"Why did I let you talk me into this?" Sherlock stared out the window of the taxi and watched the wilderness pass by. John rolled his eyes.

"Because there's nothing else to do and I've never been to the ocean before." Then, as a side thought, he added, "And I doubt you have, either."

"Of course I've been to the ocean," Sherlock scoffed in annoyance. "Everyone and their grandmother has been to the ocean. Well, except you."

"Thank you," John mumbled to himself.

Eventually they came upon a small town on the edge of everything, with a hotel and a tiny corner store and an ancient looking church. John paid for a room (with two beds of course, although the smiling woman at the front desk first offered them a room with only one), and they carried their meager luggage up, Sherlock complaining vaguely the entire time.

"It's so dull," he said loudly. "It's just water. It doesn't even have the decency of sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight."

"Where did you get that idea from?" John gave him a look as he unlocked the door.

Sherlock waved his free hand. "When you're in school, sometimes the library is your only escape from boredom."

"Oh, right," John said, snorting and shoving the door open. "Because back then you didn't have access to guns. Those poor, unsuspecting walls didn't know what they had coming."

Their room was boring even by John's standards. The walls were gray, the carpet a hideous turquoise color. The beds were small and lumpy and the bathroom had hopefully seen better days. In fact, the only part of the room that was not drab or untouchable was a bible sitting on top of one of the bedside tables.

"Well," Sherlock said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "This was an excellent idea."

"Shut up."

"It certainly wasn't mine."

"Shut up, please?"

Sherlock threw his suitcase down on the bed closest to the door and flopped down next to it, glaring at the wall across from him. "And now what do we do?"

John set his case lightly down next to the other bed and brushed some dirt off his coat. "We go to the beach."

Sherlock groaned. "Do we have to?"

"Yes."

"This is even worse than that horrid room." Sherlock hadn't uncrossed his arms since they'd first caught sight of the water. "I have sand in my shoes. I blame you."

"So take them off, then," John said, sighing. His own shoes had been abandoned several yards back, along with his socks and his coat. He'd rolled up the legs of his pants and was currently curling his toes around the sand underneath him. "This was supposed to be relaxing. Don't ruin it for me, please."

Sherlock laughed. "Relaxing."

John walked away from him, toward the surf. There was a slight breeze, which froze his fingers and ears but did not discourage him. However, he could hear Sherlock following him, muttering various other complaints about the weather, the sand, and life in general. John tried to tune him out, but it just didn't work.

Eventually they came across a line of shells and rocks that the tide had formed hours before. John pointed down at them. "Here we go," he said. "Maybe you could find something to hold your interest here."

"Oh yes," Sherlock said. "That sand dollar there is absolutely riveting."

John turned away, toward the waves. "Will you follow me if I walk into the water?"

"No."

"Good." With that, John hurried forward, foam rushing up around his ankles and pulling at the sand underneath his heels. Sherlock's voice was drowned out by the crashing all around him, and John grinned, gazing around at the sea gulls and fishermen. He closed his eyes, tilting his head up toward the sun, which was peeking through around the clouds. He spread his arms, catching the wind between his fingers, and he thought, So this is what Ella was talking about.

Suddenly, he heard frantic shouting behind him. "John, John!"

He whirled around. "What?" he snapped.

Sherlock was grinning at him and pointing at something on the ground in front of him. "I found a vertebra!"

John trudged toward him, making his way against the water rolling out back to sea. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock seemed particularly excited. "I'm not sure what kind of fish it belongs to, but it's fairly large. It's a vertebra!"

John squinted down at the spot his companion was pointing at. There, on the ground, was a bone. Part of a spine, a vertebra, and it was here, on the beach. "Yes," John said. "I can see that."

"Pick it up for me, I want to get a better look at it."

John sighed and used a nearby stick to pull it off the ground. Sherlock made a noise of happiness and John dangled it in front of him.

"Excellent!" the detective said, inspecting it without taking it off the stick. John glared at him, annoyed. "It's in good condition!"

"Yes, well, take it, then," John said impatiently. Sherlock gingerly plucked it from the stick, bringing it up to eye level and whispering something to himself that John couldn't hear.

For an hour, as John made his way up and down the beach, walking in the water and bending down to study interesting stones, Sherlock stood in exactly the same spot as before, holding the vertebra in front of him with delight on his face.

"You can't just stare at it all day," John said as he approached him.

"Yes I can."

"Sherlock," John sighed.

"What?" Sherlock glanced up at him quickly before returning his attention to the vertebra.

And so John did something that, in most cases, he would have never imagined doing. He stepped forward, grabbed the vertebra, threw his arm back and sent it flying into the sea. Sherlock cried out in rage.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded, grasping a fistful of John's shirt.

