When John woke up, it was still dark out. Not surprising, no Sherlock to keep him warm. Rising from the bed, he goes for the thick robe hung just behind the bedroom door, before heading out to stoke the embers and set the kettle on the hook.
Walking back into the kitchen he grabs the heavy mitts, tea setup, sugar, and a sleeve of biscuits. Placing everything on a tray, he heads back into the living room. God, he could really live here. Move from the city, open a practice in town maybe. For now, this was enough.
He'd ask Mrs. Hudson if he could keep the flat, possibly buy the building outright. She would always have a place until she passed, could enjoy herself with travel with her close friend Mrs. Turner. He'd make a note to discuss it with her, see how she felt. It would be nice to give her something in return for all the times she helped the both of them.
Pulling the hook out of the fireplace, he added the tea waiting for it to steep. Breathing deeply he began to doze watching the small fire flicker brightly. His phone, by habit, was in his pocket. Also, by habit, he looked at it in reflex, his mind still going to Sherlock and his three a.m. requests.
Can't sleep?
Hmmm…blocked…
I hope you chose the chamomile.
He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming.
Slowly putting the phone down he sighed. Using the mitt, he pulled the kettle off the hook and poured the tea in two cups. Adding sugar and milk to one honey to the other. Breaking open the biscuits, he took out three wafers for himself and two for the other cup.
No other texts, but he hadn't responded. Maybe whom ever it was gave up figuring him asleep or not wanting to be disturbed. It was most likely Mycroft. This place had to be as bugged and visually compromised as Baker Street. He'd tell him in that morning, well after the sun rose all the way, that he was doing better out here, away from everything.
It was true. In some ways he felt as if he were closer to the soul of the man he loved here, more than in London. Yes, that had been their residence, but this, this felt like their home. He could imagine Sherlock standing playing his violin just over there. Some old lullaby to help quell John's apprehension after a terribly horrific nightmare. Sipping his tea, he bit into another biscuit.
Gods, he missed him so. His heart ached. He could see the horizon beginning to change through the window beyond him in the dining nook. Walking over, he leans against one of the main pillars close to the windows. He had left all of them open, as in Baker. He desperately needed the light and warmth. Even if it felt artificial after his brilliant sun. The beautifully mottled sky was turning into the riotous oranges and reds of his favorite rose kissed up against the fleeting bruised twilight chasing the night away readying for true dawn.
This was a moment of magic and possibilities. The pre-dawn. The almost. The mystically tangible haze of yester-night's dew kissed garden called to him. Scooting his feet into his house flats, he opened the windows to the porch and went into the garden. The air cooler, but not unbearable with the quilt wrapped with his robe, he looked up at the fading stars and night sky. In the tree line, he saw twinkling. Amused he began drafting stories of fairies and the prince that lay in wait of his lover faire to come grant him first loves his.
First loves kiss. How he would love to have that memory.
His phone had vibrated several times inside the cottage so he figured he should head back in to see who was checking up on him. Once inside, he shut and locked the doors yet again before heading to his soon to be favorite chair and the little table that was taken up by the tea service, his phone on the tray beside his empty cup.
Please be safe.
Do not tarry.
I miss you.
It was official; he had gone round the bend. Hang the damned time; he rang Mycroft who answered almost immediately. John asked if he could come to the cottage because he felt a little unstable to be out by himself, and then amended that wasn't exactly true, but that he felt better there for the moment.
Fifteen minutes later Mycroft was at his door letting himself in. John welcomed him in smiling. They spoke and he showed the man who would be his brother the texts that he had received since coming to the cottage. When he had received them, and where he was, as well as what he was doing at those times. A small crease came across Mycroft's forehead, one of worry.
They decided it was some sort of program that was sending out timed texts based on John's patterns. It was Sherlock, so anything was possible. He had sent an email from the dead, so how was this any different really. Mycroft was genuinely thankful that he had not received any of the after-life handholding that John was receiving, but he was glad for John if it was easing his melancholy. All he did was remind the doctor to come back to the manor day after tomorrow for breakfast as he had promised their mother he would be there.
John smiled warmly at that.
Their mother.
He was a Holmes.
That made his stop Mycroft before he left to ask a couple of quick legal questions over a second cup of tea regarding Baker and other legalities. If he was going to be a Holmes, he might as well be a Holmes after all. He asked his brother too see how mother would feel about it, to see if she would object, or feel it went too far.
He had quasi-proof if he needed it, that Sherlock would have married him. This way, if something happened to him while hunting the cottage, trust, everything could be reabsorbed into the family holdings; Mycroft was pleased with the efficiency of John's thoughts and promised to pass it by mother and the family attorneys.
It was time to bury John Watson.