Author's note: I decided to send Dimmock on vacation because I am obsessed with minor characters. As some of you have probably noticed.
As it turned out, not even a vacation could free him of the duties and benefits that came with being one of Sherlock Holmes' friends, or at least acquaintances.
Andrew Dimmock had thought that it would be good to breathe a different air for a while. He couldn't remember the last time he had had a vacation, and he had always adored the South of France, so that was where he was going.
After all the upheaval of the last few months – Sherlock returning and suddenly showing up on his crime scenes, calling him by his first names, colleagues whispering on the corridor when he walked past, telling each other he was one of "Holmes' guys", but now with a tone of reference instead of ridicule – he could use two weeks on the beach.
He didn't tell anyone except his boss that he was going – they would get by without him, there was no reason to – and therefore shouldn't have been surprised when his phone rang on his second day and the caller was Sherlock.
He picked up and the consulting detective immediately started to talk.
"Where are you? Gregson is an idiot, and it should be your case, based on – "
"I'm on a holiday" he said, feeling sorry that Sherlock had to work with Gregson.
There had been a time when he would have felt the opposite, but that was long gone.
Sherlock huffed. "And when are you coming back?"
"On the seventeenth".
Sherlock hung up without another word, but he knew him well enough not to be angry about it.
He didn't expect to hear from him again.
Neither did he expect to miss the craziness that had become his life so much.
On the fifth day, he had read five books, was sitting on the beach and wondering what they were doing. "They" being Sherlock, DI Lestrade, John, his other colleagues, the forensics, people he didn't know but who lived in his hometown –
He missed London. He hadn't thought he would miss it that much. It was only two weeks, and they weren't even halfway through, and yet he was looking at the sea and desperately missing the tube and the fog and the dirt of the streets.
He missed working cases.
Five days, and he missed working cases. He missed being called out no matter the time, he missed being considered insane because he dropped in at Backer Street now and then even if there was no case, simply to chat, he missed the annoying sod he'd despised so much during the investigation in Eddie Van Coon's death.
He definitely had gone insane. He couldn't bring himself to care.
Neither could he fight the boredom that was engulfing him, and he found himself counting the days until he could return.
It didn't make sense. It wasn't like he and Sherlock were friends, like he even belonged to the group the consulting detective had build around himself, evenings at Baker Street and good working climate at crime scenes notwithstanding.
Despite him being aware of how little sense it made, his holiday only began being fun again when he had been there a week and the texts started.
He hadn't expected to hear from Sherlock or his friends again until he returned. Sherlock knowing that he wasn't there made it likely that he had simply deleted his presence for the time being and tried working with Gregson. Not that it would be easy.
Gregson, a DI like him and Greg, although slightly younger than their elder colleague, had called Sherlock in on cases before his disappearance. Of course the consulting detective had solved every one he ever asked for help with.
Andrew didn't know how they had got on, but suspected that "not at all" was the answer. Gregson had never talked about Sherlock before his suicide, preferring to let others think that he had solved the cases on his own, even if it had been common knowledge that he had called in the consulting detective. He had never mentioned him, but he hadn't called him a freak or complained about him either, like Anderson and Donovan, so Andrew had never paid much attention to Gregson. He wasn't a bad police man – tenacious as a bull dog once he got the scent of something – but they had little in common and barely saw each other apart from brief greetings in the corridor.
That had changed after Sherlock's disappearance. Greg had been suspended, the Chief Superintendent publicly stating that he would "cleanse the Yard" from all connection to Sherlock Holmes.
How Greg had kept his job, Andrew didn't know. He'd never asked.
Even after he had come back, though, the DI had never been silent. He had defended Sherlock every chance he got, proclaiming that he hadn't been a fraud.
Anderson had gone mad with guilt, believing Sherlock to be alive, and eventually quitting his job so he could look for him. At the time, Andrew had pitied him while feeling a certain grim satisfaction.
He himself had been quiet. He hadn't talked about Sherlock, had tried not to think about Sherlock. When the Chief Superintendent called him into his office and demanded an explanation, in other words, wanted him to tell him of doubts and regrets and how Sherlock had deceived them, he hadn't said anything.
The Chief Superintendent hadn't been happy, and he had been ashamed because he hadn't done more than that, but it all was worth it in the end, when Sherlock called him by his first name.
Gregson, on the other hand –
Before Sherlock's disappearance, he had been silent. Afterwards, not so much. He acknowledged that Sherlock had been a criminal, gave the Chief Superintendent everything he wanted, and for two years he was happily being hailed as the best DI Scotland Yard had.
Then Sherlock returned, and now the Chief Superintendent wouldn't even greet him.
Andrew smiled as he thought about the last time he had seen Gregson, trying to get the Chief Superintendent's attention, as his text alarm rang out.
He frowned as he pulled the phone out, unsure of why he was taking it to the beach every day.
His confusion turned into amusement as he read the text.
You should never have gone on vacation.
It was from Greg.
He replied Why? and had his answer two minutes later.
Gregson.
He really could have thought about it a little more before he typed the word, he decided. Greg wasn't particularly fond of the other DI –
Why don't you take the case? He asked.
I am not allowed to.
The Chief Superintendent and his inability to admit that he had made a mistake. Andrew sighed.
His phone chimed again.
Sherlock berated Gregson in front of the whole Yard for five minutes. Took a video.
Can't wait to see it, he responded automatically, without pausing to think about when he had come to looking forward to see a colleague being called an idiot.
And he'd been such an ambitious young DI too when he had met Sherlock.
Greg sent him a few other details – enough to know that the consulting detective was on his best way of solving the case, despite Gregson, and he laughed, free and easy on the beach, all by himself, not caring about the stares he got, as he realized who his thoughts had just sounded like.
During the next few days, the texts continued, and as far as he could tell, Sherlock continued to be angry that Gregson was working the case.
He found that it was much more enjoyable to lie on the beach when one was missed.
And then, just as he thought he couldn't get more cheerful, he returned from a swim to several texts.
Most of them were from Greg, complaining that he was still stuck in the seminar the Chief Superintendent had sent him to. One made him outright laugh once again.
I haven't got a text in ten minutes. I'm worried.
One was from John.
TRYING TO KEEP SHERLOCK UNDER CONTROL. REALLY COULD USE YOU HERE.
He smiled at the doctor's habit of using capital letters when he sent his text messages before realizing that he didn't remember when he'd first noticed it. Thinking back, they had all traded countless texts since Sherlock's return.
He was starting to think that he wasn't such a casual acquaintance after all when a text from Sherlock proved it.
Just one.
I find it appropriate to inform you that your presence would be more agreeable than Gregson, much more so. I would prefer it if you were to inform me of your vacation plans next time.
If he once more wore the biggest grin on his face for no apparent reason and tourists were shooting him concerned looks, he didn't care.
When it was time to go home, he was surprised. He had enjoyed hearing about the case and swimming in the sea and realizing that he had friends so much that he'd barely paid attention to the week going by.
He wasn't sad about it, though, especially when the day after he had returned, he got a case and called Sherlock and the consulting detective told him with something like relief in his voice, "Welcome back, Andrew".