They certainly seem to go out of town a lot during this year... then again it is not that far and they have a convenient place to stay, so why wouldn't they? All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners.
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If there was anything, anything at all, John missed while living in London, glorious as it was with its complete and utter lack of silence, countless opportunities for an adrenaline high - or a puzzle, for his fiance - it was nearness to nature. Not that he had much time to reflect about it, busy as Sherlock kept him, and there were plenty of parks to sprawl on grass in as well, should he wish it. Picnics were ruled out at least if he wanted Sherlock for company, of course, unless they were out on the estate, but he could easily take a walk outside if he wanted to. Even so, John still missed trees and grass and a neverending sky sometimes. Not like Sherlock; Sherlock only ever missed bees.
As usual, John was not thinking of it for the moment, as he was busy running head over heals after Sherlock, the detective gaining fast on a particularly vicious killer who liked to toss acid onto his victims after casually nailing them onto walls. Losing sight of his fiance before jumping over yet another strange hindrance that apparently littered this backway London alley and finally turning around a corner, John caught up with the two sociopaths of which he had been in persuit, just in time to step into the final moments of their scuffle by way of hitting the not-so-nice sociopath hard in the back of the head, coming to the aid of his favourite sociopath just in time to be helpful.
Afterwards, sitting in the back of an open ambulance and watching Sherlock manage to swarm around all on his own, John reflected on the green of the countryside again, trying not to roll his eyes when it took the ambulance medic a full ten minutes to come to the conclusion that he indeed did not have a concussion (why he would, he had no idea) just like he said he did not, and that his knuckles was merely bruised, finally losing his temper and grabbing the needed items to fix it up himself.
Sherlock might have rubbed off on his John somewhat, the genius noted when the doctor eventually took charge of his own treatment, but only somewhat, as the doctor gracefully accepted a hand with it, maybe because treating your own hand isn't entirely easy, or perhaps because John always was the reasonable one, after all. Unless, perhaps, you took all of his tea. Even Sherlock had never dared to try that out in practise, not that he'd ever wanted to - a tealess John would be an unhappy John, and he desperately did not want that.
As the doctor was finally freed, he came over, and was greeted with a typical post-case, wide grin. "This case. This case, John. It has been brilliant!" John smiled, giving a chuckle. "If you say so, you tosser. But Sherlock? This was a long one. Could we take a few days off?" Turning towards him and rapidly deducing, Sherlock suddenly lit up. "I can visit the bees!"
Their conversation was cut short then, as Lestrade came to get their perspectives on events, telling Sherlock off for his recklessness and asking John if he was alright. After assuring himself that they were both well, and would come in for official statements the next day, the Chief Inspector left. Naturally, the evening ended like so many other of their nights together did: with a criminal in custody and Sherlock and John trying not to giggle. It was, after all, a crime scene.
Two days later saw them lying on a safe distance from the beehives, on a blanket but their hands touching the fresh, just slightly long, green grass, John half asleep over his book and Sherlock well and truly intrigued by his observations, and both of them very happy indeed.