Despite a sleepless night, John woke early with unusual energy. Perhaps he was just anxious to see what would come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth today, but John slid out of bed as soon as he jerked the bell pull. His bad leg almost crumpled as he tucked his feet into slippers and wrapped his thick dressing gown about himself.
The maid who answered seemed surprised to see him shuffling about already. She set his tea tray by the fireplace and stirred up the coals.
"I'll take my tea here, but I'll be breakfasting downstairs today, Abby."
"Oh, yes, sir," she said about his change of plans. Captain Watson always broke his fast in his rooms; but of course, there was company, and when there wasn't, Sir Harold rarely showed his face until midday so there was little point. "I'll let Mrs. Richardson know." She bobbed a little curtsy and dashed out the door.
Moments later, without being summoned, the butler Meade rapped at the door. He'd been helping John and Sir Harold dress since there was no one else anymore. John thought momentarily about tipping the staff generously with the wedding purse for all they'd put up with in the past months, years, probably, and their loyalty. He couldn't even imagine how much would be enough.
Lord Sherrinford – John would have to ask him to provide the traditional purse for the staff and villagers. Harry likely wouldn't have the funds yet and wouldn't think to ask.
John forced himself to pace back and forth in his room despite the pain in his leg. It was always worst at night. The cramps and spasms would wake him if the nightmares hadn't already. Sometimes he spent an hour or more hobbling back and forth in the dark before the pain eased enough for him to lie back down.
Meade made short work of dressing John for the morning, once John had decided what he wanted to wear. And maybe Meade smiled just a bit too much at John's consideration of his appearance. In the end, he chose a dark blue waistcoat under a light brown jacket with buff breeches. Meade fussed a little with his cravat before making sure John found his way steadily enough down the stairs.
Lord Sherrinford and Harry were already dining, though Harry didn't seem to be enjoying his toast and tea. There was much of importance to be discussed yet, despite Lord Sherrinford's innocuous and pleasant conversation.
John was seated, bid the two good morning, and received his customary plate. Sherlock breezed in when his meal was half over.
"Good morning, Sherlock," John ventured, only to be rewarded with a bright smile.
"Good morning, John," was the hearty response.
If John had spared a glance for Lord Sherrinford, he would have noticed quite a peculiar expression on the man's face. Sherlock tucked into his egg and toast without being urged, further annoying his brother with the normalcy of it.
"Did you see the grounds sufficiently yesterday, Sherlock, or would you like a proper tour? Of course, Lord Sherrinford, you are welcome as well." To see what you are buying with all that money, John added to himself. But really, how could he be churlish and bitter about the Watson's rescue?
"Mycroft won't come along, John. It may require exercise," Sherlock scoffed. Lord Sherrinford ignored his brother and replied smoothly.
"I fear your brother and I have too many details to discuss regarding the marriage contracts, Captain Watson. We may well be closeted in the study the entire day. Thinking of all the work to be done wouldn't allow me to properly enjoy a countryside jaunt, but thank you."
Harry just looked miserable, and John was a bit glad of that.
"I, on the other hand, am dreadfully bored. Let's go." Sherlock jumped up from the table, stuffing the last of his toast into his mouth.
John marveled on how energetic Sherlock was. Even now he tapped his foot as they waited for the butler to bring their outerwear.
"I apologize if our hospitality is insufficient to keep you occupied."
"Oh, don't be so stuffy, John. Etiquette is boring. I am away from the city, away from my experiments, away from life. Of course I'm bored. You shouldn't take it personally."
John hadn't, not really, but he didn't know Sherlock well enough to know if he should have.
"Do hurry, John," he said as soon as they were wrapped up against the late autumn chill. Sherlock darted out the doorway and down the steps, reminding John of a retriever he'd had as a teen. Harry hadn't said what happened to the dog while John was away, but he supposed he must have died. It seemed likely, one way or another, since Harry had disliked the spirited pup, and the feeling had been mutual.
"I'm injured, Sherlock, you'll just have to learn to be patient." John felt surprised that he felt so comfortable calling Sherlock by his Christian name, even, and especially, after their short conversation the night before. He'd only had the privilege with a few childhood pals from the village and none since he'd gone away to school.
