"Remind me again, why we are doing this," Sherlock questioned, disdain dripping from each syllable.
He was sitting in what John commonly referred to as his "thinking pose:" fingers steepled, face impassive, reclining in his chair with eyes staring into the middle distance. He was not quite in his mind palace (John could tell the difference, largely because explorations of the mind palace involved much more movement and a banishment from the room), but neither was he fully present in the flat.
Sherlock seemed to be on the verge of whining again. Frankly, John had had enough of that. This would be the fourth time that they had discussed this topic in the past twenty-four hours alone. It was becoming tedious, not to mention annoying. Sherlock's ennui coupled with his sulking was not much appreciated by John, who was currently bustling about the sitting room with some urgency, stacking suitcases by the door.
"Because," he began firmly before scanning the room around him in apparent consternation, "Have you seen the sunblock? I know I bought sunblock." He turned about, searching all the surfaces within reach, and eventually facing Sherlock again. His detective's face was wholly impassive face and anything but innocent. John addressed his partner, suspiciously this time, "You didn't commandeer it for an experiment did you? Because if you get burnt to a crisp, and we both know that you will. I am not taking responsibility. You're on your own."
Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, rolling his eyes, "Of course I didn't take it, John. What would I do with sunblock?" He appeared genuinely puzzled, scrunched nose and all. As if I'm out of my head to suggest that he'd use sunblock in an experiment, John thought, I mean, after all, it's not like Sherlock uses random objects for experiments on a fairly regular, you know, hourly basis, or anything like that. Not like there isn't currently some strange thing fermenting on the bloody kitchen table that somehow required eyeliner. I mean, it's not like there's a human spleen sitting right bloody next to my strawberry jam in the refrigerator. He communicated all of this to Sherlock with a very pointed glare that the consulting detective ignored in favor of dramatically narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms, making a mental note to have Mrs. Hudson completely clean out the kitchen while they were away. Serve him right, he sniffed, knowing full well that it would be a complete mess within two hours of getting home regardless of their landlady's efforts. Honestly, it wouldn't really be home without Sherlock's mess giving the place character.
Turning his attention back to Sherlock, fresh images of the "experiments" that colonized every surface of the flat in mind, John was anything but convinced by his partner's denial. "You sure about that, are you?"
Sherlock did not deign to reply, which might as well have been an admission of guilt. Disregarding the question, he opted to roll his eyes instead, "You still have yet to explain why you are determined that we take part in this ridiculous errand."
John placed his hands firmly on his hips; they had had this conversation ten times at least. "First of all, it's not a bloody errand, it's a holiday. Second, because your brother invited us." John braced himself for the next round in this debate. Three, two, one—
Sherlock harrumphed loudly (right on cue), and John sighed, walking over to where the detective reclined in his customary chair. Clear eyes, which today held more green in them than any other color, glanced up at John briefly, reminding him of a cold sea. John smirked at Sherlock's attempts to feign disinterest and continue being stroppy. Not likely.
Truth be told, when John had received the invitation from Mycroft he had been more than a little suspicious. Since when did Mycroft invite the two of them to tag along on a "holiday?" Sherlock had skipped suspicious and gone straight to conspiracy theory. That was the point at which John rang Greg and asked after the motivations behind this trip. The DI had quite honestly seemed puzzled, "Look, mate," he assured John good-naturedly, "as far as I know he's totally honest about the whole thing. No ulterior motives. He's downright chipper about it. It's a bit scary…reckon we could all do with a holiday though…" John couldn't argue with that logic and he had signed the two of them up. Greg was right; Mycroft had seemed rather elated by their positive response. John figured that the stress of recent events may have resulted in some sort of emotional breakdown with symptoms of excessive emotivity and magnanimousness. Confirmation complete, John had thus begun the process of coaxing, bribing, tricking, and convincing Sherlock to get on board with the plan. He was obviously still engaged in that endeavor…
"Because it will be relaxing," he suggested pointedly, looming over Sherlock. It was a nice change for John to loom, empowering even; Sherlock was usually towering over him when it came to height.
"You mean dull," Sherlock rejoined, every inch a five year old who knew that his mother's "maybe" quite clearly meant "no," and unwilling to accept that for one moment. At least not without a fight.
"I mean that we could do with a holiday," John countered firmly, getting another glance from Sherlock, with the slightest hint of guilt, peeping from beneath his lashes, "It's been a long year. We could do with a rest." Right, he acknowledged, resting might not be the best method of getting him to agree. You'd think I'd learned that the first 150 times we've had this argument.