John didn't have an answer. He just laughed at the comical nature of the moment, pushing Sherlock away.
This didn't last long.

"You threw my vertebra into the ocean," the detective said, back to crossing his arms over his chest. "Go get it."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not going to just walk into the ocean and—"

"Yes you are." The consulting detective thrust his chin into the air in an imperious kind of way.

"No, I'm most certainly not."

"I think you are."

They glared at each other for a few minutes. John clenched and unclenched his fists, gritting his teeth. At one point, Sherlock began to tap his foot, which didn't quite work on the sand but he still managed.

And then John gave up. "Oh, all right," he said, groaning. "Fine. Have it your way. I'll get the bloody vertebra."

"Thank you."

John waded into the water slowly, his eyes scrutinizing the sand so as not to miss it if he were to happen upon it. It wasn't until the water was up to his knees that he caught sight of it, resting against a red rock the size of his fist. He bent down to get it, but the tide swept away before he could.

He rolled his pants up higher and waded farther out.

It happened again the next time he saw it. It was as though the water was toying with him, always keeping it out of his reach. Finally, he was able to grab it. At that moment, though, a large wave came crashing down over his head.

When he stood in front of Sherlock again he was soaked from head to toe and dripping, and there was a bit of seaweed hanging from his left ear. He held out the vertebra, and all that Sherlock said as he got it back was, "Took you long enough."

"John."

John groaned and pulled the pillow over his head, not wanting the enjoyable feeling of sleep to completely wash away.

"John, John, John, wake up, John."

"Sherlock, shut up. Please."

"No, get up."

John threw the covers back and glared up at his companion. "Why should I?"

"Because," Sherlock said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I'm bored."

There were dark circles under his eyes and he didn't appear to have changed his clothes from the day before. "Have you slept at all?" John asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"No, of course not," Sherlock replied, sitting down on his own bed, which still had the blankets artistically drawn up around the pillows.

"So what have you been doing while I was sleeping?" He slung his legs over the side of the bed and yawned, stretching his arms. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was seven-thirty in the morning.

"Well," Sherlock said, "I electrocuted an orange."

John sniffed the air, picking up a distinctly citrus scent. "You did what?"

"I electrocuted an orange. Using two paper clips and the outlet by the door."

"Where did you even get an orange?"

"They have a buffet downstairs in the lobby. Continental breakfast or something like that."

"Why did you electrocute an orange?" John was standing now, looking around the room to see what kind of damage he might have to pay for. His side of the room was still neat and orderly. Sherlock's side of the room was covered in clothes, plastic spoons, and John saw the vertebra lying on the edge of his bed.

"I was bored, of course."

"Why are there spoons on the floor? Where did they come from?"

"I got them downstairs."

"What did you do with them?"

"Originally I was using them to cut open the orange," the detective explained. "But then I thought it might be interesting to see if it would be easier to cut through skin with multiple spoons or only one."

John looked down at Sherlock's arms to see them red and raw and bleeding in multiple places. As he searched for his medical kit, he made a mental note. Never leave Sherlock alone with spoons if you don't know what he's going to do with them.

"Here we are again," Sherlock said in an I-hate-you-John voice.

"Yep," John said. He'd rolled up the legs of his pants again and was walking along this new beach a few miles away from the last one. This one stretched farther, and had more interesting rocks and shells on it. He'd hoped that this might interest Sherlock, but so far the only thing his companion had done was complain, loudly, about having to come back.

"Why?"

"Oh, look," John said. "Sand fleas."

"Dull."

"You're not, I dunno, fascinated by the way they burrow into the sand?"

"Not in the least."

John shook his head. "You're hopeless."

They walked along silently. Occasionally Sherlock would mumble something to himself, but by this time John had learned to ignore him. Sometimes he would try to get Sherlock interested in something on the beach, like a patch of seaweed or the claw of a crab, but it seemed that Sherlock was trying very hard not to find anything interesting.

Until, that is, they found the jellyfish.

"Oh, wow," John breathed, bending down to look at it. It was see-through, though it was mostly covered in sand so it was somewhat hard to tell. Sherlock was suddenly kneeling beside him and he had, in his hand, a spoon.

"Careful, John, it could still shock you."

"Could it?"

"Definitely."

"Why do you have that spoon?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he reached forward and proceeded to poke the jellyfish in multiple areas. He lifted up the tentacles to inspect them. He used the spoon to scoop away the sand. He poked it some more.

"Stop poking it!"

"Why should I?"

"I dunno, it seems rude to poke at someone that's dead."

"Oh, really? I do it all the time."

"I bet you do."

"This is ridiculous, John."

