LEAVING

He studied the platform, watching for a familiar face. Watson had promised to follow immediately after receiving Holmes' telegram, and the missive should have arrived at Watson's practice in plenty of time for his friend to make this train. Holmes would much rather spend the trip in familiar company than solitary silence. He had tired of being alone years ago.

Except the rain-soaked station remained stubbornly empty. Holmes could not stifle a resigned sigh when the car lurched out of the station. No matter Holmes' impatience, a few hours made little difference in the light of two years. Watson would board the next train out.

Slow movements still took his bag off the neighboring cushion to let him prop his feet. Maybe he could use the time to think of an argument that would finally convince Watson to move. He would never admit how lonely the cottage could become, but he wished his friend would agree to take the second bedroom. Holmes had purchased the cottage for the extra room, after all, and weekends only lasted so long. Watson needed to retire, needed to return to Holmes' side as he had been for so many years in Baker Street. London was much too far away.

And that did not account for Watson's declining health. He had seemed well enough yesterday, during Von Bork's arrest, but two years ago, when Holmes had shown up unannounced to say goodbye, Watson had displayed far too many troubling signs. Deep lines in his face had revealed a worrying lack of sleep, his limp had only grown worse, and the white-knuckle grip on his cane had revealed the ever-present pain in his old scars. Holmes had half-feared to leave, worried that his friend might be gone when he returned. He needed to draw Watson to Sussex. The warmer weather would do wonders.

The conductor announced the Sussex station before Holmes could find an argument he liked, however, and he swung his valise over his shoulder on the way down the steps. No one met him, of course, but that did not matter. The only person he cared about seeing would be on the next train from London.

Bright sunlight glinted off store windows, vibrantly different from rain-washed London. Several shops advertised various sales. A line stretched from the post office. The general store had changed hands at least twice, only one of them between family. The tailor had hired that young lady that used to work for the Millers. She would do much better there. After a few minutes, the town faded to trees that opened to reveal that small cottage.

Home, and it had been for years, but it could never truly be home until he shared it with another.

His scratched key unlocked the door with ease, and he slowly entered. The still-damp coat hung on the rack, his valise below it, before he turned toward the kitchen. Maybe Watson would arrive by the time Holmes reopened the cottage. He had sent his housekeeper away before leaving, and two years had probably left stale food and a variety of cobwebs behind. That could pass the time.

The cottage was entirely too quiet.

Empty counters sat above sparsely filled cupboards. Several revealed nothing but cobwebs, while some held nonperishable goods like flour. He carefully noted what he had and what he would need to purchase, but his search abruptly stopped on sight of a small package.

"Pork," it said on the front, the handwriting that of the butcher in town. How did he have fresh meat in his cupboard? He opened the next door.

Unopened spices filled the empty places, and new packages of food, tea bags, and the occasional utensil met a rapid look through the other cupboards. Who would—

A nearly invisible thread caught his eye a moment too late. He spun in place as a large container of marbles fell from the counter to roll across the floor. Someone had set a trip line to the cupboard door, but how could the jar of marbles Watson kept for his younger patients have ended up in Sussex?

Unless—

He bolted for the doorway. He had not bothered to look around a vacant house when he arrived. Could the cottage not be as empty as he had thought?

A familiar figure sat in one armchair, book in his lap and a large smile in place of the laugh fighting to escape.

"Hello, Holmes."

Watson. Holmes barely noticed one hand brace against the doorframe, too busy staring at the welcome surprise of Watson in his old chair. His friend had not made Holmes' train because he had taken an earlier one.

Watson's grin widened, pleased to have stunned Holmes so thoroughly. A nearby table held several books and a cup of tea probably cold, given the lack of clues in the kitchen. He had stolen a pillow from the settee to prop his leg, and the light throw suggested he had been sitting there for hours.

Hours waiting for Holmes. The realization finally pushed Holmes' astonishment away. He quickly crossed the room to claim the other seat.

"There were no patients, were there?"

Watson's grin became a smirk as he set the book aside. "Of course, not. You cannot think I would stay in London any longer than necessary when you can finally tell me where you've been for the last two years? My motorcar is around back."

"Your motorcar?" He could not smother the surprise lacing the word. "You did not borrow that from Mycroft?"

Watson released a laugh born more of pleasure than amusement, and Holmes covered the swift deduction by reaching for his pipe. The sound spoke of long days and even longer nights. His friend had spent an interminable two years.

"I bought it last winter," Watson replied, leaning back in his chair. "You knew I was considering it."

Only in the same manner that Watson considered riding an airplane—or moving to Sussex. The tightly closed tobacco pouch provided a chance to reword his response.

"Yes, but I never thought you would ever buy one of them."

"It was better than the train." Watson's tone gained a hint of mischief. "It would have taken much longer for me to make it back here if I had had to work around the train schedule."

His hands froze, forgotten pipe half-full of tobacco as he stared at his friend. Back here, he had said, and the change in tone implied an upcoming revelation, not an accomplished one. Watson had planned something more than just meeting Holmes at the cottage. Could his comment have another meaning?

"How long have you been here?"

"I came after dropping you in Pall Mall."

More pieces fell into place, sparking a wary hope that he desperately wished were true. Watson had spent the night here, perhaps had not even gone to Queen Anne Street before making the drive. Had he—?

"How is your practice?"

Curiosity in Watson's gaze flipped to understanding, then sympathy. "Thriving," he said shortly, adding, "I am not retired, Holmes. I asked my neighbor to take my patients for a few days."

