The word drew from John soft laughter, like falling leaves. Posed questionwise from Sherlock's childgrin the syllables quivered and were repeated through low giggles.
Shall we have a picnic? A picnic, John.
The absurdity of it. The beauty. Yes, yes; let's.
The pair smiled. Sherlock with a smile held open 221B's black door for his smiling soldier. John smilingly exchanged a palmful of coins for some berries and on their walk they smiled at passers-by; confused London folk, touched strangers. When they found a patch of sunny grass in the Park they lay and smiled at the sky.
Sherlock fed to John strawberries and strawberries John fed to Sherlock. Lush and blushing in the summer's youth, mouths were soon full and red and wet. Fingers dripped and were licked. Hands, wrists; lips, too. Give me your lips again. Little seeds were found by tongues between teeth as they kissed; they kissed and tasted strawberries.
From long pale careful fingers Sherlock held by the stem one that was perfect for his John. Slowly he lowered it between waiting lips, watched teeth sink through its flesh, watched redness spill to be lapped up. Juice trickled tickling down John's chin and onto Sherlock's tongue. Afterwards, they lay in the sun.
They smiled at each other and at life. The absurdity of it. The beauty.