"I wonder how many different ways you can say that," John replied. He dove into the water and remembered the days of his youth when he used to go to the pool every chance he got. When he resurfaced, Sherlock was standing at the edge of the pool, glaring down with disgust.

"Why do they have a pool when the ocean is across the street?" A small child moved past him to jump in.

"The ocean isn't as safe," John pointed out. It was marvelous in the pool. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so weightless. He floated on his back, staring up at the blue sky. When was the last time the sky had been so lacking in clouds?

"John, I don't approve."

"I know, Sherlock."

He turned in the water and swam toward the stairs on the side of the pool, in the deep end. He climbed out and moved around past Sherlock to get to the diving board.

Well, that's what Sherlock saw.

When he was close to the detective, he reached over and gave him a push. Sherlock, in clothes and shoes and all, fell into the pool with a great splash. He surged to the surface, spluttering and shaking his head. His hair was plastered to his face and neck, and he had the maddest expression on his face. His clothes clung to him.

"I am going to kill you, John Watson!"

John doubled over with laughter, nearly falling back into the pool himself.

Sherlock was still talking as he slowly made his way to the ledge. "I'll murder you, and then I'll dump your body in here and see how long it takes for it to decompose in this damned chlorinated water!"

"You're lucky I calmed down before I caught you."

John snorted, nearly choking on his glass of water. "Oh, yes. Very lucky."

Sherlock had changed his clothes, though his hair was still drying. They sat in a restaurant, in one of the few window seats. When they'd first sat down, the waiter had lit the candle in between them. Sherlock had quickly put it out with his fingers and shoved it to the side.

"I'm serious," the man said, eyeing his companion over the top of his menu. "If I'd gotten you earlier..."

"Oh, I believe you." Not.

"I'm still angry."

"I know."

The waiter came back then, interrupting their basically one-sided conversation. "Are you two ready to order?" he asked in a too-cheerful manner.

John set down his menu with a smile. "Yes, I'll have two pancakes—" Nine pounds."—with a side of grapefruit—" Three pounds fifty. "—and a glass of water." Free.

The man finished writing this down and turned to Sherlock, whose face split into a huge grin. "I'll have the steak and eggs—" Sixteen pounds. "—a side of ham—" Six pounds. "—and a glass of sparkling water." Four pounds.

John, who had been tracking this while he ordered and had added up the cost, glared at him. As the man walked away, he leaned forward and said, "You ordered the most expensive food on the menu!"

"John," Sherlock said patiently, lacing his fingers together. "You forced me to go on this trip with you, pushed me into a pool, and made me eat breakfast. I think you deserve it."

"Is it really so terrible?" John said, frowning. "Eating?"

"Yes," Sherlock grumbled. "It's the most boring necessary thing ever."

"Who is this?"

"Her name is Brianna," John said. The girl in mention had short red hair and pale skin and glossy pink lips. She was wearing a tight purple tank top with a short black coat and denim shorts that were fraying at the edges. She wore heels. Her nails were painted hot pink.

"Hello," she said, smiling and wiggling her fingers.

Sherlock didn't reply. He looked her over once before taking John's arm and dragging him a few feet away. "What is she doing here?" Sherlock hissed.

"I thought it would be obvious," John said, chuckling.

"What would Sarah say?" Sherlock muttered deviously.

John elbowed him in the ribs. "Nothing because she isn't for me."

Sherlock glanced over at the girl, who was gazing about the room with curiosity. "Isn't for...oh. No, no, no, you didn't."

"I did."

"I hate you, John."

John gave him a tiny shove toward her. Sherlock threw quiet complaints over his shoulder, including things such as, "I'm asexual, John!" and "I'll never speak to you again!"

What Sherlock didn't know is that, before bringing her inside, John had told the girl what a peculiar sort of fellow the detective was. The first thing she did after sitting him down on his bed was to ask, "So what's my life story?"

And so Sherlock began to ramble. He went into detail about her past, her present, what kind of family she had and what her personality was like. She seemed to ignore all of the rude and blunt things that he said, which John was relieved by. As he walked out the door she was unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, though the detective hardly seemed to notice.

An hour later, after returning from the nearby corner store, John saw Brianna closing the door of the room with a small smile on her face.

"What happened?" he asked quietly. "Well, I mean, don't tell me anything. But did anything happen?"

"Well," she said, laughing. "He's definitely not asexual like he says."

He was laying on his back when John got back in. He had his clothes on again, though they were slightly rumpled looking, and he had his arms crossed underneath his head. He glared up at the ceiling, and when John went to sit on his own bed he said, "I despise and loathe you."

"Yes, but was it at least enjoyable?"

"That's not the point," Sherlock said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of his bed. "You are an ass."

"Yes," John said, chuckling. "I know."

