There’s a snowstorm outside so I’m just going to drop this off and then pretend I was never here
Being seventy years old is not as pleasant as everyone made it out to be.
Lestrade had told him he would appreciate the quiet of retirement; Sherlock doesn’t think he had the slightest clue what this boredom would do to someone with a brain like his.
Mrs. Hudson had told him he would have time to rest his now-exhausted body; Sherlock fumes as he thinks of all of the things she had neglected to mention, like how hard it is to rest when non-stop use has led to osteoarthritis and sitting down comfortably has become an impossibility.
Molly had told him that he would finally have time for a hobby; while he has found one, of sorts, he does not like the anxiety he feels when he looks out of the window at the four wooden boxes in the yard, a snowstorm currently thickening the snowy blanket under which his beloved bees are sleeping.
His parents had presumed that he would enjoy Sussex, in their own way, by leaving him a house there; he rages at how little they understood his hatred of quiet, lovely places and at how much they understood John’s love for them.
Sherlock continues to watch his silent hives, heaving a sigh he can feel in his very bones.
The crash of the blizzard coming in through the front door snatches him from his reverie, and he wrinkles his nose at how poor his reflexes have become. He turns to face the little old man who has tumbled through the door with the snow.
Sherlock, you arse, if you ever run out of formaldehyde in a snowstorm again I swear to God -
A large, snowy bottle is unceremoniously deposited onto a carefully-picked out antique table and finally, finally, two blazing blue eyes turn to face him with enough heat in them to melt the whole storm away.
What?
Sherlock takes John in his arms, snow and all, and revels at how such a small person can, alone, provide enough warmth to fill a two-story cottage in Sussex.
Nothing.
Okay. But I’m not joking. No more formaldehyde runs. My bones are too old; the most I’ll consent to is a formaldehyde walk on a sunny day.
Shhhh, John.
Sherlock turns him gently, strategically, so that John can’t see that for the experiment on the kitchen table, it’s in fact far too late for formaldehyde.
He holds him close, letting a contented smile creep over his lips.
In the end, he thinks, it was Harry who was right. It was Harry who had jokingly (and somewhat, Sherlock still thinks, inappropriately) suggested that growing old would give them time to really get to know each other.
And at this very moment, Sherlock is quite sure, old age has never brought him anything more precious than more time with John.
