John wakes to the feel of cool air and warm bed, vaguely amazed he's slept through the night with no interruptions. He remembers Sherlock offering tea the night before, but it's been years since John's been able to drink anything caffeinated in the evenings. He'd just excused himself with a quiet 'goodnight' and retreated to the bedroom Sherlock had shown him, sinking into sleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
The house is silent. John assumes Sherlock has gone off somewhere, and a quick glance out the window at the empty driveway confirms it. Rubbing his eyes, he reaches over to a weathered wood nightstand, puts on his glasses and picks up his phone. There are no waiting messages, but he has a few of his own to send. He never had got the hang of typing on a laptop, but now his thumbs fly over the small digital keyboard.
To: Annie
From: Dad
Have been kidnapped by Sherlock. No thanks to you.
He hits send and receives a reply while he's in the midst of typing out a longer email.
To: Dad
From: Annie
Good for him. I have no regrets.
John chuckles to himself, shaking his head with a bemused smile, then returns his attention to the email.
To: Neseem Quraishi M.D. quraishin
From: John Watson M.D. watsonjh5
Subject: Mea culpa
Naz -
You might have been contacted by a friend of mine who's taken it on himself to get me out of the city for a few days. Apologies for anything he might have said or done - he's not the best with people. I hope this doesn't cause too much inconvenience - I was reluctant to come, but it might be for the best right now. I should be back within the week. Let me know if you need me back sooner.
- John
Once the email is sent, John sets to pulling himself out of his too-comfortable bed. The antique honeycomb quilt that overlays it is neither too heavy nor too light, and it takes some effort not to slip back between softened sheets and drift back to sleep. He knows it would be easy to give the day over to blanketed unconsciousness, retreating from the world without so much as a sigh. But the day is grey - a cosy, undemanding morning that gives John the strength to throw back the warm covers with a soft huff. Rising, he turns to sit on the side of the bed; his feet just barely brush the smooth wood floorboards, and with his white t-shirt and striped boxers, tousled hair and alert expression, he almost resembles the boy he was some fifty years ago.
John looks out at the white-capped waters just beyond his window, framed on both sides by craggy rocks and rough shrubbery. An early autumnal chill is kept at bay by the warmth of the small cottage, easing - if not erasing - a tightness he's carried for months. He's standing on the cusp of something different and, knowing it, chooses to stand and see what Sherlock has packed for him in his more-than-a-weekend bag.
What his expectations are, John can't say; he's surprised nonetheless to find the things he might have packed himself: a warm, worn jumper and the cranberry-coloured cardigan he's owned since his Baker Street days; four checked shirts and two pairs of jeans. Boxers and socks, toiletries and his bottle of blood pressure medication from the nightstand. In all, a prosaic smattering of John's belongings that seems incongruous with Sherlock's own larger-than-life personality. He pulls the toiletries from his bag, wondering what conclusions Sherlock must have reached from the evidence of his ordinariness, and goes into the bathroom across the hall.
There, he's hit with a disorienting wave of recognition.
Sherlock's things are painstakingly arranged on the right-hand side of the wide wash basin, as they always had been when John had lived at 221B. In those days, Sherlock had had particular ideas about organisational efficiency in the bathroom - something about right and left-handedness, the theory of which had mostly eluded an admittedly uninterested John. All he knew was his own things went on the left - where he lays them now, lining them up neatly as he always had done, then standing back to appreciate their strange symmetry. It strikes John that, however unfamiliar the house is may be, he has a place here; for however long it lasts, he's not alone.
Once he's dressed, John ventures out to the bright front room. Instead of two armchairs flanking the stone fireplace, there's only a long leather sofa placed opposite, the space between broken up by a low wood table. Muted light filters through the wide windows on either side of the room, warmed by two lamps Sherlock's left on. Some papers, Sherlock's laptop, and an empty mug are all that suggest he's been here this morning and, without thinking, John picks up the mug and takes it over to the kitchen, separated from the main room by only a plain dining table. He finds the water for tea already boiled and kept hot in the electric kettle on the counter, as well as a clean mug, tea bag, and small foil packet waiting for him with a note in Sherlock's handwriting.
"Take one with food. You don't want to start smoking again."
John snorts, but he pops a slice of bread in the toaster and takes the pill all the same. As he's waiting for his tea to steep, his phone buzzes.
To: John Watson M.D. watsonjh5
From: Neseem Quraishi M.D. quraishin
Subject: RE: Mea culpa
John -
It's not a problem. I've been saying for weeks you needed to get away, so please take your time there and don't rush back. Your friend was fine - do please thank him for going so far as to arrange a replacement while you're away. You can imagine my surprise when I came in this morning to find Alain Vernet flirting with Lizzy in the waiting room!
Your friend,
Naz
Just before he's finished reading, the sound of the front door opening rouses John's attention, and he turns a gaping face to Sherlock.
"You know Alain Vernet?" he asks without preamble. Sherlock, bright-eyed and ruddy from the crisp air, walks over to the dining table and sets down a couple of cloth carrier bags.
"Yes," he answers - not nearly enough for John.
"How? He's - how?"
Sherlock shrugs, but he can't contain the slight smile tugging at his lips.
"Cousin, on Mummy's side," he explains cryptically, and John lets out a disbelieving laugh.
"Cousin?" he echoes. "Alain Vernet - the Alain Vernet, the one who made it possible to safely use nanotechnology in the treatment of pulmonary embolisms - that Alain Vernet - he's your cousin?"
"Yes?" Sherlock says slowly. John gapes a moment more, before a high, happy laugh bubbles up from inside him.
"And now -" he goes on. "Now -"
"Now?" Sherlock asks, his own eyes beginning to crinkle in sympathetic mirth.
"Now -" John says, laughter turning to high, helpless giggles, "Alain Vernet - the Nobel Prize winner - is - is treating piles -"
Sherlock is chuckling now, too, a wide grin lighting his face.
"- in a neighborhood clinic in Morden!"
They both burst into laughter, Sherlock nodding soundlessly while John doubles over, hands braced on his knees.
"He -" Sherlock gets out between giggles. "He said - he said he could use the change of scenery!"
This precipitates a another wave of laughter lasting a minute or two more.
There's still a smile on John's face after it's faded, and he plops down at the table with his cooling tea, wiping tears from his cheeks.
"But seriously, Sherlock," he says, eyes alight. "Why would he agree to such a thing? Not that I'm not grateful, but… "
Sherlock turns to look at John from where he's putting the shopping away. His eyes flit over John's laugh-lined face, his relaxed posture, and some of his own alertness seems to drain away.
"I may have agreed to play the violin at his daughter's wedding next summer."
John lets out a startled laugh, shaking his head.
"You needn't have done it, Sherlock," he scolds gently, eyes lowered to the mug in his hands.
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock scoffs. "I live for entertaining the pretentious progeny of the French elite."
John smiles, lifting his gaze to find Sherlock returning the look.
"And getting Mycroft to foot the bill."