"As delighted as I hope you know I am to have a surprise visit from an old, dear, and, I assure you, entirely welcome friend, I do wish you would tell me the purpose for which you have come," Sherlock Holmes said as he crossed through the grass and held out the cup of tea he was holding like an offering.

His old friend John Watson looked up at him from his seat on one of Holmes' garden chairs, and Holmes couldn't help thinking that the lines around his eyes from years of laughter and worry and occasional fear had never been so pronounced. His friend, who in his mind's eye was still young and robust, suddenly looked old. He looked old and careworn and tormented in a way Holmes hated seeing, and Holmes would have known from that look on his face that this was no ordinary visit even if Watson hadn't arrived unannounced in the middle of the afternoon, standing in the garden like a specter as Holmes dallied among his bees.

He'd somehow known he was there, known he was being watched. Holmes had spent years and years of his life constantly on guard, looking over his shoulder, studying the faces of the people around him and scanning their clothing for any outlines of weapons. He supposed, whenever he turned his thoughts to the matter, that nearly being assassinated when he was a young man had ingrained the habit into him, and he'd never tried to shake it. It was annoying sometimes, that ever-vigilance when he should have been at peace and at rest, but it had done it's job and kept him alive. More importantly, it had on one occasion kept John Watson alive as well, and so even in his retirement he found himself waking at strange sounds in the night and memorizing his neighbors usual movements and picking out which of the townspeople owned firearms.

He'd heard Watson's motorcar only vaguely, but even though he hadn't been paying attention his mind had been. He'd sensed Watson coming toward him even though he couldn't hear him, but even when all his unconscious observations registered in his active mind, he hadn't been concerned that he was being approached. He'd known, somehow, it was a friend.

He'd also known things were about to change, that when he turned around and walked back things would never be the same. He had the vague notion that he should be worried, but he wasn't. If it turned out that it was as he suspected and it was his old friend John Watson who was the father and purveyor of some new chapter to tack onto the story of his life and in which he'd have to play his part, then what was there to fear? There was no need to be frightened, not of Watson. Even if Watson were already dead somewhere in London and it was his spirit waiting in the garden to usher Holmes' into death with him, then Sherlock Holmes knew he still wouldn't have been able to find it in himself to be afraid.

Still, he dallied. It was the kind of perfect day the romantic poets liked to write about, and he didn't want his life of peace to be over quite yet. Besides, the bees needed him, and if his visitor needed him more than the bees he could come down and say so. Holmes intentionally finished all the tasks that needed done, even the ones he'd been planning on saving for the next few days. He still didn't know exactly what was going on or even if it really was Watson behind him like he supposed; perhaps his intuition was wrong and it was simply one of the townsfolk come for a chat. He suspected he wasn't too far off the mark, however, and was justified in his suspicion as he walked back towards his garden and the man reclining and seemingly peacefully and watching him approach, had presumably been watching him work among his bees, came into view. Watson, as anticipated.

His old friend had risen as Holmes walked toward him, but not called out or made a move to come greet him, and so Holmes had said nothing either as he approached, only raised his hand in greeting because it seemed impolite not to give at least a small acknowledgement of 'hello. I see you.' He reached out his hand to shake when he was close enough, but to his surprise Watson smirked so slightly it didn't make it to his eyes and laid his hand on Holmes shoulder, pulling him into an embrace even though he was still wearing his flowing beekeeper's blouse and a couple bees were crawling around on his hat and veil.

His first thought, naturally, was that someone was dead. John Watson was the kind of man who always delivered bad news in person and didn't hide behind letters or messengers. This time, however, Watson didn't seem quite sorrowful enough for death to be the reason for his visit, and so Holmes dismissed that thought. It was easier to accept death now that they were old men, but Holmes still fancied he would know if that was the case.

Holmes felt more than heard Watson take a long sigh, then his friend let him go, looking at him in a way that made him feel like it was he, not Watson, who had arrived unannounced and was expected to explain himself. Holmes had cleared his throat and stammered something about making tea as Watson sat down again, watching him in an almost detached manner like how Holmes would watch his bees, watch a world he wasn't a part of.

When the tea was done and Holmes had asked after his purpose in coming, Watson accepted the tea from him but said nothing, shifting his gaze away from his friend to the field of flowers beyond them where the beehives dotted the landscape.

Holmes fetched his own cup of tea and reclined in a chair next to his friend, wishing he really was relaxing without worries. "Watson…" he began to say again, but his friends soft words cut him off.