Sherlock scoffed, but bounced at the foot of the steps as John made his careful way down them.
"Nonsense, you are not injured. Your leg has been healing a six-month, so your scars are probably fading to pink. You've been taking long walks about the estate to help recover your strength after your bout of fever. Exercise only helps with the stiffness, even if it tires you still."
"Very well," John chuckled. "I am not injured. Which direction do you prefer?"
"You pick, John. I only explored the immediate area yesterday. Lead me somewhere you enjoy."
"Very well. This way, then."
John headed around the side of the manor house and then straight to the east where the meadows were harvested and quiet. There was a stream a few stiles that way and a pretty little woods had sprung up around it. It was the deep, dark forest of John's childhood, where he'd explored and played at Robin Hood with some of the town children.
They walked in companionable silence for some time, Sherlock only opening his mouth to verify which crop was planted in which field, and sometimes narrate interesting facts about the hibernating wildflowers that grew along their way. John couldn't tell by their dry stems what they were, but Sherlock seemed certain.
Sherlock vaulted over the stiles with a whoosh of his greatcoat, but paid great care that John would not stumble on his way. John said nothing about it and tried to change the topic even in his own mind.
"So, we know why I agreed to this marriage, Sherlock, but why did you?"
Sherlock had paused to pluck some remnants of clover from the ground.
"Sheep?" he said.
"What? Oh, yes, we graze sheep in this field sometimes. Did you hear my question?"
"Why does anyone marry, John?"
"Is that meant to be rhetorical?"
"Freedom, John! Is that not what we all want? Freedom to live our lives, to come and go as we please, to direct our surroundings to our greatest pleasures. Mycroft promised me a home of my own, out from under his watchful gaze, and if I'm to be saddled with a keeper, so be it!"
John wondered vaguely if Sherlock always spoke with exclamation marks.
"I'll try not to restrict your pleasures, then." Of course Sherlock didn't want this marriage, John, neither of you did. Don't be stupid.
"Oh, don't be that way, John. Besides, we both know that Mycroft has already asked you to spy on me. You don't need to confirm it."
"That doesn't mean I agreed to do so."
Sherlock abandoned his long stride and John continued walking quite past him. For the first time, he was ahead of the man, as much as he was guiding the tour.
After a moment, Sherlock jogged to catch up to him. This time, the hand he placed on John's elbow was much more pleasant.
"You said 'no' to Mycroft?"
"I take it that doesn't happen often. He seemed put out, even through that polite mask of his."
"I've never known anyone to do so, except me."
They resumed walking, Sherlock silent and lost in thought for several minutes.
"I never wished to marry. I've always found young ladies, even if they might have had sharp minds, bred and nurtured to be simpler than their idiotic husbands. I cannot tolerate insipid conversation. And the very few men whose conversation I can tolerate have never enticed me. And either way, I prefer to be alone."
And there, right there, John could foretell the lonely state of their marriage.
Sherlock's sharp eyes caught something. "What are those?" And he was off running. John took his time ambling along until he was about twenty feet away from the curious objects which had Sherlock so fascinated.
"You keep bees!" Sherlock said with no little awe.
"Yes, we have hives scattered over the estate grounds." This one was surrounded by a little copse of trees. There was a half-rotted stump nearby, plenty of overhang from the trees for shade and protection from winter snow. "This hive was wild, in the tree here. Our beekeeper managed to move it when I was a boy so we could more easily harvest the honey."
Sherlock glanced around, but the brisk autumn sky held nothing but clouds.
"The bees are packed away for the winter, otherwise they'll freeze. Take off your glove."
Sherlock didn't ask questions, immediately removing one of his gloves. John tugged on his hand and led him right up to the hive.
"They're loud," Sherlock observed. "And warm!" John had put his fingers over a vent hole in the top of the hive cover. "Fascinating." John could see Sherlock's mind working, trying to imagine the inside of the hive, the sheer number of tiny bodies wiggling and humming, keeping warm and sipping honey stored in the combs.
"We must come back in spring, then, when they're open. I'm sure Mr. Gilmore would be amenable to answering your questions." Maybe not all your questions, thought John, but the man did like to talk bees.