The wind carried with it the scent of spring: morning dew, freshly cut grass, and newly bloomed flowers. The sun was high overhead, bathing the green field in a golden glow. Trees enclosed the clearing with the exception of the man-made dirt path that led to it. John Watson walked down this path, a basket in one hand and a blanket in the other. In the spring warmth he wore a simple white tee-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and a bright smile. A few steps behind him Sherlock Holmes drifted along with an intrigued and calculating expression. He wasn't so lenient with his wardrobe, wearing black trousers and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up and a few extra buttons undone.
They reached the clearing, the trees breaking open to reveal a natural hidden sanctuary. Johns face lit up in awe of its beauty but Sherlock was unimpressed. He walked past his dumbfounded partner and scanned over the area. The sky above was blue and mostly devoid of fluffy clouds. Sherlock sighed.
"Aren't you going to lie that down? This picnic was your idea, after all."
"Right! Sorry, this place is just so amazing."
"It is Mycroft's country estate. He couldn't possibly settle for anything less, "he scoffed.
"Sherlock! You should be grateful he let us vacation here."
"Pfft, grateful."
John shot him that disapproving look that caused his stomach to flip. He didn't realize it but he was sexy when he was angry. Sherlock smirked and held out his hand to assist with the blanket. John caved, his glare softening, and set down the basket so he could unfold the thick, blue blanket. He tossed one end to Sherlock, who caught it effortlessly, and they spread it out over the thriving grass.
Sherlock dropped onto it, lying on his back to bask in the sunlight. Of course, he had no intention of tanning and was well protected in SPF 50. John sat cross-legged, facing the detective, as he unpacked the basket. Inside was homemade Chinese food prepared by Mycroft's professional chefs, the only staff still on the premises per Sherlock's request. To wash it down was a large thermos of tea with a couple of mugs that the kitchen had been able to part with. They were retrieved from a section belonging to Sherlock that was full of items, mainly dishes, which they could spare to be broken.
"Are you going to eat?" John asked as he poured himself a cup.
"Mm," he replied, his palms pressed together, the tips of his fingers resting beneath his chin.
"Sherlock, you haven't eaten in a day. We went on this vacation for a reason."
Sherlock stuck out his bottom lip in a pout. "Yes, I suppose you're right."
He pushed himself up into a kneeling position and sat back on his legs before assessing the food in front of him. He picked up a pair of chopsticks and a Tupperware containing vegetable lo mein while John opted for sesame chicken and rice. They ate in silence, stealing glances at one another as though they were forbidden lovers. Sherlock was always contented to sit in silence but it was starting to unnerve John.
"The food is good," he stated just to interrupt the quiet. John knew very well why Sherlock kept glancing at him. He still had awful nightmares about John's death. He would wake up drowning in sweat, his hair plastered to his head.
"Mhm," he replied, poking at his food rather than eating it.
"I'm not going anywhere, you know."
"I know!" he snapped defensively.
"It was only a hallucination. A vivid one, I admit, but you shouldn't be so afraid of-"
"I'm not afraid, John!"
Discussing what happened made him feel vulnerable and scared. Sherlock didn't like it and avoided it whenever he could. He frowned at the food in his hands, feeling less hungry than ever. John reached out to touch Sherlock's cheek in reassurance but Sherlock flinched away, the action reminding him too much of John's death. He dropped his hand and sighed.
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," John said, his eyes downcast and his meal unappealing.
"What wasn't a good idea? The vacation?" Us?
"No, Sherlock, the picnic."
"Oh." Relief flooded through him. "No, it was a very good idea."
He set down the plastic container and returned to the position on his back without another word. He shut his eyes and cleared his mind, the only way for him to relax, but was disturbed by the sound of rattling dishes to his right. Light filtered through his eye lids, bringing a comfortable heat, and John had stopped doing whatever he'd been doing. Sherlock was close to sleep when a sudden eclipse blocked out his sunlight. He ignored it until a weight dropped onto his lower body and curiosity forced him to open his eyes to see what it was. John was positioned over him, straddling Sherlock's hips with his thighs.
"Hello," Sherlock smirked.
"How can I convince you that I'm not going anywhere?" he said very seriously, commanding Sherlock's attention.
The detective looked deeply into his eyes but stayed silent.
"Fine," he growled, placing his hands on either side of Sherlock's head to box him in, "but this day will not go to waste."
Sherlock saw the anger and frustration buried beneath the surface and he wanted him even more. John, still crouched over him, removed one hand so that he could unbutton the rest of Sherlock's shirt.
"What about Mycroft? He might be watching." The detective's heart was pounding and his skin and blood were on fire. He couldn't care less about Mycroft but he needed to make sure it was what John actually wanted in his upset state.
"He's always watching. If he doesn't want to see this he can look away," his voice was low and rough.
It was definitely what he wanted.
A few hours later, the two were still out in the clearing, dressed for the most part. Neither had bothered to put their shoes back on and Sherlock saw no reason to button his shirt. His bare chest was pale and well toned for being so skinny. John had his head rested on it with an arm draped over Sherlock's waist. Sherlock encircled John's shoulders to hold him closer.
"That was the best picnic I've ever been on," Sherlock stated.
"You've never been on one before."
"Therefore, this one was the best."
The sky slowly darkened from its afternoon blue to a late afternoon orange. The air had cooled off and the change in time was pushing away the birds and calling out the insects.
"Perhaps we should go inside before it gets dark," John suggested but reluctant to move from his spot.
"Yes, I suppose we should," Sherlock replied, unraveling himself from John's grasp.
John packed up the picnic basket while Sherlock padded around the empty green field. Once everything was put away he followed John out of the clearing with his shoes and socks in hand. He kept pace, staying within a few inches of the doctor but never touching him. He rarely held hands in public, certainly nothing more affectionate than that, but the fact that he was in such close proximity was affectionate enough to him. It was like laying claim to an object: I was here first, I stand here to protect it, therefore it is mine and I will fight for it. His relationship mentality was lost on John but he knew enough to realize that Sherlock did care even though he had his limits on expressing it.
The path that they walked on was narrow and winding with an enclosed canopy of trees. It wasn't long but it was long enough to cause Sherlock's moans of boredom. After a few minutes, the greenery thinned out to reveal a three-floored Victorian era mansion made of brick. The outer edge of the building housed a well-groomed garden consisting of roses, tulips, lilies, carnations, and daisies of all colors. The path to the heavy, wooden front door was cobblestone and walled by high hedges. Sherlock unlocked the door with the key Mycroft had reluctantly given him and walked inside the well decorated home that seemed terribly empty.