September 1904

"Congratulations, Sherlock, on yet another case successfully completed," Mycroft said. He studied his brother closely; he had followed the news stories as closely as anyone in London of the attack on the famous detective by Baron Gruner's men. "I must say, you are looking remarkably well for a man who was supposedly at death's door only last week."

"Come now, Mycroft, you know I had to pretend to be in worse condition for the papers," Sherlock answered. It was surprising how little he had, in fact, changed since the early days of his career. His hair was still a glossy black; his gaunt featur es appeared to have gained no wrinkles in the twenty-odd years he had been working. Mycroft knew he himself was less lucky; his girth had only increased with time and he wore his age on his face as if it had always been there (usually he did not mind, it served to intimidate the new staff very well). Dr. Watson, the few times Mycroft had seen him, was moving slower than usual, and his hair and mustache were now streaked with gray. He sighed, wondering where the years had gone.

"Yes, I surmised as much when Dr. Watson did not come bursting in here begging me to come to Baker Street to pay my last respects," Mycroft said calmly. He did not begrudge the fact that no one had included him in the deception; he had done more than his share of assisting Sherlock to deceive the public. "How is the good doctor, by the way?"

"He has found a practice in Queen Anne Street," Sherlock answered. "I am glad for him, even though it means I see comparatively little of him now. After the events of the Garridebs case, I began to truly wonder if we have been at this too long."

Mycroft had heard of Dr. Watson's attack only three months before and had been surprised at the depth of his own reaction. He hadn't admitted it, but the same thoughts had crossed his mind: were Sherlock and Dr. Watson getting too advanced in years to continue in their roles as detective and assistant? Most men, at the age of fifty or so, were content to begin ending their public roles and retire to an enjoyment of private life. Sherlock had mentioned the idea with increasing frequency in recent years, most notably after the scare of Dr. Watson's attack. But even Mycroft found it difficult to imagine a time when Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were not in Baker Street, waiting for the next case. It seemed as if they always had been there and always would be.

Sherlock leaned forward, appearing to be at a loss for words for the first time Mycroft could remember since they were children. "Mycroft, I wanted to tell you…I am retiring. As soon as I finish up my current cases, I am ending my career as a consulting detective."

"I had thought you might," Mycroft said, taking the news as confirmation of what they had discussed on previous occasions. "I wish you luck, Sherlock. I believe I can say with some certainty that you leave at the very top of your profession."

Sherlock shook his head, "If I were to do that, I would not have been attacked by Gruner's thugs. I am getting slow. This case showed me that all too clearly. Even ten years ago they should never have taken me by surprise like that. First Watson very nearly was shot to death, and now I was left for dead. All in the course of three months! No, Mycroft, I am slipping. Best to leave now before something truly terrible happens."

"What will you do?"

"I have taken a house in Sussex Downs," Sherlock answered. "A small cottage, where I can do my chemical experiments, walk along the countryside, and keep bees. An extra room for Watson when he visits, and I have all I need."

Keep bees? Mycroft was used by now to his brother's strange leaps of interest, but beekeeping was new even to him. "Why bees?"

Sherlock brightened considerably. "Bees are a most fascinating insect. All work for the good of the hive, producing food and caring for the young, under the direction of a queen. They provide an essential service in pollinating plants, and give honey for our use. A most industrious insect from which we have much to learn."

Mycroft shook his head, "To each their own. I only wish I could do the same."

"You have not thought about retiring yourself? You have done more than your fair share," Sherlock asked.

Mycroft sighed, "I have considered it, but I do not know where they would find someone to replace me. My function in government is absolutely unique, and with the situation on the Continent the way it is, I am loath to leave."

"Then I take it I shall not see you very often after this," Sherlock said.

"Why ever not? You're retiring to Sussex, not dying," Mycroft said exasperatedly.

"I have no intention of returning to London unless absolutely necessary," Sherlock said. "And as I highly doubt that you will suddenly become enamored of travel through the countryside, there will be little opportunity of seeing one another."

"You? Not returning to London?" Mycroft tried to hide his shock and failed. His brotherbreathed in time with the city. Now he was leaving, never to return?

"It has far too many memories for me," Sherlock said grandly. "I want to make a complete break. Besides, there will be little temptation for me to return to detective work where I am going. I chose Sussex Downs because it has the lowest crime rate in the country. No, dear brother, it is time for me to begin again, in a career more suited to the twilight of life."

"Oh, Sherlock, you are so melodramatic. Taking leave as if you are shutting yourself up in an anchorite's cell, never to see anyone again," Mycroft admonished. "It is only Sussex. You will have to get yourself a telephone."

Sherlock laughed, "One of those aggravating ringing contraptions? I think not, Mycroft. Telegrams and letters are good enough for me."

"You never write letters," Mycroft said. "I find the telephone to be an extraordinarily useful device. I can hold important meetings and discussions without ever having to leave my desk. Besides, I would like to know I can reach you in an instant should I require your professional services."

Sherlock knew instantly what his brother was referring to. "Do you think that will be necessary? I am, of course, willing to come out of retirement should my country need me, but I was under the impression that the situation was not as bad as all that."

"Of course, it is impossible to tell with any certainty," Mycroft began. "But all the signs point in one direction, and have for as long as I have been working for the Crown: war. It is all but inevitable, Sherlock. This continent is a powder keg, ready to ignite at the smallest provocation. Before the next ten years are over, there will be a war unlike any we have ever seen." He sincerely hoped he was wrong, but in all his years of service at Whitehall, it had become a mantra among the staff of all departments: "You need to ask Mr. Holmes about that. He's never wrong."

"Well, they will need you more than ever, should that come to pass," Sherlock said, getting up. "Good luck, Mycroft."

"And you," Mycroft said, shaking his brother by the hand. "I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for in the countryside." He knew Sherlock was looking for some type of peace, and hoped the absence of London and its criminal activity would provide it. He was less than sure about this, because it also meant the absence of the people who had grounded him for so long.