It's June, and they're on a train to one of the rare cases outside of London that Sherlock has actually decided to take. Normally he turns them down immediately, claiming that the sooty London air is better for his health – though John suspects that he just can't bear the quiet of the countryside – but this one is unusual enough to satisfy even Sherlock's refined tastes. John isn't up to speed with all the details but he did hear some vague words thrown at him in passing about 'limbs strewn all over the fields', which does sound like the kind of case that Sherlock loves. However any further attempts to extract information from him are in vain; the detective is slumped darkly brooding in the window seat, no doubt busy drawing up and rejecting a dozen different theories before he has even examined the crime scene.
John stares out of the window too after a while, losing himself in the swathes of soft green hills rolling by which suggest to him that they're somewhere in the Yorkshire Dales. Nearly there, then.
"I might retire to the countryside one day." Sherlock announces out of nowhere, pulling John abruptly from his thoughts.
"You?" The doctor snorts, not quite managing to repress his grin, "Sherlock, you hate the countryside."
"I do right now, yes. It's boring, stagnant and..."
"Peaceful? Relaxing?"
"Sickeningly bucolic." Sherlock says with a sneer, but continues, "However, in forty years' time London might well have lost a good deal of its appeal for me."
"Why?" John asks, fascinated. He receives a sideways glance.
"Mycroft will still be living there."
John snorts again, but this time into his polystyrene cup of tea, and whilst he is mopping up the resulting mess Sherlock adds, "I thought I might keep bees."
"Bees?"
"Yes, bees. Small striped insects of the family Apoidea-"
"Yes, yes, all right." The shorter man takes a breath and considers how best to respond to this rather incongruous and hitherto unvoiced ambition of Sherlock's. "Hmm, bees. I suppose..." Another thoughtful pause. "I suppose you'd keep a spare suit for whenever I'd visit? Hat, gloves, the works? Don't much fancy getting stung."
Sherlock arches a dark brow. "Don't be stupid, John. You won't be visiting me when we're older."
"Oh." John blinks several times, not quite sure what to say next. "Er... no, of course not. Sorry, shouldn't have assumed..."
"You'll be living with me, of course." A slight smile. "I can't keep bees by myself."
Here, have some lemon juice. It will counter the sugar and fluffiness of this fic.