Not the Vacation He Expected
John didn't have short days anymore. He woke early, went into work early, did a ridiculous amount of paperwork (far more than anyone else did, but he was willing to do it), worked a full day, and often took on an extra shift (sometimes staying late just to make sure everyone else was handling the work). After he was done, he would walk the few miles to Harry's place instead of taking a cab. He appreciated the subsequent exhaustion. By the time he sat down with Harry to watch her favourite mind-numbing programmes, John was able to turn his brain off. He didn't allow himself to think. The world was white noise. That was all.
From his time in the war, John knew what it was like to lose someone. It was painful and gritty, but his go-to method of dealing with loss was to plough on. In the war, they didn't have the luxury of a real mourning period, despite how much the men had grown to rely on each other throughout their tour. So when John was forced to watch his best friend fall, he held tightly to the numbness he felt. He drove thoughts of Sherlock from his mind with startling determination. John took extra shifts at work. He took as many shifts as they would allow him to take and then begged more off his co-workers. Each day he worked himself farther than he had in years and each night he went to Harry's place exhausted and fell into bed.
John knew that Harry was growing concerned about him, but he couldn't muster enough energy to care. This was what he needed. In fact, the only mourning John allowed himself was just before and after the funeral, but even that seemed… wrong. He refused to think about it. He needed emotional distance.
Being a doctor, John knew that he was probably not approaching the situation in the healthiest way. He should really be trying to come to terms with Sherlock's death and move on. Build a new life after being lost at sea again. It was just like when he came home after being abroad, he told himself.
But it wasn't.
Today was different. When he got into work that morning, Camilla gave him a stern look and told him to bugger off until his shift was supposed to start. Nodding curtly, John left to find a more substantial breakfast than he'd grabbed from Harry's that morning. When he returned to work, John found a significantly smaller work load than he'd recently become accustomed to. Although the change annoyed him, John didn't make a fuss. He finished his normal hours and went to the A&E, but was cornered again and told to head home. They had everything covered.
There was still a little light in the sky when John left. It irritated him irrationally.
John shut the door firmly behind him when he arrived at Harry's, but instead of looking for her, he went straight to his room and sat down at the tiny desk, not bothering to turn the lights on. A few hours later, John jerked awake to the sound of his sister rapping on the door.
"John? Are you in there?"
"Yes." John replied thickly.
"Well… I've… gotten takeaway. Come and have some?"
John scrubbed at his eyes and fumbled around in the dark until he found the light, mumbling "Sure, Harry." She seemed satisfied and clomped away.
John changed out of his rumpled clothes and made his way to the television, but instead found Harry perched awkwardly at the dinner table, looking oddly formal.
"What's going on?"
In response, Harry gently pushed a plate heaped with Chinese food across the table towards the seat John should take.
John felt wary. She had an odd smile plastered to her face. "What is it, Harry?"
John could see the muscles in his sister's jaw clench even more tightly into a smile that was almost a grimace, but she didn't answer. She turned towards her own plate and began shovelling food into her mouth.
Letting out a sigh, John obediently sat down and ate a few bites before poking his food into a neat circle. The silence between the siblings grew until Harry cleared her throat.
"So… you've been working a lot, John."
John allowed his eyes to flick towards his sister before directing them back to his plate. He grunted in acknowledgement.
"I was… thinking maybe… now-would-be-a-good-time-for-a-vacation."
John really looked at Harry this time and he could feel the disbelief on his face. Harry looked like a guilty child. John forced a smile and told her quite firmly that he didn't need a vacation. He knew Harry wanted to say more, but the rest of the night passed in silence.
Two days later, John was confronted by his supervisor. At the beginning of his lunch break, Camilla pulled him aside and John could have sworn he'd just had the exact conversation.
"I'm touched by your concern, but I don't need a vacation."
Camilla seemed unimpressed, "There is a conference in America that we should really send a representative to," she tried. John refused.
