Sherlock slept the whole journey to Cornwall. It was as good an escape from boredom as any, tucked away in his coat, arms folded against his lap, and John hadn't the heart to rouse him either way. He half wished he'd gone ahead and splurged a bit on a sleeper car but still doubted his long-legged friend would have found much more comfort there than in his seat with his legs crossed out in front of him. Six hours rest would do him well either way. John read in the seat beside him, licking his thumb before turning the crisp white pages to continue on in the adventures therein.

He'd taken to reading quite a bit more since his own adventures had ended. The vicarious thrill was hardly the same thing-a nicotine patch to the smoker-but still it took the edge off as he felt himself immersed in the adventures of clever men and their mysteries. His wife had bought him an Agatha Christie novel back when they had been dating-a joking response to his blog prose. The shelves in his at-home study now included John Grisham, Tom Clancy, John le Carré and Dean Koontz among others. He quite enjoyed reading. It was a quiet hobby far removed from trench warfare or streetlamp scuffles but it was still real in some ways which the memories had stopped being. It was safer, just as Mary preferred, and the further removed from the adrenalin rush of his own exploits time brought him, John almost preferred it better this way himself. Those adventures could be put on hold for dinner with his wife. Those victims would be taken care of by the end of the book, even if it took him weeks to read it rather than a weekend. Those villains would be brought to light whether he was on the loo or in a speeding train. John could live a normal life with those adventures bound to printed pages. Sherlock was a living, breathing event that happened, passed, and came 'round again with something new that required nothing short of one's full attention from start to finish. As a bachelor John had opted for the event. As a man of responsibility, John was surprisingly satisfied with books.

It was nine chapters and a nap before the train pulled up to their station. Page dog-eared and book secured, John carried both his bags and Sherlock's out to the depot and further to the cab. Sherlock followed, his previously used overnight bag all he bothered to burden himself with. Despite his ample rest, were it not for the winding roads, John was rather certain Sherlock would have gone right back to sleep once seated in further transit.

"What on Earth did you spend all your time doing in rehab that didn't include sleep?" John asked as the cab pressed his shoulder to Sherlock's on a wide turn around ruins of rock.

Sherlock shrugged, his smirk small but evident even in the dark. "Making the staff very, verysorry to see me," he said.

John laughed through his nose in unsympathetic accord.

The cab trip, to some relief, was not terribly long. John watched the purple sky of dusk fold into the darkness of full night through the window, catching shadows of points of interests along the grassy hills and plains. Lights from fishing villages and other small hamlets sparkled in the distance. They drove through the small town closest to their lodgings where all the lights were off save for a few houses on the outskirts of the main road. It was small, quaint, and isolated given the bustle of the London they'd left. Even with the window closed, John could still almost smell the sea.

Pulling up the worn path of dirt and grass, the shack on the cliff looked demure and unassuming, humbled further below the vast splatter of stars. Its white, plaster-covered stone walls were bumpy and uneven, shaded heavily under the lashes of the thickly thatched roof. Not far behind it the small windmill spun lazily on the night breeze, spinning on the sea's breath that was as calm and even as sleep. The lights were all out but the pattern of lace curtains could still be seen against the unshaded windows. John smiled optimistically at their tea-cozy abode. It was charming. It was peaceful. He listened to Sherlock sigh in resignation beside him.

The first night there was nothing much else to do than simply designate rooms and call it an evening. Unpacking could wait and a trip to the store was needed before fresh milk and other sundries could be purchased. There were two rooms upstairs, the large one a double and the other with a bunk. Sherlock took the double without consultation, throwing his bag down inside the doorway before taking his turn as first to the toilet. John didn't care enough to argue, finding the bunk comfortable enough for the time being before dozing off at last himself.

He hadn't felt such quiet since his nights in Afghanistan where the calls of animals and insects were none and even the enemy found time to rest. Where before the hum of dunes made up the white noise of the night, now John had the rustle of waves on rocks, tumbling like the wind through trees with not a single sound of the city to accompany. It was almost toopeaceful. John found himself rising with the sun out of annoyance more than necessity. At least in the light of day the gulls' caw could be heard.

