Simplicity

I remembered the sky from those early days; the sky, the feeling produced from his quiet, proud nods, and the smell of the strange amount of dust that dutifully gathered in our chess set every time we opened it for battle. I touch those days with my heart as one might touch an old photograph with one's fingers whenever life seems much too large for one to hold with both arms. It is a silly comfort, simplicity, as it in the eye of its beholder; the young and the old both experience complexity in its various stages.

"Russell, you're not paying attention."I looked up, suddenly aware that my mentor was many steps ahead of me; how I could not keep up with the man at the age of eighteen, I will never know.

"Oh, right. Sorry, Holmes." I glanced back down at the rock I had been kicking for the last ten minutes and proceeded to stumble over it. Curse my traitorous feet.

The dark brown shoes in front of me paused and I directed my gaze back up to the steely eyes of Sherlock Holmes. "You've changed," he said rather quickly. I dubiously quirked an eyebrow at him; of course I had changed.

"I hear that happens when one grows up."

"Russell, one should never grow up. One should always continue as one always has in manner. Wisdom simply polishes this manner; knowledge simply educates it."

I was much surprised by these maudlin sentiments by the man whom I had previously known to consider the attributes of hemoglobin and various violent acts of passion to be the closest links to the human heart. I sighed and picked a spot in the Sussex countryside to become my own. Holmes sat next to me, trying desperately to disguise how badly he needed a break from the hours of exercise, and turned with his infamously pensive stare locked upon my face. I readied myself for an unlovely conversation. "Holmes, how have I changed, then? I certainly have not attempted to do so. Really, Holmes, you ought to know by now that I care not a bit for what others think of me. I'm wearing bloody men's clothing, for God's sake!"

"No, no," Holmes chided, focusing all of his attention on a leave of grass. I assumed the man was uncomfortable. "You have not changed in that way. You... you have grown."

"Very unfortunately for my shoes, I might add." I smiled and looked up at the gaunt, graying man before me and realized the mortality of the seemingly immortal. The smile faded a bit.

"You have matured, Russell. Ah, yes, I suppose that is the word I was looking for. I am in no way offering to buy you a pair of shoes. Anyway, you make too much of a simple comment, Russell. Really, you make me feel like the romantic buffoon that I am in Watson's stories."

I picked a dandelion from the dirt. "'What a lovely thing a rose is!'" I devilishly cried, jumping up from the ground into a theatrical pose and attempting to lighten the mood.

"'Cut out the poetry,' Russell." Holmes grinned back with his perfect teeth. "I do believe I was a bit misguided in my assessment of your maturity."

"Ah, even the great detective falls short of his expectations." I pocketed the weed and we walked back to the cottage in more sweet than bitter company and in simple and mutual acceptance.