The first thing John noticed were the wildflowers. Violet, red, yellow, white, all spreading out along their beds while crawling, vibrant green leaves saw the red brick house as more a challenge than an obstacle. The summer air was rich with the sweet floral fragrance, the hint of cut grass tempering the bouquet. He looked out over the pebble drive, the white trimmed windows under twin peaks, the trees and bushes in full bloom like a symphony for the eyes. This two story home with its grey roof and ivy beard belonged to Sherlock Holmes. John would never had paired Fair Hill Cottage with its owner.
He'd had to ask directions at the station and asked for even more as he drew near. The home of the aloof eccentric seemed the prevailing estimation of the man who bought the old house near the beach. Seemed about right. It would have been much easier to have phoned and asked Sherlock where his house was but prolonging the sense of anticipation did wonders for John's mood. He didn't feel in the least bit disappointed. Fair Hill Cottage well exceeded his expectations though in truth he hadn't really made any. He knew what they would have been though and the charming place set among a pallet of pastel beauty was not really within Sherlock's taste. Rather, it was more like Sherlock himself. It was both structured and chaotic-weeded and tended to though left to stretch out far from the confines of individual beds. It was literally buzzing with several bees not far from John's legs as he took the pebble path to the door hidden under a drape of green leaves and vines. Outwardly it was an attractive home though perhaps not conventionally so with her patchy beard of green foliage. Sherlock's home was Sherlock in house form. It worried John for just a moment as to what that might mean for what was inside.
Setting his suitcase on the stoop, he knocked at the door, looking back out at the front garden he'd passed through to take it in from a new direction. It rewarded him with even more color, a few blue blooms waving in the breeze under the shade of a large green bush. It was the sort of place Mary would have liked, really. Though she hadn't had the strength to travel near the end, it would have perhaps been worth the trouble to have come to visit in the spring. He leaned against the brick, eyes closed to the sound of the rustling wind and the smell of salt and flowers. It was another world entirely from the one he'd left. Different from home, from Baker Street-different from London altogether. The sting of unwarranted water in his eyes brought a pang to his chest as he breathed in deep. Allergies, surely. There wasn't enough mirth or sorrow in him to cry. He knocked again, rubbing at his eye till it stung and the unnecessary water wiped away.
Still no one came to the door. John frowned, sure he'd read the cottage's name on the plaque where the domed hedges grew. Peaking through the glass panes of the door he could see not a soul inside, though. What there was was a thin glimpse of a den with couch and chair and an even better view of a table set up with the manner of science equipment John was quite familiar with. There were flowers by the microscope-fresh ones by the hue. John left his case on the stoop and went back out around the pebbled path towards the side of the house where the trees served as nature's fence to guard the lot behind them. A few low twigs grabbed at John's trousers as he walked through a somewhat worn path where the grass was sparse and yellow from being tred upon. There were bushes where the trees' branches stopped sagging with the weight of their bountiful green, cutting off most light until John slipped out on the other side. The side yard was much like the front garden, though a bit more overgrown and mingled. Beyond that, though, was nothing more than a field of flat grass sprinkled in wooden boxes and trees that ran off into the horizon where a hill met the sky. Sherlock sat close to the house, a wide brimmed yellow straw hat covering his head as he sat on a stool next to a patch of clover with a notebook in hand. John somehow hadn't expected him to outfit himself in pressed khaki trousers and a white button down dress shirt even here, out in the yard. It made the yellow hat look odd though it was the only sensible thing he seemed to be wearing. John was warm enough in his own things without having perched out in the sun.
Sherlock sat up, twisting in his seat to look at John with his pad of paper resting in his lap. "Took you long enough," he said, coming off from his stool to stand.
"I was on the other side of London," John told him with a slight smile in his words.
Sherlock nodded, dusting his hands off on his thighs as he gestured for John to follow. "I'll put the kettle on."
They walked inside over the pebbled patio behind the house, Sherlock tossing his hat on the kitchen woodblock as he set to washing his hands in the sink. John was quite accustomed to making himself at home and so he did, going first to the front door to collect his things before giving the place a quick once over. It was tidier than he'd thought it might be. The science room was what would have traditionally stood for a dining area, the current home's occupant needing far less space to eat. He didn't recognize much of the furniture, most of it perhaps bought with the cottage though here and there he found traces of Baker Street in a green chair, a beveled mirror, nick-knacks and pillows. It was strange to see pieces of a life he'd once lived now set in an unfamiliar place. He still held to the opinion that the red floral chair now seated by the window was his. He left his bag in the open and let himself fall into his familiar seat, the way the cushion per-conformed to his backside rather comforting in strange, stupid ways.
"I see you found the place alright," Sherlock said from the kitchen, milling about to the tune of closed cabinets and running water.
John sighed in pleasant complacency. "Well enough. Your place is nicer than the postcard photo."
Sherlock chuckled at the compliment. "Good to know I haven't left if to go completely to pot. I'm getting much better at this gardening thing." He stood leaning on the woodblock, looking at John from the other room as he spoke with the same familiarity as though they'd just spoken to each other the previous day. "There's quite a bit to learn about plants. I try and test the nitrate content of the soil pretty regularly and a generalized soil analysis has seen some overall improvement on the areas most directly in the sun. I've actually increased the bud count in three of the seven test areas. Still working out how soil saturation influences nutrient retention."
