat.

- Come on, John, he shouted from the top of the stairs, sounding delighted suddenly. We've got to plan the rest of our lives.

- Wh… What? John stammered, fighting a stupid grin.

- Sussex, bees, dogs, your practice… John could hear Sherlock's voice disappearing inside the flat, while his friend was making a list of what would be the rest of their lives together.