They're on holiday in the countryside - it's lovely this far out from the bustle and grime of London, green and blooming and buzzing, and she looks like a picture postcard with her bonnet and parasol, both blue as the sky, eyes flashing as she hums softly and lies back onto their picnic blanket beneath the trees. Watson can't help but notice the bent stalks of grass that make a faint path out of the meadow and into the woods between the cottages; he puzzles over it, and starts, out of habit, to get up and follow the trail, but Mary catches his sleeve and looks up at him with an inquiring smile.
"Just... stretching a bit," he says, and he pats her hand fondly to set her mind at ease, even if his own is, at present, approximately two hundred fifteen miles away.
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ninetydegrees
1a: Watson
on 2010-01-06 08:34 am (UTC)"Just... stretching a bit," he says, and he pats her hand fondly to set her mind at ease, even if his own is, at present, approximately two hundred fifteen miles away.