Chapter Text
From: Jim Stapleton: will be there in 20. Going 2 bk gate unless hear otherwise
Greg worked his phone into the front left pocket of his jeans and got out of the car, stretching to work the kinks out of his lower back. He'd been lucky as far as his health was concerned, having reached his mid-sixties with nothing more serious than a slightly dodgy back and a bit of a wheeze in the mornings, which he put down to years of smoking before managing to kick the habit fifteen years ago.
He looked up at the house, a traditional cottage set in a large parcel of land, bordered by a small wood on one side and a stream on the other, still unable to believe that it was actually his. Well, his and Sherlock’s, but still. He'd never dreamt that he would be able to afford such a home, but between his pension, savings, his flat selling for well above the asking price, and Sherlock’s income and savings, they'd been able to easily afford their dream home. His husband wanting to move away from London had been something of a surprise, but their year living in the Sussex countryside had worked wonders on the younger man. Not that he had mellowed, of course, but to Greg, who had seen him through addiction, bereavement, and loss, the positive changes wrought were obvious.
He opened the front door, stepping into the large hallway, and inadvertently onto a pile of mail which hadn't been collected. “Sherlock?” he called, flicking through the envelopes and finding nothing but rubbish.
There was no response from his husband, but Arthur and Conan, a pair of stray cats who had attached themselves to Sherlock within days of them moving in to the house, despite his disdain for them, appeared from the direction of the kitchen. “He out back?” The look Arthur gave him was so reminiscent of Sherlock that Greg had to laugh. “Of course.”
He made his way through the house, depositing the post in the recycling bin in the kitchen en route, and out the of back door into the large garden, which was littered with experiments and strange, homemade contraptions. He followed the path out through the gate into the field that abutted their garden; the hedges needed trimming, but the grass was kept short by Doyle and Rupert, a pair of goats who had been rescued by a local animal charity and had been in need of a foster home as they recovered from severe malnutrition. Sherlock had scorned him for being taken in by their sob story initially, but Greg had caught him brushing and petting them on an almost daily basis since; he even had photographic evidence, which made wonderful blackmail material when the younger man was being obstinate about hosting his parents for Sunday dinner.
Rounding the corner, Greg had to smile when he eventually spotted his husband; he was walking along his row of beehives, which were yet to actually house any bees, with Doyle and Rupert trailing behind. Stealthily, Greg crossed the field until he was within hearing range of Sherlock; whether he was muttering to himself or the goats Greg couldn't tell, but a steady stream of babble about the variety of plants in the surrounding fields and how much and which type of honey his bees would produce was spilling from his lips with endearing enthusiasm.
Doyle, a medium-sized black goat with splashes of white across his nose, spotted Greg first and bleated a greeting. “No,” Sherlock said distractedly, looking down at the animal. “The literature specifically states that bovidae are to be fed a limited amount of fruit, and you've had more than your quota for the day.”
Greg laughed, unable to restrain it, and Sherlock spun to face him with a glare. Approaching fifty he might be, but to Greg he was more attractive than he ever had been. Hair streaked with grey and carrying a little weight about his middle, he seemed human in a way that he hadn't in the early years of their acquaintance. Something that had not changed, however, was the razor sharp intellect and ability to read Greg’s whole day in one glance. Despite years of exposure to Sherlock’s methods, the younger man still regularly left Greg feeling exposed and naked with nothing more than a sweep of his pale eyes.
“When are these fiends being moved on?”
Greg looked down to find Rupert, a brown speckled goat, chewing on the hem of Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive designer trousers and grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. I quite like them.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes shooed the goats away before turning back to the wooden hives, studying the closest one intently. Greg walked up behind him and wrapped an arm loosely around his waist. “The hive're ready to receive your first batch of bees, yeah?”
“It’s a swarm, not a batch. The hives are ready but I need to check that the—”
“—Sherlock, the hives have been built for months, you’ve had a shed full of supplies since before Christmas, and I’ve heard nothing but plans for this since we moved down here.”
Sherlock huffed, and Greg thought it was adorable. “Don't say it: I am not cute,” he spat, expression vaguely reminiscent of Conan when Arthur stole the last of the catnip treats.
“I was thinking more adorable than cute, but whatever you say,” Greg replied cheekily, leaning in for a kiss. During their years together they had shared every kind of kiss imaginable, from biting, angry kisses to sloppy, heat of the moment kisses. Greg’s favourite was still the sweet, almost hesitant meeting of lips, usually proceeded by a demanding, confident kiss that still had the ability to curl Greg’s toes, even ten years down the line. This kiss was one of the latter, and it reminded him of their early days when they'd shared a hunger for each other that had yet to be sated. It spoke of being with a man who gave as much as he took, and Greg fell for Sherlock a little more every time.
For all that this particular kiss started sweetly, Greg soon had one hand up the back of Sherlock’s shirt and the other tangled in his still-wild hair, and Sherlock had a knee wedged between Greg’s thighs. Sherlock pulled away eventually, moving to kiss his way down against Greg’s neck. “It’s too cold to be doing this out here.”
“Hmm, yes, but just give it a bit longer,” Greg replied, twisting his neck slightly so he could surreptitiously look down at his watch.
“What—”
A sudden commotion from the bottom of the field, where a large five-bar gate gave access to the back lane, distracted Sherlock, and he turned around curiously.
“All right, mates. Which one of you is Sherlock ‘olmes?” asked a man of middle age, who could only be Jim Stapleton.
“Here he is,” Greg replied, nudging Sherlock forward.
His husband glared at him but walked towards the stranger, curiosity getting the better of him. “I’m Sherlock. And you are?”
“Jim Stapleton,” the newcomer said, shaking Sherlock’s hand. “I run an apiary a few villages over. Got a delivery for you; my lads are just unloading it and then we’ll bring ‘em through. There’s enough to fill two of them hives you’ve got there, so choose where you want ‘em going.” With that he turned and disappeared back through the gate, leaving Sherlock staring after him.
Several long moments passed before Sherlock seemed to come back to himself, and he spun to face Greg with an energy that he used to reserve for only the most complex of murders. “This is your doing,” he accused, advancing on Greg, eyes shining with an emotion he rarely expressed.
Greg smiled at his husband, cupping his cheek, and bestowed a brief, chaste kiss on his still-full lips. “Happy Valentine’s day, Sherlock.”