"Sherlock, dear, you really should go out more. And take John with you, he'd love it," says Mrs Hudson.

"Would he. Hm."

"Are you actually making sandwiches? Yourself?" asks John.

"Obviously," Sherlock replies, slicing them into neat diagonals with a flick. "We're going on a picnic. Oh, don't look at me like that. Isn't that what normal people do, go on picnics?"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but you're not 'normal people'."

"No, I'm not. Thank God."

"A picnic, though. Really?"

"Yes."

John shrugs. "Right. Do we even have a basket?"

They stroll through the streets, weaving around traffic and entering Regent's Park. The din of the city falls away, leaving behind the rush of urban life and its worries. Birds trill from unseen nests, viciously audible over the babble of human voices. Above, the glow of morning light laps up dewdrops, tiny crystals fracturing into sparkles. A vast, blue sky extends over their heads as they bob along the footpath, promising a heavenly day.

"What is in this thing?" John sighs, lugging a laden hamper.

"I like to be prepared."

"For what?"

"Anything."

He shoots him a bemused look but doesn't bother to ask. An expanse of lush, verdant grass stretches before them, fringed with leafy trees. Sherlock heads straight for the lone willow, parting a few strands as John staggers in. He drops his burden on the ground and unrolls a red gingham blanket, drags it up against the tree. From the basket, Sherlock removes four stones and places them at each corner, then lays out the food.

"Seriously, rocks?"

A breeze immediately ripples through, disturbing the sheets of other picnickers. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, a self-satisfied smile peeking through as John unwraps a sandwich. It's buttered and lightly toasted, stuffed with roast chicken, heirloom tomatoes and fresh lettuce. Ice tea is poured, napkins laid.

"I didn't know you could even make food."

"It's easy enough – a recipe fairly similar to an experiment. Duller, though."

"And with fewer body parts, hopefully," John mutters, taking another bite. They settle into a comfortable silence, the sound of rippling water, of buzzing insects, of human chatter, filling the air. Periodically, the wind whispers, sending the willow leaves trembling, the foliage singing.

John brings out desserts; fruit skewers, bite-sized apple pie, lemon scones that melt in his mouth.

"So. What's the occasion?" he asks, sliding a strawberry off the spike.

"None at all. Don't need one. Mrs Hudson said it'd be good for me."

"Is it? Good for you, I mean."

"It's less boring than I thought it'd be. I suppose that's favourable. Could you pass me the kite?"

"The kite?"

"Yes, the kite. It's in the basket."

John digs around, finds it: crimson cloth, mounted on a wooden frame. A face is drawn in thick, black marker.

"Is that supposed to look like me?"

"Perhaps."

"Are you sure this even works?" puffs John as the kite nosedives to the ground, his third attempt ending in failure. Sherlock unravels the tangled string, rewinds it. Hands the kite back.

"Go downwind! There, stand there. Hold it aloft, like that, yes, now release it!" He pulls it in and the kite catches a gust, continues to climb until it's a bloodstain across the sky. John makes his way over and stands beside him, a faint smile on his lips as he tilts his head upwards. Sherlock passes him the spool, gently guides his fingers.

"Keep it fairly taut, and – there we go." The kite soars overhead, a tail of colourful ribbons streaming behind it as it skims the air. It flutters for a few minutes, buoyed by the breeze. Moves towards a tree. John yanks the line just as the wind dies, barely changing its trajectory. It plunges, spiralling into the branches.

"Well. That was nice while it lasted," he says. "Come on, let's get it back."

They reach the tree, look upwards. John shoots Sherlock a look, gestures at its leaves.

"Why don't you?"

"Can't. I'm the short one, remember?"

"Right." He reaches up, hand inches away from the branch. Exhales in irritation. Then jumps and grabs hold, pulling himself up and over. Sitting on the limb, he carefully uncoils the ensnared kite from its cell. A sharp tug, and it's free, floating down towards the earth. Sherlock leaps after it, nearly crashing into John as he lands. They return it to the basket and tidy up, removing all traces of their presence. Except one.

"There's no way I'm bringing those bloody rocks back."

They take to the paths, turning as the road curves, no destination in mind. John studies the people, Sherlock, the garden. To their left, rows of benches; to their right, a bed of amethyst blooms dotted with magenta, amber, ivory. He examines an overflowing urn, scarlet flowers spilling over its lip. Considers nicking a few and planting them at Baker Street.

Eventually, their wanders lead them to a walkway hemmed by cherry trees, dusty pink blossoms brushing Sherlock's curls. One falls loose, landing in his hair. John reaches over and plucks it from his head, tucking it behind Sherlock's ear as he stifles a chuckle. If he notices, he doesn't mind.

"Where'd you learn to make scones?"

"Bought them."

"Ah, shame. Thought you found a new hobby."

"Hm?"

"I'd rather wake to the smell of baked goods than gunshots. Especially at six in the morning," says John with a wry grin.

"Noted. Nevertheless, surely you can admit that it's an exceedingly effective alarm clock."

"Effective, yes. Pleasant? God no."

The sun is sinking when they meander up Primrose Hill. Upon reaching its summit, John lays out the blanket and they sit, gazing at the city. Pinpricks of light exude from the now-lit street lamps, illuminating the park below. The sky is ablaze in a fury of ruby and gold, reflecting off airy wisps. London rises up against the flame, skyline sharp and defined. Here, the Shard stabs the atmosphere; there, the BT Tower protrudes, London Eye rotating leisurely beside it.

"Thanks, Sherlock."

"What for?"

"Today."