Chapter Text
They stand silent in the cattails, still in the autumn air. The water’s a glass for the clouds.
Lots of frogs today, Sherlock says: his first words since they left Mrs. Montague’s.
Listen--
Over there, for example. Sherlock points to the creature blinking and breathing, mud-shiny, on the shore. That’s Pelophylax ridibundus.
A bug, all legs, skitters across the water’s surface. The frog eyes it gelatinously.
John sighs. I can tell you’ve deduced it, but--
Over there is Pelophylax esculentus--edible, in theory--and I saw an agile frog on the walk here. Rare, those. I ought to--
Sherlock. The frog leaps into the marsh with a plop; Sherlock, shaking, lets John lead him to dry ground, steps into John’s arms under a boxelder.
When do you go? The boxelder drops yellow leaves around them; John drapes his scarf, blue and striped, over Sherlock’s shoulders.
A fortnight. Sherlock makes a noise against John’s neck. Shh, love. I’ll come back. I’ll tell you stories about Lord Milverton’s army and his ridiculous war. You’ll complain that I missed everything of importance. It’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine.
From the water: the sound of frogs, calling one another home.
They walk back to Mrs. Montague’s arm in arm. Silent. On the horizon, smoke trails mark where leaf piles are burning.