Scratching his left shoulder with a yawn on his lips, John went down the creaking steps slowly, hand on the rail as he descended into the living quarters he'd only spared a passing glance to before. It was everything the travel guide had said it would be-for better or for worse. The seating was mostly wood from the benches below the large windows to chairs set before the fire and along the wood plank table. The rugs at least looked warm and soft in their mint and robin's egg weavings. The windows themselves were the showcase of the rooms, framing a view of jagged rocks and clear waters that seemed too perfect to be real rather than art. Originally built as a wartime coastal observatory, the shack had everything a person could ask for in a view but remained somewhat lacking in the comforts of home. The limited electricity was supplied by the windmill out back, the rest of the meager appliances fueled by gas. John located the small booklet on safety procedures and utility use and set it plainly on the table for light reading later on.

He checked the cabinets for supplies. Four cups, four dinner plates, four mugs, four sets of cutlery, one kettle and pot, a few pans and cast-iron cookware for use on the hearth or the cooker. There were a few spices not much more exotic than salt and pepper and a box of baking soda in the fridge for freshness though a feint fishy odor had obviously permeated the appliance. Certainly nothing for breakfast. John had had the foresight to pack a few things such as tea, coffee, a sleeve or two of biscuits and a small box of granola-none of which sounded satisfactory without the odds and ends still lacking. Early as it was, if he left and saw to the shopping, there might be enough time for even a full English breakfast by the time his slothenly companion arose once more.

It meant getting behind the wheel of the Landrover parked in the back before Sherlock commandeered it.

John checked for his wallet and nabbed the keys, leaving a quickly scrawled note on the table before heading out on his own back towards the hamlet they'd passed through before.

Limited electricity, possibly limited mobile reception, no city excitement-nothing but the earth, the sky, the sea and each other. John tried to quell the rising fear that this had all been a rather terrible idea and as far removed from what Sherlock needed as another six months on his own.


Tredannick Wollas could not have been home to more than a couple hundred people, comprised of simple cottages and a moss-covered old church whose steeple paved the way where roads were lost. John had rather a bit more fun than originally intended as he took the mud-washed roads and, at times, the off-road options in his meandering trip towards civilization. Admittedly, not all the off-road excursions had been planned from the start. It had been a long time since he'd been behind the wheel of a vehicle and the army sorts handled a bit differently. The Landrover was certainly no desert terrain ambulance though neither were the moors particularly desert like either. By the time he neared the shops the day was bright and his driving far less luxuriating and close, at last, to safe. He pulled up to an empty row of parking spaces and agonized his way into mostly one but effectively still two empty spots. He'd just be quick about it, he consoled himself, and quickly made his way on foot into the humble store.

The young man behind the counter gave him an odd look as John gave a short nod of hello, trying not to color over his rather miserable parking job. He'd let Sherlock do the driving next time and not a word need be spoken on it. He grabbed a hand basket and made his way down the short-shelved isles, grabbing a few tins of baked beans and Spam, a few Vienna sausages and other assorted foods he could easily store in their tins. A bit of curry sauce for fish, condiments in general, some kitchen roll and loaf of crusty bread. He was still idling over bar soaps when another patron entered the shop, the door soundless as it opened but familiarity making the announcement all the same.

"Morning, Harry."

"Morning, vicar," the young man at the counter called.

John glanced over. The vicar couldn't have been more than thirty, thirty even seeming too old for the baby-faced man of the cloth. His dog collar was plain as day, though, and it would have made for a very odd first name. Everyone seemed to be getting younger as he got older. John turned his attention back to the toiletries and tossed a in a bottle of Trek & Travel.

"Ah, you must be the gentleman from The Look Out House."

John paused and looked up again, watching as the young vicar crossed down the store's isle towards him. He slipped the basket over his elbow, offering a hand to shake as the man extended his own in greeting. "Yes, yes. We, uh... we got in last night. How'd you know which-"

"The Landrover." The vicar smiled, his handshake firm. "Sort of recognizable. The Look Out House is the only place near enough that requires one to get around, especially when the weather's bad. I hope the climate remains agreeable during your stay, Mister...?"

"Doctor, actually. Dr. John Watson."