"Not yet," Watson murmured, and so Holmes did his best to be content and the two of them sat in silence and watched the bees until the sun began to set and the top of the sky was colored a brilliant red.

"It's peaceful here," Watson finally commented.

"It is. I chose this place for its peacefulness.

"Are you bored of it yet?"

Holmes glanced over at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"You got bored of London."

"I got tired of London, Watson, so tired I could feel it in my bones. I just couldn't go on like I had anymore, you know I couldn't."

"Yes. I know it."

"London could never be boring. Not for long, anyway. She is the city I love, the place I would have gladly given my life for."

"I know it."

"London is…"

"Please. Stop rambling."

Holmes snapped his mouth shut with a quiet smack, uncharacteristically lost for words.

Watson sighed, said nothing more, and they watched as the bright red of the sunset faded into brilliant oranges and pinks and purples.

"Will you leave all this peace and come with me?" Watson asked so softly Holmes barely heard him.

"When you like and where you like," he answered immediately after the soft words registered. "You know I will."

"I know it," Watson replied, and his voice was tense, almost angry. Or sad. "Will… will you still come even if it means you may never come back to this kind of tranquility? That you may never know peace like this again? That perhaps the life that you own will no longer be yours?"

"When you like. Where you like. You know it." And Sherlock Holmes looked John Watson in the eye and emphasized every word.

"I do," Watson sighed, closing his eyes very briefly and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I do know it. I was afraid of that." He stood abruptly, towering over Holmes for just a moment before the detective quickly followed suit. "Come on, then."

"Now?" Holmes asked, a bit caught off guard. "It's almost nightfall. If it was so urgent why have we sat for hours in the garden?"

"'When you like,' wasn't it?" Watson asked, and the small spark of pawky humor lifted the corner of Holmes' mouth slightly.

"Of course." Holmes conceded. "Where are we headed?"

"Where I like."

"I see. And what should I pack?"

"All the chemistry equipment you have, and anything you'd want if you never came back. Other than that, a change of clothes and a toothbrush. We have two hours until the last train of the night leaves, so we'd best start."

Holmes stretched, glanced along the field of flowers and the coast of the sea and the edge of his garden. "The chemistry equipment is packed," he murmured. "I haven't touched it in some time. We'll have to stop at the chemists, but that won't necessitate much time, and it won't take me but a few minutes to pack. I will be inside presently. I must go see the bees; it's bad luck to leave and not say goodbye."

Watson nodded, and Holmes turned away to wander among the bees in the dim light of the sunset. By the time he made it back to his cottage Watson had lit the lamps and was sitting in a chair in the living room, the old one Holmes had moved in from Baker Street. Watson was smoking idly with a book in his lap as if there was nothing at all amiss with the world. Perhaps there wasn't.

Holmes was as good as his word, packing all his essentials within a few swift minutes. He lingered for longer among his museum of memories, slowly drawing his fingers over photographs and jewels and the weapons of murderers and all other sorts of nick knacks that meant nothing to anyone but him. In the end, he left them all and instead crossed to his bookshelf. He drew out a slim volume with a red cover and gold lettering: A Study in Scarlet.

He brought it to the living room and presented it to his friend. Watson took it, one eyebrow raised.

"You never did sign it for me."

Watson reached to his jacket pocket, drawing out a pen and opening the book to the front flyleaf. He spent a minute in thought, then longer in writing. He gave the ink a further minute to dry, then snapped the volume shut and held it out to Holmes, who murmured his thanks and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket.

Watson rose, and in silent agreement they turned off all the lamps, straightened the furniture, and locked the door behind themselves so that when they left the only thing out of place was a note on the kitchen table for Holmes' housekeeper to await further instructions. They ignored Watson's motorcar, leaving it parked neatly beside the cottage and instead walking by the light off the moon towards the train station. Watson shouldered Holmes' bag and carefully carried his violin case, and Holmes carried his bulky case of chemistry equipment, wondering what it was for.

The chemist's shop was long since closed, but the village was small and Holmes knew where the key was housed and so there was no need to knock awake the owner. Holmes raided the shelves and left a note of what he'd taken with more bills than necessary on the counter when he was finished.

He left the shop and stood on the empty street of the place he'd chosen to call home, and Watson stood silently beside him in the shadows. Holmes closed his eyes and tilted his chin upwards and let the stars sear into the space between his eyelids until he heard the blast of a train horn in the distance. His eyes snapped open, and he turned away without looking back.