Sunset, a golden sky above a green garden, and gazing out of the window of the small cottage, a man stands playing a violin. He closes his eyes and sways a bit as he plays, committing to memory the rainbow-edged sky fading to blue. So focused he is on this, that he doesn't notice the sound of steps as the front door quietly opens.

A man enters, bags in his hands, silhouetted by the fading light. He stands frozen in the doorway listening to the music. The player stills as the last of the notes sail on, then he cocks his head. And with eyes still closed he asks, "John?"

"Hello Sherlock. May I come in?"

Sherlock turns waving his bow dramatically as he looks at the man in the doorway. "Why bother to ask? You're already inside." He places the violin and bow into its case, and then turns to look at the man who is still waiting. "I didn't hear you knock."

"I didn't knock. I didn't want to interrupt your playing."

"It's not like it's anything important. Just something that I do to amuse myself."

"How can you say that? Your playing is amazing. It's one of the wonders of the universe. Such a waste that no one ever gets to hear it."

"Well, today you did."

"And I feel my luck. That's why I didn't knock."

"Close the door. It's getting chill."

John closes the door quietly but firmly. "You shouldn't leave your door unlocked like this. There have been break-ins reported in the area."

"Break-ins? You mean by people other than you? Don't be such a worry-wart John. It was day, and I'm hardly a prime target for criminal activity. That being said, I'd welcome a break-in. It'd liven up things around here. Sometimes life in the country can be deadly dull."

John places his luggage on the floor beside the door, one suitcase, and his medical bag. Then he turns back to face Sherlock who is still standing across the room. They observe each other in the insufficient light of the windows and one small table lamp, which attempts to light their faces but somehow only succeeds in casting more shadows.

"How did you find me? I was quite certain not to leave my forwarding address."

"I know. I was surprised that you hadn't told Mrs Hudson where you'd gone. I must have called you a dozen times, and left you twice as many texts. Surely even this place has phone reception."

"It might, if I chose to connect my phone. You haven't answered my question though, how did you find me?"

"I asked your brother."

Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft. Of course, he would know, but why would he tell you where I am?"

"I can be very persuasive."

Sherlock smiled at that. "Yes, you can. But surely you must have guessed that I came here to get away from everyone. What brings you here?"

"I heard about the accident. I was worried."

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine. You can go back home now."

"I won't leave until I've examined you myself."

"Oh, a house call from Dr Watson? I'm honored. Not many doctors do them in this day and age. John, I'm fine. The best doctors checked me out after the accident. Mycroft made sure of that."

"Well, I have my own opinions about what constitutes proper care."

There was silence again as the two of them stared at each other. Sherlock gave in first. He bowed his head, hobbling over to the chair beside the fireplace. John hung his coat on the hook before moving over to take the other chair. He looked at Sherlock for a moment and then rose, bending down before the fireplace and lighting the wood with a match from the mantle. He cupped his hands and blew. Bright red sparks flew from the kindling, and soon a strong flame rose licking the logs so that they came ablaze. John dusted the soot off of his hands, and then wiped them on his pants legs before sitting back down in the chair across from Sherlock.

"Feels like old times this. You and me sitting beside the fire. It's been a long time. Far too long since we've seen each other."

"Eight years, three months and two days, if you don't count Mike Stamford's funeral. You were called away before it was over."

"Oh yes, that's right. Janet Sullivan, pre-eclampsia. I meant to talk to you then, but... we kept missing each other."

"Yes, we did."

A silence descended as the world outside of the windows faded to black. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the light tapping of Sherlock's fingers on the arm of the chair.

"You brought your bags," Sherlock said. "Do you plan to stay the night?"

"I meant to get here early enough to get a room at the nearby bed and breakfast, but the driver got lost more than once. I had to call Mycroft's office for directions. He finally ended up dropping me off on the side of a deserted road beside a battered letter box, and I walked for two miles down what looked like a cow path to get here. I doubt that they'd pick me up again before morning, even if I could find my way back to the road. How did you make it here injured as you are?"

"I told you John, I'm fine. You needn't have gone to such trouble."

"It's no trouble, really, but I do think that I might have to kip on your couch tonight."

"I don't have a couch, and this cottage only has one bedroom. but you can sleep in my bed. I've got something I'm composing so, I don't mind staying up tonight."

"I'm not turning an injured man out of his bed. This isn't the first time that I've slept in a chair. You know that."

