PolemicAcademic suggested this word, and I felt the urge for more fluff.
Something about Sherlock's body language as the train pulled into the station got John's attention. He was excited and eager, but not the manic excitability a case usually brought on. He was up to something, but John couldn't quite put his finger on what.
John tried to get him to confess, explain where they were going, while they took a taxicab into the countryside, but Sherlock was irritatingly reticent. Giving it up as a lost cause, John just watched the scenery unfold outside, getting increasingly rural and charming. He blinked when he noticed one of the road signs.
"Sussex? Sherlock, what on earth are we doing in Sussex?"
"You'll see in a moment, John. We're nearly there."
As if on cue, the taxi pulled into a small drive, heading past a low wall and through an old-looking but well-maintained iron gate. It was another few minutes before they pulled up to a tidy little fieldstone house, two storeys, with sprawling grounds behind it.
"It's one of the family properties, John. It's mine now. Well..." Sherlock stared off into mid-distance, suddenly and uncharacteristically quiet. "Ours? When we're ready to retire?" The question was weighted with things left unsaid.
John smiled, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist. The wind was soft and gentle, the sky a soft blue, the grassy hills perfectly bucolic.