Archive of Our Own ^beta

Retirement. It’s not something Watson had really considered before Holmes had brought it up so suddenly. 

At first he feared it was for his sake, brought about by his newest injury. With one more wound, he will only slow Sherlock down that much more. That makes him hesitate when it’s first brought up, but it’s far from his only reason for declining to join Sherlock, as much as part of him would like to. 

Watson isn’t ready to slow down or rest. There is so much still to be done, and he just doesn’t think he would be able to stand it. The stillness, with nothing to drown out his thoughts. Watson is a man of action in a world full of people needing the help of a good doctor. The very idea of sitting idly by makes him feel restless. 

It’s bittersweet, seeing Sherlock move on to the next stage of his life, without him. To go, again, where he cannot follow. At least this time, he will be able to visit, but still…

-

He knows Sherlock is nothing but single minded and methodical when he’s set on a plan. So it’s with some embarrassment that Watson admits to himself that he’s surprised Holmes has stuck with it as the months turn to years. Sherlock isn’t one for passing fancies, and yet, part of him always assumed some new case or adventure would draw Sherlock back to his work.

Instead, seemingly sharing none of Watson’s qualms, Sherlock adjusts beautifully to country life, and doesn’t seem the least bit restless whenever John visits him. It warms his heart to see him flourish so.  

For all that a part of him longs to stay, each time he visits, Watson just doesn’t think he could do it, not yet. Certainly not without getting on both of their nerves, and disrupting Sherlock’s hard won peaceful life. He needs time.

The years pass, and with them Watson grows weary. The war… Writer or not, Watson didn’t have the words to describe it. He didn’t have it in him to reflect long enough to put those experiences down on paper. Not just yet. So many men far younger than him had fallen, some still boys to his eyes. He saved all he could, but there were always more wounded to tend to. There were always those who slipped away despite the doctors and nurses giving their all. Watson doesn’t think he has any left to give, at least not as a doctor.

Perhaps one day, he will be able to pen the stories of those young soldiers' bravery, and of the cruelty of war. For now, he simply cannot face lingering on those too fresh wounds. 

He is ready to retire, now. He thinks he could use some peace. He could use Sherlock’s companionship to stand between himself and those memories. If not to shield him, for that is too much to ask, then to be by his side through them. 

It was an odd feeling… Not knowing where to go next, while also knowing exactly where, who with, you belonged. Knowing there was a room set aside just for you, but still feeling like you were taking up too much space. He knew that he was wanted there, not merely tolerated. And yet the fear remained nonetheless. They had spent a long time apart. Did they still fit together, as they once had? Was he too changed now, too damaged by a second time at war?

Such doubts were a disservice to the man, the friend he knew Sherlock to be. And yet like the ache in his leg, they remained, unswayed by any attempts to reason them away. 

-

Despite his fears, Watson is welcomed as he knew he would be. 

-

Watson is glad to see that Sherlock has so many friends these days, among Fullworth's villagers. He had feared, when retirement had first come up, that without him Holmes would end up all alone, distanced from others by his eccentricities. He had feared just as much, that if he had joined him, his presence would stop Holmes from forming new connections and keep him secluded away from their community. There was no winning, the fears of being unneeded and of being in the way at odds with each other when they were not joining forces against him. 

But Sherlock had done it after all, had forged those connections and been embraced for all of himself. It’s a relief for Watson; to know he’s no longer Holmes’ sole connection to the world. He’ll no longer be alone if Sherlock needs someone to pull him out of himself and his melancholy. 

And the years apart have not changed how easy it is for them to co-exist, or their regard for one another. Watson, too, is embraced as he is, flaws and all. 

For someone so perceptive, Sherlock seems awfully nervous about asking Watson to stay with him in Fullworth. Surely he must know the answer, that Watson’s intention was to stay, if not in the same house then at least as close by as he could be without imposing. 

Then again that is the mirror of the anxiety Watson felt arriving on his old partner’s doorstep in the first place. He didn’t wish to intrude, but Watson was tired and ready for the rest Sherlock had taken up first. 

Sherlock must know, too, that declining him when he had first asked Watson to retire with him, was one of the hardest choices he’d ever made. He’d spent many a sleepless night, re-debating the pros and cons. All the ways his presence could interfere with the life Sherlock was building for himself, his own need to keep moving forward, yet how terribly he missed Sherlock. Watson had seen how his refusal had stung his dear companion, and regretted that terribly. Even if he still believes that at that time, they had both followed the paths they needed to be on/

Words fail Holmes at first, asking John to stay. It’s a rare occurrence, even in all they’ve faced together and apart. 

At last, he gets it out. “I care for you deeply in a way beyond words, John Watson." 

And hasn’t Watson tried many times over the years to put his own feelings for Holmes into words? He has written books upon books full of them. It has never felt quite right, and so he always tried again. 

And yet, sitting in the quiet afternoon light, he wonders if this needs words at all. Perhaps, he should simply allow himself to experience it, experience what they are, together. 