"Stephan Roundhay," the vicar said in introduction. He looked a little older up close, dark rings under his brown eyes and the shallow beginnings of crows feet far more noticeable at close inspection. John would still bet good money he'd been playing doctor on the playground by the time the vicar'd been delivered by one all the same. "If you are ever in need of anything, you and your family are more than welcome to come by the vicarage," the man continued. "You certainly wouldn't be the first patrons of The Look Out House to seek companionship. It's lovely out there on the headland but quite isolating."

"Probably why it was the only spot available out this way on short notice." John smiled, shifting his basket to his hand again. "I think we'll be okay, though. I'm with a friend. Sort of looking for some rest and relaxation away from London."

"You'll certainly find it there," the vicar said with a laugh, giving John's arm a warm pat. "Just popped in to grab some milk but should you ever find yourself in town again with time to spare, do stop by. I'd be interested to hear about the goings on of London these days. Not much more than fish stories out here."

"Right. Thanks." John nodded, making way for the vicar as he walked on past. He very much doubted Sherlock would be interested in spending time with the locals but there was no need to presume and make his friend look like just another asshole from the city unduly.

He was still shopping by the time the vicar left, alone again with the young man at the counter. John was fairly certain he could feel the youth's eyes following him at every turn down every isle. When he stooped to get corn meal, the young man rose up on his toes. When he crossed behind a wooden beam, the clerk leaned out to try and see behind it. By the time John'd collected everything he was sure they'd need for at least the next few days, he'd almost wound himself up to the point of confrontation. The nerve of the kid to presume he'd shoplift. So he couldn't park the Landrover; did that make him some kind of unruly maniac looking to pocket a packet of Chewits? John put his basket on the counter, giving the young man a 'just try me' stare as the boy bagged and rang up his goods. Even then he kept staring at him, quickly looking away when John looked up from his wallet.

"What?" John finally asked, hackles raised as far as they could go.

The young man took a deep breath then from behind the counter slid across a receipt book and a biro. "C-can I get your autograph, Dr. Watson, sir?" he asked.

Feeling like the world's largest git, John scribbled his name, paid, and hurried of back towards the shack.


The drive home was uneventful, winding and longer than he remembered but with a clear destination in the shape of the rolling windmill pointing the way. John scooped the bags on over his forearms and opened the unlocked door to toss the bags on the table to be parsed through and unpacked. He whistled to himself as he did so, picking a song at random that seemed to fit his mood. He had sausages in the cast-iron pan along with a few cracked eggs before he took to the stairs once more, knocking gently at Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock? You awake?"

There was no reply. John tried the door and found it unlocked, turning it quietly as he peeled it open and took a peek inside.

The bed was unmade but empty, the covers pulled off leaving nothing but the sheets behind, rumpled and twisted from sleep. Sherlock's bag was still beside the door, unopened and unpacked while his overnight bag sat beside the bed in a similar state. John stepped inside, looking around, for a moment somewhat struck by a fear he would not allow himself to name. Inside the large bay windows that overlooked the cliffs and waves sat Sherlock, cocooned in his thick, brown blanket, staring out into the rocks. His hair was more rumpled and twisted than his sheets, his face just as white with the morning sun bleaching away what the dusk had gifted. It was hard to see that his eyes were even open save for moments he blinked and the black lashes fluttered. He didn't seem to notice or care that John was there, mesmerized by the swirl of the bay.

John walked up behind him, leaning against the wall beside where Sherlock sat.

"Beautiful, hm?"

Sherlock nodded minutely, clutching the blanket tighter

"I went with some mates to Lizard Point once. Gave surfing a try. Ended up with a rash, a sunburn, and half a toenail missing. Great trip. The bonfires at night were amazing." John looked down, watching the pale, expressionless face reflected through the window. "You okay, Sherlock? I know you've been busy. I read the papers. Always check to see where you've been mentioned. I know how you like to keep busy. But... Are you okay, though?"

"As opposed to lying on the ground, throwing a perpetual tantrum over things far outside my ability to change?" Sherlock smirked, his reflection locking eyes with John in a backdrop of battered rocks and foam. "Yes, John," he said, as another wave broke across the mirror image of his face. "I'm alright."