"Besides," he added, innocently, "I've read up on the island. Lots of unsolved mysteries. Bound to be plenty to do…" Sherlock's eyes narrowed with suspicion, and John tried not laugh as the consulting detective attempted to deduce the seriousness of John's claims. Before he could open his mouth to make a pronouncement about the blogger's ostensible bribery and calculated falsehoods, John placed his hands on the arms of Sherlock's chair. He leaned in until they were nose to nose. Whatever the consulting detective had been about to say died in his throat as all of his brain power was redirected to other more tangential arenas. Say what you would about John Watson's methods, he knew how to diffuse an impending Sherlock rant in a variety of ways. His most recent tactic: diversion. It rather worked out well for the two of them.
Sherlock's eyes darted from John's mouth to his mischievous blue eyes and back again. He was clearly evaluating John's intentions and what he found left him smirking slightly in anticipation.
The blogger leaned even closer, and Sherlock's tongue involuntarily darted out, licking his lips in expectation. John smiled. He rather liked (all right, all right, he bloody loved) being able to affect Sherlock this way. It was still quite a thrill to be able to so magnificently leave the consulting detective speechless or redirect his attention so thoroughly onto himself.
"Because it will be fun," he whispered conspiratorially, voice husky. He closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's in a long and lingering kiss. The promise of the specific brand of "fun" he intended for them to have while on holiday was heady on his tongue. The consulting detective, cottoning on to John's plans, responded in kind, growling hungrily at the back of his throat. John shuddered. When Sherlock made that noise, god…then, abruptly, John pulled back. Sherlock was quite reluctant to let him go (and Sherlock was nothing if not dogged about getting what he wanted). His unwillingness to release John actually made it easier for the blogger to pull him to his feet (although they tottered unsteadily once they were both vertical). John was trying to regain his ability to speak, as Sherlock nipped possessively at his neck. John had his hands firmly on the detective's hips, trying to extract himself, but not quite able (or willing) to do so. "Now," the army doctor said firmly, between kisses. Sherlock elicited a moan when he outlined the hollow of John's ear with his tongue, but the blogger continued valiantly onward, "Ah, go and, hmph, get, ah, ready," How is that I start out trying to distract him and now he's the one that's got me all—that feels fucking good—distracted. Sherlock, catching the drift of John's thoughts, or perhaps (very likely) just fervently enjoying himself, smirked like the devil. Oh bloody hell, John thought with excitement and dread: he knew what that look meant: trouble. Really good trouble I expect. The consulting detective reached for the buckle of John's belt, and John mentally berated himself,"Sherlock," he said breathless and stern at once, "they'll be here any moment."
"That is most unfortunate," the consulting detecitve said cheekily, as if Greg and Mycroft could go and take a couples' cruise to the arctic for all he cared. If they hit an iceberg and never returned to trouble him again, so much the better. Sherlock was engaged in more entertaining pursuits presently.
"Sod off," John said smiling cheekily, as he forcibly shoved Sherlock in the direction of their bedroom, "And mind that you don't try to sneak anything."
Sherlock was ominously silent, "The list of things that won't get through security was completely inane, John. Honestly, what imbecile doesn't—"
"Sherlock…" John warned, crossing his arms.
Sherlock grumbled something that sounded like "pedantic bureaucrats" and "Mycroft's fault." John smirked.
Five minutes later… "Come on they're here. Sherlock! Hurry up." Sherlock had somehow meandered into the kitchen and gotten himself immersed in some sort of, well, John wasn't quite sure what it was, but it appeared to be a brain, portions of which Sherlock was dissecting. "Come on, seriously, you cannot bring scalpels! Or human tissue," he added when Sherlock seemed to be searching for a container to transport his cross-sections.
"This will only take a moment to arrange," he said, ignoring John, who crossed the room, forcibly removed the sharp objects and oozing flesh from his partner's hands, spun him on his hell and pushed him towards the entranceway, saying, "That is complete bollocks. Stop stalling and let's go."
Sherlock seemed moderately stunned and definitely amused by John's antics. The blogger mumbled under his breath about sabotage. He grabbed his consulting detective, shoving a case into his hand, and ushered him down the stairs to the waiting black car.
"Greg," John nodded, when he climbed inside.
"Mycroft," Sherlock sneered, as he settled beside his blogger with a flourish, taking John's hand.
And this is off to a beautiful start.
AN:
Welcome! Honestly, I do not even know what happened with this. Bickering, Johnlock, some Mystrade on the side. Hope it wasn't too OOC or ridiculous. I promised the boys a holiday (and you lot as well), so here it is. I will sporadically post snippets from said holiday, not necessarily in chronological order as a break from the angst in my other stories, because, hey, we could all do with a holiday.
Please, leave a review and let me know what you think, if you'd like me to continue, and/or if you have any requests.