travel.

(Day 8)

They leave Berlin early in the morning, in a car Sherlock's rented in his perfect German that sounds even more posh than he can manage in English.

Weiden is a four hour drive away and they spend most of the time on the German autobahns in silence, Sherlock driving while John looks out at nothing in particular.

Around noon, they pass a sign announcing yet another pull-up.

"Fancy a bite," John asks. They haven't eaten since yesterday morning.

"No time," Sherlock replies dismissively, eyes on the road.

Eventually the silence is only disturbed by John's growling digestive system.

water.

Having tea becomes synonymous with home. Putting the kettle on, pulling cups out of the cabinet, picking a tea bag, pouring in the milk afterwards like Orwell prescribed back in 1946, it all signifies the same thing.

They’d have tea at camp, when he was in Afghanistan, grasping at their own Britishness like people thirsting. They’d hope to get the chance of repeating the ceremony back in the UK, someday, sometime.

Sitting in his chair like a grown person for once, Sherlock is performing a very Shakespearean-style monologue that makes John smile, because -- well, here he is, isn’t he?

Home.