Oh. He looked away, using the pipe to cover his lack of reply. So much for that. "A few days" meant Watson probably intended to spend a week or so at the cottage. Better than nothing, of course, but not as good as finally moving south. He searched for another topic as a thin taper lit stale but still useable tobacco.

Or not so useable. A thick, dark cloud of smoke rose from his pipe, and he failed to halt a cough.

"Watson!"

His friend merely laughed, deftly avoiding the swamp-gas he had imported straight from New York.

"Old tobacco?"

"More like rigged." The Yankee word slipped out before he could stop it, most of his attention on the otherwise normal leaves in his pipe. "What did you do to my tobacco?"

Watson's grin became only partially genuine. He had noted the unusual word. "I made it more interesting."

They smelled fine and even tasted fine. Watson must have soaked them in something that reacted only when heated. Holmes emptied the bowl and stole some from the other pouch nearby. His friend's mischief was no different than Holmes' acting the nuisance back at Baker Street. He could tolerate a few pranks to know that Watson had missed him as well.

He apparently could not carry a conversation, however. After two years of no real contact, he wanted nothing more than to while the evening away, but he struggled to find even a question to ask. The silence that had once been soothing was now uncomfortable. Strained.

Worrying. He would never convince Watson to move if they could not speak, and Holmes studied his friend, grasping for something to discuss.

The skin around Watson's eyes had smoothed in some places and creased in others. Watson had laughed less and worried more. His cane remained nearby but out of the way. The London storms had probably started his scars throbbing. More grey dusted his hair. He had worked himself too hard while Holmes was gone. He had a new scar uncomfortably close to his temple. Holmes would have to get that story later.

But not now. He would not renew their friendship with such an incident. What could he ask?

Watson seemed to comprehend—and share—Holmes' struggle. When several attempts provided nothing to say, a glance at the clock made him gingerly pull himself to his feet.

"Have you eaten today?" His cane halted a momentary loss of balance. "Your old housekeeper is out of town for a while, so I could not ask if she wanted to return, but I did stop for supplies on my way out here."

Food never interested him during travel. Watson knew that, but Holmes made no answer, his attention caught by Watson's posture. His friend did not battle a weather ache. Watson displayed the uneven gait of a recent injury.

Watson's smirk said he had not yet followed Holmes' deduction. He turned away to head for the kitchen. "You were too busy pacing to eat on the train, weren't you?"

The words prompted a faint huff. He had not paced, but Watson did not need to know how he had spent those hours. Holmes cared more about his friend's limping stride. Pain laced every slow step, and twice he used the wall to keep his balance. How he had hidden the problem the day before, Holmes saw no reason to decipher, but Watson had gotten worse since Holmes left.

The scar. Could Watson have fallen? A nasty tumble could have wrenched his knee and cut the side of his head. How long ago? How badly had he been injured?

Holmes had no way of knowing. Watson would certainly never tell him, and he could hardly interview Watson's colleagues. His friend had probably treated the injury himself.

He needed to convince Watson to move.

"I had other things on my mind," he replied when lengthening silence indicated Watson awaited an answer. "You know I do not eat when on a case."

"A case?" Watson glanced back from the kitchen entrance. "I thought your work for Mycroft was finished?"

It was. He referred to the case of how to lure Watson to Sussex, but the jolt of nearly blurting his thoughts tore his attention from Watson's cane. Holmes darted around him and into the kitchen. He could deduce everything that had happened later.

"The case of how to replace my bees." Yes. That made a good reply. He did intend to purchase more of those intriguing insects. Perhaps Watson would finally help with them. "I sold them all before I left, as you know."

"You cannot really mean to buy more?"

He waved Watson's surprise away even as he chanced a look behind him. "Of course I intend to replace them. Why would I not?"

Watson's expression plainly declared that he wished Holmes would not, but he refrained from saying as much as Holmes reached the counter. A single step back provided Holmes' first clue that something was wrong.

"What are you—"

An involuntary glance at the cupboard provided the second, and Holmes jumped backwards just in time to avoid the curtain of water spilling from the bucket above the cupboard door.

"Watson!"

Watson barely refrained from laughing, though he did not quite smother a grin.

"If you did not expect that," he answered, amusement twitching the corners of his mouth as he carefully limped across the wet floor, "you have been away for too long."

Holmes could not stop a glance at the floor, then back at his friend. The marbles and the tobacco could have been simple pleasure at Holmes' return, but Holmes had not been able to plant the trap he had intended to leave in Watson's sitting room the night he left. Why would Watson pull an obvious revenge prank?

Watson made no immediate answer, focused on using his stick to retrieve a towel he had left in a bottom cupboard. Only when the cloth soaked up the water did he make something close to eye contact.

"Three days, Holmes."

What—

Oh. Of course. Three days of worry. Three days of waiting. Three days of wondering if Holmes was even alive. Two years' absence had given Watson far too much time to plan "interesting" homecomings, and three days of a missed check-in had provided a reason. Holmes had deserved that.

He also deserved more than three, and a wary gaze surveyed the rest of the small cottage. If Watson had arrived last night, he would have had plenty of time to set others.

Watson merely smirked and started pulling out the few supplies he had picked up in town. He would be of no help in determining where the traps lie. Holmes would have to be on guard every minute.

To have Watson back under the same roof, Holmes would tolerate much worse.

Hope you enjoyed, and thank you very much to those who reviewed last chapter :)