The chuckle was almost more of a relief than John could take. It felt wonderful even as it hurt, jostling him unevenly as his muscles seemed to stumble to relearn the motions. He coughed on it, clearing his throat with the last of the cheerful air in him as his smile tweaked his cheeks. "Should have known you'd tackle gardening with more than just a basket and spade."
"Well, I have those too if it paints a better picture," Sherlock offered, tray set with tea pot and service.
John shook his head, resting heavily in his chair with no immediate plans to move. "Nothing paints it better than you in that funny yellow hat," he said, feeling his smile right down to his toes.
Sherlock brought the tea to him, sitting in his own green chair on the opposite side of the room where the sunlight did not spread. John could feel the sun on his own hands and face, warm and yellow like butter on toast. He drank his tea, listening to the buzz of bees at the windowsill, and sat in comfortable silence in the moments Sherlock left open, not pregnant with questions but simply vacant and unspeculative. For once John did not feel judged as either a bad husband, a bad father or simply a bad human being for not being able to shake himself loose from whatever kept him captive. The only sound Sherlock made was in the clink of his cup against the saucer. John hadn't felt more at home in weeks. "So," he said at the start of a breathy sigh. "Aloof eccentric, is it?"
Sherlock shrugged, not looking the least bit displeased with himself. "I had quite a few visitors my first few weeks in. Didn't take long. They certainly could call me worse. This is my second season in, though, and I suppose in part to that they've erred on the side of kindness."
John chuckled again, almost unable to picture Sherlock at the center of a community of house-warmers and neighbors without a harpoon entering into things, though that might have come from the fact that said harpoon was mounted on the wall behind the couch. "The plants and all that keep you from getting too bored, do they?" he asked, still somewhat shocked to see his friend in such calm a state with so little to do. In London he'd be going positively mad, lost to pacing in a fit along the rug.
"I've set an end goal for producing a superior product from my apiaries which requires superior native floral species which must be maintained by superior soil. It is very much a ground up operation." Sherlock set his empty cup down on the coffee table, legs crossed at the knee as he sat with fingers steepled at his chin. "Can't really say I have time to be bored. There's testing, there's weeding, watering, pruning, feeding, re-potting and relocating. I think I'm making fairly good progress this season. It's annoying to have to wait to gauge success but nature is quick to point out failures. It will probably not be until next spring that I get any true results from my more extensive work this year. The honey is certainly testing as the same though I would like to say it already tastes better."
John nodded slowly to show he was listening. It actually was somewhat interesting to listen to Sherlock talk about his plans for his garden. He wouldn't call it an impassioned speech but Sherlock spoke with some manner of interest. Bees and flowers were certainly no triple homicide but unlike the case of the bleeding corpses of three unlucky souls, the garden lasted far longer than a few hours or days. Sherlock had always been manic, waiting for the next thrill, the next high to chase and relish in before the inevitable plummet in the wake of success without immediate repetition. It made sense in a way that the calm John had noted existed now where there were no extreme highs or extreme lows. Sherlock seemed to have a full schedule between analyses and garden maintenance. Like the house, it wasn't at all what John would have picked for him but Sherlock seemed healthier for it in more than just his change of pallor.
"Well, you always did have a taste for sweet things," John remarked in the end as he finished his own still warm cup of milky tea.
Sherlock smiled, a pale blush ripening the apples of his already sun-kissed cheeks. "That is assuredly one habit I have not cut back on."
John hummed with amusement, letting his eyes fall closed again. He heard Sherlock refill his cup then carry the service back to the kitchen. He wasn't quiet on John's behalf. John rather appreciated that.
"How much longer is your mother going to be staying with you?" Sherlock asked from the other room.
John peeked one eye open. "Who says she is?"
"Your clothes. Your mother favors lavender fabric softener. You never bother when you do your own laundry."
Oh, how John loved and hated when he did that. He chuckled to himself darkly, shaking his head. "I have no idea. I don't really remember her asking to stay. She just.. never left. Takes care of Analise, though."
"And you."
"And me." John sighed, looking up at the wood beams in the ceiling painted dark brown against the white. "Is that why you sent your invitation?" he asked.
Sherlock shook his head, putting the odds and ends away. "I happened to purchase a rather excellent vintage of wine, actually. I thought it would be a shame to drink it alone, especially seeing as you like Malbec."
"You demanded my presence via post to assist in the drinking of wine?"
"There was no rush," Sherlock said with a slight smile to betray his pleasure at his own whit. "If anything can wait, it's wine. I'm lead to believe it actually gets better with age."
"Unlike us," John teased, the wetness returning to his eyes which he quickly rubbed away. It hurt like living to be in the same room as Sherlock once more. It was the best kind of hurt.
Sherlock did not bother to retort, a slight roll of his eyes his only reply as he walked to John's case and picked it up. "First door on the right's the bathroom. First door facing the stair is yours," he said.
John nodded and watched from his chair as Sherlock carried his things up for him, at some point having lost his shoes as he stepped barefoot out of sight. John smirked and settled deeper, his smile fading fast in the absence of further anticipation as he looked at his refilled cup with disinterest. A different den, a different chair, but still John found himself drawn to stagnation.
But he'd smiled.
He'd even laughed.
The emptiness was surely still there but it did not seem quite as expansive when sitting in the sunlight of Sherlock's far-away home that smelled like flowers and sounded like a breeze.
Mary would have liked it here. She really would have found it cute. He'd have to tell her about it later but for now nothing sounded quite as good as a nap.