Written for the following prompt on the kinkmeme
I would like to see Sherlock in Bermuda shorts, ideally actually in Bermuda, perhaps solving crime? Unfortunately, Sherlock's knees are a bit knobbly to pull them off properly, and it's too warm for the coat.
(John, of course, looks delectable in his, and if Mycroft were there, he'd also be properly attired)
and also submitted to the humour fic contest at fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic on tumblr
"God, that airplane was awful. The steward was sort of endearing, though." John chuckles, flopping down onto the lurid floral bedspread. "But worth it, even if this is for a case. Bermuda, Sherlock! Can you imagine?"
Sherlock raises a brow. "I don't need to imagine, John. We're here. And yes, that was probably the most absurd joke of an airline I've ever experienced. Although the pilot looked strangely familiar. Remind me to tell Mycroft I'm never flying with them again." He flips open his laptop and drops into the chair at the rickety desk in the corner.
Grinning, John pops open his suitcase and starts unpacking. When he reaches a garment in a rather violent blue and yellow tartan, Sherlock stops typing and stares silently at John for a moment.
"What on earth is that?"
John holds them up against himself, a pair of short pants, stopping a bit above his knees. "They're Bermuda Shorts. Traditional here, apparently. I figured, when in Rome..."
"John, we are most certainly not in Rome, and those are awful." He turns back to his laptop, the look of distaste obvious on his face.
"Yeah, well, they're not for you." He smiles again and rummages briefly through his luggage. "These ones are." He lobs a pair in a similar tartan, only in shades of eggplant and sage green, in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock, of course, manages to catch them with one hand, while still looking at the computer. Sighing, he slams the lid shut.
"Mycroft hasn't sent our instructions yet. I am to go take a shower, and then perhaps we can go to dinner if he hasn't replied to my email or texts yet. Fat lot of good it is to tell us we have to go to Bermuda on a case and then not tell us anything about it."
Sherlock drops the laptop onto the desk, sweeping across the room with a flourish. John settles back against the headboard and turns on the hotel room telly, idly wondering if that HBO channel from the US is available in Bermuda. He flips through the channels for a bit before accepting that there's nothing on. He'd like to have a shower too, but Sherlock tends to take eons in there so he realises he'd be better off changing now and simply having a shower before bed.
He slips into the Bermuda shorts, noticing immediately how comfortable they are. He finds a soft blue polo shirt that coordinates nicely and finishes getting dressed just as he hears the water shut off in the loo. John walks across the small hotel room, admiring the amenities. He finds a small guide with a directory of local restaurants and flips through it, thinking some food might not be a bad idea. He's engrossed in a description of some local delicacy involving boiled cod and tomato sauce when he hears the bathroom door slam.
When John looks up, it takes every ounce of restraint in his body to not simply burst out laughing. Poor Sherlock has decided to engage in local culture and don the shorts, and as gorgeous as the man looks in a well-fitted suit, shorts do not flatter him. His legs are long, lean, and pasty; features that all serve only to emphasise his unfortunately knobby knees. He's also wearing his purple silk button-down, which coordinates surprisingly well with the madras pattern of the shorts, but looks oddly formal and incongruous. He's had the foresight to leave it untucked and roll his sleeves up, but the disconnect between the two garments is still obvious.
John, in contrast, looks absolutely fetching in his new outfit. The shorts are the perfect length to draw attention to his finely muscled calves, and make him seem taller than he actually is. The colour combination makes his skin look more tan than it actually is somehow, and the blue shirt he's chosen highlights his eyes and brings out the gold tones in his dusty hair.
"You can laugh if you like, John. I look absurd."
John's shoulders shake slightly, he coughs in an attempt to stifle the bubbling fit of giggles. "No, no. You look fine. I hope you brought something other than your oxfords though."
Sherlock scowls in a way that makes it clear to John that no, he does not have anything other than the black leather shoes he wears year-round.
"It's fine, I brought a second pair of flip-flops. They're loose enough that they should fit you. I'm starving though, I was hoping we could go to dinner. Maybe check out one of the local restaurants?" John pauses, reading the look on Sherlock's face. "That is, of course, if Mycroft hasn't replied with more details about the case, of course."
It takes a moment for Sherlock to confirm via both phone and laptop that no, Mycroft has not responded. The git.
"Alright, John. Do you have any idea where we're going?"
"Not exactly, but I thought we could ask in the lobby."
Sherlock grabs the room key card and steps out into the hall, sighing impatiently as John collects himself.
They step out of the elevator and into the muggy lobby of the hotel, where they are met with an alarming and unexpected sight. Mycroft is standing at the counter, leaning on his umbrella. He's wearing an impeccably tidy blue blazer and shorts of a similar length to the ridiculous ones John's foisted on them, but in a much more tailored cut, and a sensible khaki colour. He's even still got a bloody tie on, and bears no resemblance to anyone who has just spent six hours on an aeroplane.
"Mycroft! What on earth are you doing here?" Sherlock is so distracted by the appearance of his brother that he somehow doesn't notice the grey-haired man in the hideously floral shorts of the same length as the rest of their party standing next to him. John, however, does.
"Greg! Are you here on vacation?"
Sherlock's head snaps around as he notices DI Lestrade standing next to his brother. "You too? What on earth is going on here?"
Mycroft stares blandly at Sherlock. "I thought I would bring you the information I had on the case in person, and make sure you were actually doing as I requested. Gregory was in need of a vacation, so I asked him to accompany me." Smirking, Mycroft looks down at Sherlock's shorts and quirks his head slightly. "I take it then, that you've decided to go native."
"John bought them." Sherlock glowers. "And as charming as you all look, I refuse to humiliate myself further. John, I'll be back down in a moment, I'm going back upstairs to change."
John just smiles indulgently and nods at Sherlock, who storms back towards the elevator in a huff.