Prompt: snowed in, fromcjnwriter

In retirement, my friend Sherlock Holmes's bohemian habits turned to near reclusivity. Ensconced in his cottage, he spent his time on chemical experiments, music, his own eccentric studies on whatever caught his fancy, and of course on his bees. For myself, I did not mind this, for I had at last seen enough of the world following the Great War, and was content to spend my days in front of the fire with a novel or my writing. There is much to be said for a quiet retirement and good companionship.

Winters in Sussex Downs were even quieter, as the town we rarely saw slumbered under the blanket of snow that appeared each year. Holmes's tarp-covered beehives looked like small, snow-covered mountains in our garden and we watched the winter pass by through our windows, in front of the warm fire. It made quite a difference from our Baker Street days, when we went out in all weather to investigate the never-ending crimes that came to our door.

Holmes joined me at the window, watching the snow blow in great drifts across the fields. It was already deep enough that it would reach past my knees should I try to walk in it. "I doubt we will be able to venture outside for a week at least," he said.

"No, this is a blizzard," I said. Still, I was not worried. We had more than enough to last us the winter if we needed, and as our lives were so very quiet now, it seemed hardly any different from ordinary.

"My bees will be busy keeping themselves warm," Holmes said. "I once looked in on them in a cold spell and found that, far from hibernating, they use their wings to keep themselves warm through movement. Utterly fascinating."

I had been subject to many of Holmes's eccentric interests over the years, some which were more interesting to the layperson than others, and I confess I had never managed to find more than a cursory interest in apiculture, most of which lay in the honey which was the result of his efforts.

This had proven rather a trial in our retirement, as Holmes's conversation was about bees more often than not these days, and I sometimes found myself wishing a criminal relic would once again appear in the breadbox simply for a change in conversation.

Still, I knew how devastated he would be should his hives fail over the long winter, and I nodded. "I am glad to hear they will be alright," I said.

"Of course, Watson, and until the snow melts, we shall have little to do other than sit by this cozy fire and wait for the spring to arrive."

Once, such a statement would have made spring seem terribly far away; now, it merely promised a quiet few weeks of contentment with my dearest friend.

The snow remained, deep and all but impassable, for over a week. Holmes and I saw little of what went on outside our front door during that time, spending it reading and enjoying our cozy fire.

This peaceful state of being lasted until there was a knock at our door, some six days in. "Whoever could have got through the snow to get to our door?" Holmes asked incredulously from his desk, where he was engaged in answering a letter from a chemistry professor in Sydney.

"I've no idea," I said, then chuckled. "Perhaps it is a case." For even this many years after retirement, some still found their way to Holmes to ask his assistance in some little mystery or another. Sometimes, he even accepted, but those stories are for another day. I opened the door to find our neighbor, Stackhurst, on a pair of snowshoes.

"This is the first day I have been able to get through at all," he said. "I thought to check on you and see how you were getting on in this weather."

Stackhurst had all the qualities which make an excellent teacher: patience, kindness, a curiosity about life and the people around him, and a certain quality of caretaking that led him to be a shepherd to the boys in his school. He had proven to be a good companion, and Holmes and I enjoyed hosting him for dinners or brandies of an evening. But he did, sometimes, rather seem to think that it was his duty to look after us, two men of elderly years alone in our cottage.

His concern was touching, if misplaced. I was certainly past my prime; the Great War having at last done what countless adventures before it could not and turned me from middle-aged to old. Holmes, however, maintained his training regimen and was nearly as fit as he had been thirty years previously. Beekeeping is, as I have found, a hobby which requires physical fitness.

"Stackhurst! Welcome. You find us perfectly well," Holmes said, jumping up. "But since you are here, you ought to stay for some tea, rather than going right back out into the snow."

"Yes, please do. We have seen no one for a week," I said.

"And I have seen no one over the age of sixteen," Stackhurst said. "Thank you, of course I will stay. Incidentally, Holmes, the boys wish to know when you will be back to teach them about bees again."

Holmes smiled at this evidence of his popularity, though I expected it was less because the boys were so interested in beekeeping than because they wanted to see the famous Sherlock Holmes in person.

"As soon as the snow clears I shall set a date with you," my friend promised.

"Tell me, how did the school fare during the blizzard?" I asked.

Thus did we while away a winter afternoon, much as we did for much of our retirement - in peace and with good company.