"This is where I want to be. You can send Doctor Coe. She's been here longer."
John thought that was the end of it, but as he headed to the A&E that evening, Camilla found him again.
"Listen, Doctor Watson, you will be getting mandatory time off in the next month. You've been working very hard, but you need a break. I don't care where you go, but you shouldn't be working constantly."
John felt the first stirrings of real anger he'd felt in quite some time. "We can't afford this," John countered. "We're short-staffed as it is."
Camilla interrupted him, "Some of the others are willing to take a few more hours. It's fine. We're covered."
"I'm not going to-"
"You have to. I'm sorry," with that, Camilla strode off. John stared after her.
John walked to Harry's after his evening shift feeling exhausted. He just wanted to sleep. Unfortunately, Harry didn't seem willing to let him be. John let out an audible groan when he saw his sister's face. Harry was sitting in front of the muted television with another awkward smile on her face. She patted the seat next to her.
John flopped down and fixed his gaze on the silent, flashing pictures in front of him. Without comment, Harry pressed something into John's hand. A plane ticket. John let his head loll backwards as he groaned again. "Harry, I don't want-"
"Camilla called," Harry cut him off, "You're off tomorrow. They don't want to see you again for two weeks."
"Harry, I don't have the money to go gallivanting-"
"It's taken care of. Everything is already bought. You have a hotel and… and all the other stuff. We just want to take care of you."
"I don't need to be taken care of!" John snapped. "I'm not a child. I'm not an invalid. I'm perfectly capable of dealing with my problems." John stormed to his room. On his neatly made bed were a bag of clothing and a set of new toiletries. John stared blankly at them as Harry followed him into the room.
"John-"
"Why?"
"It'll be good for you." Harry spoke the phrase like it was a wish.
Numbly, John moved the things off his bed and crawled under the covers. "Night, Harry."
"Night, John."
The next morning, Harry went with John to the airport. Harry handed him a list of things to do when he arrived at his destination (it seemed he was headed to Spain) and kissed him on the cheek as they parted ways. John's mind was mostly blank during the flight, as it had been for months. He fell into an uneasy sleep and awoke to memories of a tall, curly-haired detective with a gaze as sharp as an eagle. John tried to convince himself that it was good to be leaving London. On a vacation there wouldn't be anything that could possibly remind him of Sherlock Holmes.
John had gone to his room and unpacked his meagre belongings, but after a while of sitting in the room, he accepted that this was probably not what he was meant to be doing on his vacation, so he grinned dryly made his way to the hotel bar.
As he tried to relax, John found himself studying the people around him. There was a small group of friends talking and laughing at a table next to the bar. At least two of the couples were romantically involved. John turned away from them to avoid making more deductions and found his eyes falling upon a dark-haired, olive-skinned woman approaching his table with a shy expression.
She gestured behind her to the door leading to the nearby beach and inquired in hesitant English, "Would you come play with us?"
John felt confused, but shrugged his shoulders and responded with a gentle smile. "Sure."
The young woman led John outside where a group of dark haired strangers seemed to be having a picnic and setting up a variety of games. John felt a laugh bubble from inside his chest. He was exceedingly out of place. Not only was he older than over half of the people in the group, but he had markedly lighter hair and skin. After returning from the war, he rarely spent much time in the sun and even that had decreased to nearly nothing after... Sherlock.
Sitting down by the periphery of the group, John surveyed the rest of the beach. His eyes were immediately drawn to a pale, thin man with short, curly black hair wearing brightly coloured swimming trunks. As John watched, the man waded into the water and disappeared. John felt an even more hysterical laugh growing. Even here, with no obvious connection to the great detective, John was still seeing Sherlock. Before he could collect his thoughts, the young woman was back. John found himself being dragged into what appeared to be a game of beach volleyball.
"You hit the ball," the young woman instructed him, with a smile that flashed extremely white teeth. "Do not let it touch the ground."