"I do. I also know how much you complain about your back afterwards."

"Well, I'm not taking your bed."

"Then we can get the spare bed out of the attic. Are you willing to do a bit of lifting?"

"Certainly, but I'd like a cup of tea first. Trudging through the woods with two cases tends to dry a fellow out. But I want to be useful. I'll make the tea myself, if you don't mind."

"I never minded you making tea, John."

"Then point the way to the kitchen."

Sherlock gestured grandly back in the direction from which they had come and John rose to his feet passing across the room and into the kitchen. He turned on the light and looked around briefly zeroing in on the kettle. He filled it with water and put it on the stove, before searching the cupboard for tea.

Sherlock entered just as he found it. He sat down at the kitchen table and watched John with eyes that ate up every movement. John looked back at him and smiled.

"You seem quite... alert. What are you looking at? I'm only making tea."

"Only making tea? John, you must know what an understatement that is. You are supremely good at making tea."

"Oh, you could do it if you ever stirred yourself to learn. Besides, doesn't Eric ever make tea for you?"

"Coffee. Eric drinks coffee. He did attempt to make tea once or twice, but he gave up the attempt after I scoffed at him."

"I suppose that we can't fault him for not knowing how to make a proper pot of tea. He is American after all."

"Yes, it's quite a failing."

"Where is Eric by the way? Why didn't he come with you? I can't see walking a mile or ten fazing a strong lad like him."

"He's taking his mother on a tour of Germany. Apparently, she's always wanted to see Berlin. I'm more surprised that you found time to be away from your family. How's Mary and the baby?"

"They're fine. She has a friend staying over to help her while I'm away, and Violet is loving being a big sister. "

"But she was already a big sister."

"According to her, William didn't count because he was a boy. Apparently to be a true big sister, one must be sister to a girl."

"I see. If only Mycroft would have felt that way. Then perhaps he would have left me alone more, the meddling prat."

"Now Sherlock, you shouldn't talk about your brother like that. He has helped you out of some serious scrapes before."

"What is this, John? Are you fathering me now? I'm much too old for such a thing."

"Once a father, always a father."

"I suppose that's true. Thank heavens that I have escaped the curse."

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I think that you might make a good father."

"Don't be ridiculous. Look, the water is boiling."

Then John noticed the rising wail of the kettle. He turned off the heat, and poured it into the teapot to steep. Then he brought two mugs and sugar to the table before looking into the refrigerator. "Sherlock, you don't have milk."

"Of course not. Who would lug it out here? You might, however, find a cow on the path somewhere if you're lucky." Sherlock gestured with the back of his hand toward the wall, and John turned to look as if he could see cows roaming through it.

"Nevermind. We'll make do without it," John said as he poured the tea. He added the sugar stirring it in before passing it to Sherlock who lifted the mug to his lips and closed his eyes in pleasure.

"I don't know how you do it, John, but somehow, you always make a perfect cup of tea."

"Some people just have the knack, although it would be much better with milk. We'll get some tomorrow."

Sherlock lowered the mug, but kept both hands on it as he looked at John. "How long do you plan to stay here?"

"How long will it be until you consent to an examination?"

"John, I don't need one. I told you, the doctors released me. I'm perfectly fine."

"It may be a few days then."

"Fine. Then let's get that bed down from the attic."

"After my tea, Sherlock."

"Of course."

They drank in companionable silence, and when Sherlock's cup was empty, John made him another. The cottage was quiet the way that Baker Street had never been. There were noises, but they were different: The tick of the clock on the wall. The scrape of tree branches against the edge of the roof. A drip in the kitchen sink. The crisp crack of a log in the fire.

John placed his mug on the table and waited while Sherlock finished his last sip with a sigh. He nodded once smiling then said, "Let's go."

They walked out of the kitchen and across the living room to the hallway where Sherlock gestured to a rope hanging from the ceiling. John stood on his toes and stretched, but he couldn't reach it. Sherlock lifted his arm and easily touched the rope, but before he could pull down the attic stairs, he felt a hand pressed against his side.

"Your side is very stiff. The bed can wait. I'm examining you now. Go into the bedroom and undress. I'll wash my hands and get my bag."

"But John..."

The firm look that John gave him silenced Sherlock's outburst, and he turned toward his bedroom. John walked back toward the door to get his bag.