Sherlock Holmes had been noticeably on edge all day. It was result, quite possibly, of the current case on hand. How had the shopkeeper survived the shooting but not the minor head injury he sustained in the month following? Sherlock had been pondering this since the second he'd awakened, or rather, the second John awakened, that morning. John wasn't actually sure that Sherlock had slept at all the previous evening, and his behavior was certainly supporting that theory. Even after Lestrade had ordered the boys to take a vacation, to take a break from the Scotland Yard and from London in general, Sherlock hadn't been able to relax. Even now that they'd pulled some money from savings and sloppily arranged an impromptu trip to the states, and were now staying in a small cabin on the Oregon coast, Sherlock couldn't relax. Walking on the foggy beach, old sneakers sinking into the damp sand step after step after step, Sherlock just couldn't seem to relax.
"Must be nice living here, being able to go to the beach whenever you like." John mentioned casually, kicking at a smoothened stone. The roaring sound of the harsh water licking at the sand filled the air around them, and John sighed, finding the environment rather soothing. His counterpart, on the other hand, had other opinions.
"Do shut up, John. Your useless banter had proven to be quite distracting." John furrowed his brow and turned to look up at Sherlock.
"Excuse me? Sherlock, I said one sentence. It's only the second thing I have said since we got to the beach. Why have you got to be so bitter all of the bloody time?" John's newfound frustration grew further when Sherlock responded solely with a scoff, and what John imagined was probably an eye roll, though from this angle he couldn't see the detective's face. He stopped in his tracks and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, stopping Sherlock abruptly in his tracks, as well. Sherlock turned to face John, immediately becoming confrontational.
"John, please. You're being highly ridiculous." He tried to pull his wrist from John's grasp, but it was firmly stuck in the army doctor's ironclad grip. "Let go of me."
"Oh, I'm the ridiculous one!" John exclaimed, suddenly sensing all of his anger that he'd desperately tried to conceal on the plane ride rising up and beginning to seep out. "We come all the way from London to take a vacation from working and I try to enjoy it, yet I'm the ridiculous one?" He turned his head slightly to face a young woman jogging past with her dog, a young labrador puppy. "Oh, hello, my name is John Watson and I'm the ridiculous one!" He called after the woman, who pulled her phone from her pocket and visibly turned up the volume of her music as she continued to run by. John reconnected his eye contact with Sherlock and squinted. "What's with you, anyway? Seriously, I want to know. What is with you? You can't seem to take your mind off of work, for even a minute! Why do you act this way?" His grip on the detective's wrist tightened and Sherlock's wrist clenched.
"Let me go, John. You're being irrational." Sherlock was becoming much more irritable, and John remembered the expression from arguments and frustrating cases in the past: Eyes widened, face flushed, jawline emphasized from gritting his teeth. A chill ran down John's spine, but he couldn't tell if it was caused by his anger or a frigid breeze that was following the coastline.
"Fine!" He released Sherlock's wrist and threw his hands up into the air above his head dramatically. "Is that better?" His heart was pounding in his chest and he tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his heart. He didn't want to argue like this, especially on what was originally supposed to be a relaxing trip.
"John," Sherlock rubbed his newly freed- and newly sore- wrist. "I don't understand why there's such a high need for drama. I simply requested silence so that I could focus." Hearing Sherlock say that, in such a composed tone nonetheless, inspired a rageful snap inside John. He looked down at the ground with a smirk, and quietly snickered before shoving Sherlock with an amount of force that surprised even himself. The tall and lanky man stepped backwards hurriedly to catch his balance, and when he did, he lunged forward and reciprocated the shove. Sherlock was oddly strong considering his fragile seeming stature. His hands on John's broad shoulders sent the shorter man staggering backwards. The spots where Sherlock's hands, strong from day after day of mixing chemicals and thoroughly working crime scenes, had touched started to ache immediately. Sudden rage filled his mind and he gritted his teeth. Before he registered what his body was doing, his knuckles burned with pain as they struck Sherlock's cheekbone. Sherlock swayed lightly to the right from the impact. His eyes widened in sarcastic surprise and his hand covered his cheek. "Oh, you bastard!" His right hand formed itself into a solid fist and he swung it at John, hitting him square in the nose. John gasped and blood started to trickle over his lips and down the contour of his chin. In one solid, capitulative movement, he raised his hand up to Sherlock and sighed.
"Whatever, Sherlock. Just... Whatever you want to do with the remainder of the day, it's fine. If you want to be like this, that's fine by me. I'll be in the car." John turned away, raising his hand to his face and attempting to wipe the blood from his skin as he walked away. Sherlock watched with an observing eye, hardly aware of the pain in his throbbing face. After John had walked far enough down the beach to where he was starting to disappear over a sand dune, Sherlock sighed and tousled his hair. Small beads of collected seawater scattered onto his shoulders and forehead after descending from the delicate ends of his curls. When he rested his elongated fingers on his inflamed cheek, he winced with pain.
Sherlock began walking in the same direction as John had. He was ready to head back to their cabin and take a hot shower, before settling in with a cup of tea and mentally re-analyzing the case for the thousandth time. He once again felt the area on his cheek and inhaled sharply when the salty mist that had clung to his hand touched the wound.
"Jesus, John; Why have you got to be so dramatic?" He mumbled to himself and adjusted his scarf.