Perhaps it was because the air didn't smell as sweet as when he was in Italy. London was his home, to be sure, but he began to feel like something was wanting in his life since his return. It had been several months now, & John had already moved out to enjoy domestic felicity with Mary Morstan. They still had their work, but Sherlock Holmes was undergoing something quite foreign. He was lonesome. The skull, as obliging as he was (surely a "he" as Sherlock imagined it), simply didn't talk back. This is what he desired. Some company. The soft, warm air of the Mediterranean would be pleasant, too.
He supposed he should simply ignore these tendencies. It really wouldn't do to carry on in such a way. He thought that, perhaps, he should take a holiday. A holiday. Sherlock Holmes on holiday. It was absurd in the extreme.
Molly was reading during her lunch. She always read at lunch. It was her way of quelling her loneliness. Most of her coworkers thought she was odd. Nice, but odd. They thought she read cheesy romance novels, she was the type. But they were wrong. Molly read the classics. She read non-fiction. She read reference books. She read & read anything she could get her hands on.
She didn't imagine many people shared her love for the written word. She didn't fancy many people thought much about her in general. She was right. No one paid Molly Hooper much mind. In truth, she didn't care. She was a tad bit awkward. She was slightly tongue tied. She knew she had little to say that would amuse people, but this was not her concern. She was perfectly content in her little life, & she wouldn't have it any other way.
There was one person whom she felt especially uneasy around. Sherlock Holmes. Not for any reason in particular, though she thought she fancied him at one point. He was good looking. He was very intelligent. She thought he was interesting, & perhaps she saw something of herself in him. She was wrong.
She still liked him. He was hard not to. Clever, sarcastic, forthright. He was refreshing when compared to the lot she was used to. So when he asked her assistance in faking his suicide, she thought of course she would. How dull the world would be without him. Though she doubted any romance would ever bloom, it was nice to think about on occasion. She so seldom fancied anyone that to sit & daydream about it was a pleasant distraction. Still, she told herself that she no longer liked him. And she was right. Mostly.
John Watson was happy. He loved Mary & loved his modest flat. He had everything laid out before him. In a few months, he'd take his savings & go purchase that engagement ring he so longed to place on her finger. They would honeymoon in France. Maybe Italy. They would spend a fortnight there, making love, making plans, making merry. It would be lovely.
He did, in truth, miss his git of a friend Sherlock Holmes. He wished there was a way he could make him understand. But Sherlock was not one to understand much in terms of the heart, & this was no exception. In fact, it was a touch worse since he was one of his only friends. Well, likely his only friend. Er...friend might be a bit too strong a word. He wished that Sherlock would just stop being such a wanker & find someone himself. It would ease his mind considerably.
Mycroft Holmes was a busy, busy man. He seldom did anything that didn't involve work. His life was filled with phone calls. Meetings. Negotiations. Interrogations. Machinations. His flat was dark, always was. It suited him. His younger brother Sherlock would chide him, claiming it was as good as a tomb, & since he barely lived, it was most appropriate. Mycroft minded but little. No one understood his overwhelming responsibility. No one would ever appreciate what he did, what he sacrificed, what went through his mind. Perhaps when he was dead & gone, someone would write a book on his life. Then they'd see. Then they'd appreciate who he was, & his exceptional mind.
And so it was, four islands. Well, three islands...& a bridge. John Watson was hardly an island. He was, perhaps, the most normal of the lot.
A holiday was needed to subjugate the growing malcontent of the group. A holiday, which Sherlock Holmes himself would arrange. A holiday, wherein a cleansing would occur. Italy, he thought. Italy, with its olive trees & sea & robust food & wine. Italy, old, picturesque, perfect. Whom should he ask to accompany him? John, yes. No doubt Mary would insist she tag along. Tiresome.
And then...a thought sprang to mind. A person, actually. A person whom, if he thought about it, was too in need of quiet recreation. She spent too much time in the lab, underground. Time to venture out, Molly Hooper, he said to himself. Tan that ivory skin.