John Watson always preferred the sights and sounds of a London street to the crickets and breezes of the country, and he assumed Sherlock would be the same, with the way he moved through traffic and crowds and alleys with all the speed and ease of the wind whipping between buildings.
The first time they were called out of the city to investigate a case (the death of a young woman on the second floor, doors and windows locked from the inside), John expected incessant complaints, mutterings about the slowness and utter bore of the country, and general impatience to be off as soon as the case was solved. During the case, there was not a single complaint—this could be attributed easily to the detective's focus on the mystery. But when the case was solved (a poisonous snake left in the woman's bed) and the murderer apprehended (the dead woman and her sister's guardian), Sherlock suggested that they go on a walk, of all things. John was, understandably, flabbergasted, but did not dissuade the detective.
What ensued was just that: a walk. A quiet walk. A casual, pleasant walk through the warm, slow, gold-and-green country air, complete with a path framed by apple trees and a breeze rustling through tall grass, beside the genius, madman, detective, chemist, scientist, friend—Sherlock Holmes.
It was utterly surreal.
Sherlock was unusually still and quiet—worse, it wasn't the frantic quiet or busy quiet, but the rare quiet John only had the pleasure of witnessing around three o'clock in the morning accompanied by a violin. And for some reason, they stopped to watch the bees humming about their business, pollenating the wildflowers.
"You… like it, then?" The doctor finally asked.
"The bees? Yes, I'm rather fond of them." He didn't take his eyes of the little, droning forms.
John shook his head. "No—well, yes—but… I meant the country. I didn't think you'd like it."
Sherlock's lips twitched as though the forgotten urge to smile naturally, without explicit permission from his mind, might be tugging at them. "You thought it would be too boring for me?"
"Well… yes, actually."
"Hm. You fail to notice, then John, all of the small things going on out here." His eyes followed one of the bright, little bees as it graced a cluster of tiny, blue flowers. "But more than that—you fail to see all of the potential."
"Potential for what, exactly?"
"Crime, John. Puzzles. Anything could happen out here—anything might have happened, and no one would know, would they? All because it's slow, and quiet, as you assumed. Such a thing might bore me, it's true, if it weren't for the sheer amount of potential. Surely that can't be lost on you after what we saw in the last case? If the woman's sister had not survived to tell us, there would have been no investigation at all into their deaths."
The doctor nodded, and they fell into another silence, listening to the delicate hum and thrum of the bees.
"Are you saying you'd want to retire somewhere out here?"
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "First things first, John." He started down the path again. "There's still a good chance I could be dead next week, you know."
John chuckled. "Back to the flat, then?"
"Back to the flat."
The doctor followed.