Watson leans in, and presses a whiskery kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. He takes his hand in his, smiling at Holmes’ surprised expression. He knows they understand one another, but it is good to finally talk about it, as they continue the conversation. All the little things that needed saying, all the love of decades together and apart. 

No more parting for them. Watson is here to stay, now that they are both ready. 

They sit together on the new couch in front of the flickering fire, each reading their own book. The bookshelves are hopelessly muddled together once more. Sherlock had raised an eyebrow at Watson’s mystery novel for the night, but had made no comment. Just as Watson hadn’t commented on the rather dull looking stack of lectures Sherlock is currently engrossed in.

Outside the window, snow falls, muffling out the rest of the world. 

Living with Sherlock again, and being retired, have been an adjustment for Watson. But it has been a good, much needed adjustment. 

While he is no master of observation, he has still learned to read and understand Sherlock over the years. He is happy, at peace, and seeing that helps Watson settle somewhat. It’s not something Watson thought he’d get to see, and he knows that while most of the change happened while he was away, his presence contributes to Holmes’ good mood. Sherlock Holmes has settled down, and now the final puzzle piece to his contentment has slotted into place with Watson sitting by his side. He is wanted here. 

Initially Watson had feared they had grown apart in their time separated. But decades old habits and routines slot right back into place. And when one of them notices a small way in which the other has changed in the years apart, they accommodate it. Growing back together is a choice gladly made. 

Hodge is curled up in Sherlock’s lap, purring loudly as he absentmindedly strokes her. For all that he pretends not to feel strongly about the cat, Watson knows how fond he is of her by how he speaks to her like an esteemed colleague.

Toby III sits alert by Watson’s feet, keen eyes trained out the window, despite nothing being visible through the thick blanket of snow. Toby is no lapdog, though he will occasionally deign to make an exception for Watson. While he was never intended to be a guard dog, there is sometimes a distinctly protective air to how he sits beside them, such as tonight. 

“Another cup of tea, My dear fellow?” Sherlock asks. 

Watson wouldn’t say the pet names are new, exactly. But he certainly takes more note of them now that he’s paying attention, now that he knows their affection is mutual. "dear chap," “Good old Watson,” "My Watson," all slipped so comfortably into conversation. It always warms his heart. 

Watson squeezes Sherlock’s knee as he moves to get up. “Thank you. You take such good care of me.” Seeing the way his cheeks pink and his surprised, shy smile, is still a treat Watson cherishes.

-

Watson is still wary around the bees. He had tried the beekeeping, once, at Sherlock’s cajoling. There’s something to be said for sharing each other’s passions, and Watson has always been a thrill seeker and game for a challenge. He just prefers his thrills to come in a less stinging insect form, thank you very much.

Now, Watson’s garden keeps him busy while Sherlock tends the bees. He has hopes some of his vegetables will do well in the next Village Fete. They work together in the yard, in companionable silence. 

Or, mostly silence. Holmes is talking to his bees again. Watson smiles to himself. Sherlock teases him endlessly for talking to his plants, despite the way he talks to the bees and pets. He has argued it’s different, since the animals can hear him. That won't stop Watson from doting on his garden. In part he does it because he enjoys the gentle bickering. 

The bees do seem to like Watson’s garden, which in turn seems to make Sherlock happy. 

-

Some days, Watson is unable to walk as far or as quickly as he’d like. His old wounds and aging joints get in the way of his hiking adventures and countryside rambling. 

Just as Holmes’ dwindling vision hampers the observation that was not only his forte, but kept his mind occupied.

They are both restless, from time to time.

Martha lectures them both mercilessly when they push themselves too far. She has become a friend, albeit a friend who won’t let him get away with any bullshit. On one memorable occasion, she called Mycroft on them, like a pair of naughty schoolboys rather than aging gentlemen. 

They understand each other’s irritation with life and age’s new limitations and struggles. Still, together they are able to experience many things, both old and new. 

Sherlock gives Watson a purpose again, some grounding to that energy. He has acted as his eyes in the past, though his observations will never be as keen as his partner’s. He can still read aloud for the pair of them, late into the evening when the dim light and Sherlock’s spectacles are no longer enough to make sense of the words. And if Sherlock ever tires of their treks about the countryside, or how they are sometimes slowed or cut short by the pain in Watson’s leg, he never once complains about it. 

-

For the anniversary of his official move into the cottage, Watson puts together a picnic of his own. He has the help of the villagers and Mycroft. He needed it, in order to surprise someone as observant as Holmes. Luckily the “mysterious” disappearance of his prized pumpkin right before the Village Fete provided the perfect distraction. Sherlock is still grumbling about that trick, while also grumbling that said pumpkin should have won, as they approach the cottage. 

“You were snubbed, my dear man. Second place, when any fool could see-”

“And your opinion, is of course, completely unbiased.” Watson’s eyes twinkle.

“Of course,” Sherlock sniffs. “Welcome home, Watson,” he says as he opens the door, motioning him in. Just as he had, that first day.

They leave their canes by the door to their cottage, resting side by side.