Bury your clock in the garden, the note said. John didn't recognize the handwriting; it wasn't their realtor, and the cottage had stood empty since the last owner passed away eight months ago.
A bit cryptic, really. But John liked ceremonies – little personal ones, that is, he didn't much go in for church ritual – and this seemed like a nice way to mark the beginning of this chapter of their lives.
He chose the digital clock radio from the bedroom, and that evening he chiseled out a shallow hole by the garden wall, with an old shovel from the shed and fingers grown stiff from springtime cold. His knuckles rang with remembered chill as he stripped down and burrowed into bed next to Sherlock.
"That may be the most absurd thing you've ever done," Sherlock murmured sleepily. "How will we know what time it is?"
"You don't care," John pointed out. "And starting tomorrow, neither do I."
Retirement suited John, and Sherlock, too; slowness filtered into their daily rhythms like warm wine, itself so slow that John barely noticed what hadn't changed.
"Sherlock," he said one evening. "Are we still getting older?"
Sherlock was quiet a long time. "I don't think so."
Absurd, John thought. Precious. Moving to Sussex had felt like winding down, but maybe it was just another beginning.