"Right," John responded curtly, "I've got it."
Each team started with a full seven people, making the playing space quite crowded. John quickly became comfortable with the sport and became engrossed in the game. After a few rounds, one of the weaker players from each team stepped off. And then another. John concentrated on the game. It helped him empty his mind. He didn't register when the game was down to four people.
Then there were two.
John could tell the tiny woman he was playing against was getting tired. It probably helped that this was John's first match of the day when he was certain the other players had been at it for some time. Suddenly, John felt exhausted. He didn't want play anymore.
He let the next round go to the girl and stepped away from the net.
The young woman he'd met earlier handed him a cold can of something with another ridiculous smile. John accepted it silently and returned to the periphery of the group. He watched as they set up another game. The girl he'd lost to was beaming at her group of fans and John felt a stirring of pride in his heart. He really had no reason to win.
John let himself collapse into the warm sand and felt some of the tension he didn't know he was holding leave his body. He let the sun warm his clothes and skin. He liked the contrast between the warm sun and the cold against his hand where his drink remained unopened.
After a while, John registered that the sun wasn't as warm. Then the sun was blocked from hitting his closed eyelids. His eyes snapped open and he observed a mass of dark hair in front of him.
"John."
That voice. John felt as though he'd been hit by a train. "Wha-?" he asked stupidly.
Sharp cheekbones. A sideways smile. Sherlock Holmes was crouched in front of John in the most ridiculous outfit he had ever seen. Good Lord. He was wearing sunglasses in his hair.
John felt slow. "Have I gone crazy? Drowned. No wait... Heat stroke. That must be it."
Sherlock gently wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. "No, John. You're fine. I'm fine. It's all fine."
Suddenly shaken out of his stupor, John wrapped his arms around his missing friend's waist and pulled him close. "You're not dead. You're not dead." The statement of disbelief became a prayer and then an argument until it turned into a quiet chant.
Sherlock responded soothingly. "No. I'm not dead. I'm here. I've come back for you. You're not alone." John's face was only inches from Sherlock's and he was clearly able to see the tear tracks running down his friend's sharp cheek.
John pulled back, groping around behind him. Sherlock looked absolutely stunned, for once in his bloody life. There was something like hurt in his harsh features, but John wasn't going to let that last. With a few rotations of his wrist and a flick of his fingers, John released a torrent of carbonated beverage into Sherlock's face.
The two friends sat staring at each other for several long moments before they started laughing together. The tension of their months of forced distance was poured into their laughter until tears were streaming down their faces. This time Sherlock and John held onto each other even more tightly, sticky sweetened soft drink gluing their clothes and arms together.
When they had calmed down a touch, they sat looking at each other in the warm sand.
"I thought I'd never see you again," John told Sherlock solemnly.
"I didn't-" Sherlock began, but restarted after a breath, "I had my doubts. But… I couldn't let that happen, John."
John studied Sherlock's face. His lips were tight. His face, although still covered with soft drink, was still the same pale it had been. He looked a bit thinner than the last time John had seen him.
"You're my best friend," John said, averting his gaze. "Burying you… that was… the hardest thing I've ever done, Sherlock."
John could hear Sherlock swallow. His voice was gravelly when he replied, "I know, John. I- I'm sorry." And John knew that he was sorry. He could hear the pain in his voice.
When John looked up, he could see the same pain mirrored in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's hand, still sticky with soft drink, brushed at John's hair. "I don't think I could survive having to bury you, John Watson."
John was struck with the intense power of those words and gripped Sherlock's shoulders, trying to portray his feelings without having to speak them aloud.
In response, Sherlock wrapped his ridiculous arms more tightly around John and pressed cheek against John's. John could feel Sherlock's nose and lips press into the hollow of his neck.
"Don't leave me again, Sherlock," John felt like he was begging, but he didn't care.
Sherlock just pulled John tighter into his embrace. The soft drink had completely dried by the time they moved again.