John Watson was like fine wine, Sherlock decided; he only got better with age. Even at the age of eighty-two, Sherlock didn't sleep much, though it hardly mattered. Watching John sleep was the highlight of his morning. The rising sun shone brightly off of John's white hair, infusing the locks with long forgotten gold. The yellow light flowed over the covers, not quite reaching the smartly lined face of the old doctor, and Sherlock watched as the man's eyes opened slowly, a smile crinkling over his face as dark blue met silver-green.
"Good morning, love." John's sleep roughened voice broke the morning silence. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Around three hours." Sherlock replied, earning a pleased smile from John.
"Good. I'll make us some breakfast, shall I?" John sat up, stretching his arms before leaning over to give the prone ex-detective a quick peck before sliding off the bed.
Sherlock joined John not long afterward, sliding into a chair at the kitchen table. With practiced ease, John slid a piece of toast smothered in jam in front of him. They ate in silence, taking turns watching each other, and glancing at the trees swaying peacefully outside their Sussex cottage; a sight so different than what they could see out their windows at their old flat at Baker Street, but equally familiar.
"Do you have to take care of the bees today?" John asked after a few minutes of silence.
"They will be fine for today." Sherlock responded. "I planned on spending today with you."
John's answering smile was positively stunning. After all these years, John still possessed the ability to take his breath away.
"I would like that very much." John said, reaching out to take Sherlock's weathered hand in his.
They spent their day strolling along the beach near their cottage, watching as the waves from the channel crashed against the sandy shore.
"Do you remember our honeymoon?" Sherlock asked as they neared a crowded section of public beach.
"How could I forget?" John asked, laughing already at the memory. "We were supposed to spend the week in the Bahamas, but you caught wind of a nice string of serial killings in Florida and managed to divert the plane."
"How could I let such an opportunity go?" Sherlock asked John. "The police obviously had no idea who had committed the crimes."
"I still have no idea how you not only managed to convince the pilots to land in Florida, but how you also avoided angry passengers when they realized that they weren't in the Bahamas…"
"Best leave some things to the imagination." Sherlock replied, a smirk on his face. John huffed a laugh.
"What brought all this up, then?" John asked in confusion.
"It appears we have some fans that have decided to pay us a visit." Sherlock said, nodding to a group of excited looking thirty, forty and fifty year olds making their way over.
And sure enough, the group knew all about the duo. They had grown up, according to one excitable woman, with their parents reading them the stories of Dr Watson. Several years after Sherlock had returned from his 'death', a publisher had approached John and begged to let them publish their adventures, reprinting not only the blog posts, but other anecdotes that John and Sherlock could remember.
After getting pictures with the ex-detective and his loyal husband, the group left, chattering away excitedly. Sherlock and John watched them leave, amusement on both of their faces. It was always interesting to meet people who had read their stories, who remembered their adventures better than they could.
Sherlock and John turned around, walking the winding path back to their cottage, chatting pleasantly all the way. They didn't often get days to themselves, Sherlock still helped the Scotland Yard on occasion from the comforts of their Sussex home, using video to tell the Yard exactly how stupid they were. When he wasn't busy helping the police, Sherlock spent his days tending to the bees he kept behind the cottage. John, for his part, taught medical students at the local university.
"It's just the two of us." Sherlock told John as the cottage loomed in front of them, the channel creating the perfect soundtrack. "Just the two of us against the rest of the world."
Sherlock leaned down, pressing his lips against John's temple. It was as it always should be.
A/N: An ask-box fic request from the lovely mattsmiths-booty on Tumblr.
"Could you please do a fluffy retirement!lock, johnlock of course, where it's just like a day in their Sussex cottage life? Much love, beautiful."
And how could I say no to such a fluffy prompt? I couldn't, I tell ya! The title for this piece comes from Emily Dickinson's "809":
Unable are the Loved to die Unable they that love—to die
For Love is Immortality,
Nay, it is Deity—
For Love reforms Vitality
Into Divinity.