John stared out of the car window and sighed, as the countryside flickered past in varying degrees of green. It really was beautiful here. He and his best friend Sherlock Holmes were travelling to Scotland for a case. All the way from London.
John remembered the conversation they'd had with Lestrade, who'd tried to persuade Sherlock to take the case...
'Come on, you'll enjoy it! And it's in Scotland, so you'll be having a bit of a holiday, too!'
'No,' replied Sherlock curtly, and turning away. 'I've got far more interesting things to do.'
'Would you just look at this for a minute?' Lestrade shoved a file at Sherlock, who was turning away. 'They specifically asked for you on this one.'
Reluctantly, Sherlock took the file and opened it. His eyes narrowed slightly as he began to read, concentrating hard, deep frown lines appearing on his forehead. John could almost hear his best friend's brain whizzing as his eyes flew down the page.
'What's the case about, Lestrade?' asked John curiously, and he moved closer to Sherlock to read the file over his shoulder.
'Murder. The poor girl was only twenty three.' After pausing for a moment in sympathy, Lestrade looked at Sherlock expectantly. 'Will you do it?'
Sherlock closed the file with a snap, his eyes closed tightly for a moment. And then they swiftly flew open again. John knew that he'd had an idea of some sort. He'd ask him about it later.
'Why not?' Sherlock shrugged, already striding towards the door. 'John,' he called over his shoulder dramatically, 'We're going to Scotland.'
Now they were on their way. John had actually been there a couple of times before, when he was a medical student. He had highly doubted that Sherlock had ever been there – he seemed to have lived in London all his life – so John was quite surprised when he offered to drive.
'Don't you want to get the train?' he had asked.
'People,' scoffed Sherlock, a look of sheer disgust on his face at the very thought. 'Too many people, all obsessed with their own miserable lives. So much stupidity all on one train – you'd think it'd explode.'
'Someone's going to be great company,' John muttered quietly to himself.
Several hours later, Sherlock sat in the driver's seat of the army Jeep, his eyes fixated on the long road ahead, save for a few quick sideways glances at John.
Attempting to begin conversation on what had already been a mind-numbingly dull journey, Sherlock cleared his throat. 'Nice scenery.'
'Hmm…' was the only reply.
Great. Now John had gotten annoyed with him for some reason. Maybe it was something he'd said, though he couldn't imagine what. Sherlock tried again, in a slightly more cheerful voice, hopeful that his flatmate would utter more than just one syllable this time.
'The weather's good today, isn't it?'
'Yeah…'
It didn't work. He was stuck for words. This was surreal, he marvelled. Him. Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. Attempting to small talk. Hmm.
'John?'
'Yes?' John answered reluctantly.
'Are you okay?'
'Fine, fine,' replied John airily, with a wave of his hand. 'Everything's fine.' He paused for a moment, a small frown clouding his face. 'There is one tiny little thing, though.'
'What?'
'If you could just stop with the whole road rage thing, that would be great!' Sherlock could sense the annoyance in John's voice.
'Road rage?' He smiled slightly. He'd always liked it when John said things like that. Odd words, phrases. He'd repeated some of them himself one more than one occasion. His brother Mycroft, of course, had taken full notice.
'Yes, road rage! You know, that thing you did, not five minutes ago! Sticking your head out the window and shouting at the other drivers that they've got the lowest IQ you've ever seen!' He turned to Sherlock, exasperated. 'Don't you think that makes people just the slightest bit annoyed?'
'But they are stupid, they are-'
'Yeah, maybe, Sherlock, but did you have to drive past them like a maniac as well? It's not Formula One, you know.'
Sherlock frowned. 'Formula One?'
John sighed, putting his head in his hands. It was going to be a long journey.