"I hate you."

"I know."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

Sherlock looked like he could have throttled him. John fluffed his pillow and laid back, closing his eyes and smiling. "You should get some sleep for once."

"I can't sleep," Sherlock said. "Not after that."

"Oh, it can't have been so terrible," John said. He rolled over onto his side and cracked one eye open. Sherlock's hair was sticking up on the side, and it took everything in him not to burst out laughing.

The two of them eyed each other for a few minutes, carefully planning and dismissing insults in their minds. Then Sherlock fell back onto the bed with a soft groan and said, "You'll pay for this."

"I already did."

"Oh, ha-ha."

"John!!"

"What is it now?" John looked up from the book he'd been reading and glanced in the direction of the bathroom. Sherlock came thundering out, holding up his arms.

"I'm sunburned!"

"Oh, that's nothing," John said, looking him over. The detective's forearms and cheeks were barely pink, though it was quite a shock to see in comparison to his usual pallor.

"It stings!"

"Ohh, put some ice water on it and you'll be fine." John turned back to his book.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said, moving to stand in front of him and taking the book away. "Fix it."

John scowled. "I can't just make the sunburn go away. And, I mean, there's barely anything there. It could hardly be considered a sunburn." He reached out for his book, but Sherlock held it away.

"Do something medical," Sherlock said.

"Give me back my book!"

"Look, I don't care if you have to, oh, I don't know, spread cream cheese over it, just make it stop hurting!"

"All right, all right!" John pushed the man out of the way and stood, moving toward the door. "I'll go get some aloe vera, then. That should help."

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed, flopping down into the spot that John had been sitting on.

John opened the door to the bathroom and stepped out. The first thing he noticed was a plastic cup tipped over on the hideous carpet and the large wet stain around it. The second thing he noticed was Sherlock, who was barely lying on his bed.

"John."

"Sherlock, where have you been all day?" John asked, picking the cup off the ground and pulling a towel from the bathroom to soak up the stain.

"John, the room is spinning."

"What?"

"Make it stop."

Sherlock's voice was faint, spacy. His eyes were closed, his clothes rumpled. He was a mess, to say the least. And he smelled, very distinctly, of bourbon.

"Sherlock...are you drunk?" John took a step closer and saw that his hair was slightly matted with sweat.

The detective's eyes cracked open. "Drunk. Drrrunnk." He snorted. "That's a funny word if you think about it too long."

John cursed and shook his head. "You are!"

"I am. I yam. Yam. Yams are terrible."

"Why on earth..." John shook his head. "You don't seem like to kind to just go out and drink yourself silly."

"I werse...were...was experi...experimernt...experimenting." He lifted up his hand and stared at his fingers as they swayed in the air, frowning as though he couldn't recall whether or not they belonged to him.

"Experimenting," John said. "Great."

Sherlock's eyes focused on the doctor. "I was mad at you," he slurred. "But now I can't remember why. Why was I mad at you, John?"

"You'll remember later," John said. He dragged Sherlock the rest of the way onto the bed. The detective was actually fairly light. Considering how little he ate, it probably hadn't taken too much alcohol to make him drunk.

"So what was this experiment?" John asked as he tugged Sherlock's shoes off.

Sherlock's head lulled from side to side as he tried to think. "Mmm something...something about, mm, bourbon aaannnnd don't remember the, mm, the rest..."

John laughed. He pulled the blankets out from under the detective and over him, up to his chin. "You're going to really regret it when you wake up."

"Ohh okay." Sherlock pushed the blankets down away from his torso and his arms flopped down beside him. "And what about you?" His eyes closed, his voice quiet. "Are you...you...going to, hmm, regret it...?"

John didn't spend too long thinking about how cranky the sociopath would be in the morning when his head was throbbing. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm sure I'll regret your actions."

"John."

John sat up abruptly, making his head swim. He scanned the room for any kind of danger which might have made Sherlock's voice sound the way it did. When he couldn't find anything, his eyes fell on the detective.

Oh.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed, clutching at his head. "John," he said again, "my head is going into supernova."

"Well," John murmured, "that's one way of describing it."

He jumped out of bed and moved about the room, collecting necessary items. When he returned to Sherlock's side he was holding a glass of ice water and a bottle of pills. Sherlock's fingers shook as he took two, and he nearly choked on them. John sat across from him, regarding his companion with sympathy. He knew what it was like.

"John, where are you taking me?"

John smiled to himself. "A bar."

He heard Sherlock stop in his tracks. "Oh, no, no, no. I've already had one bad experience involving a bar, you're not dragging me to another one."

John turned to look at him. "It's your own fault you got so bloody wasted. This time," he grinned, "I'll be there to restrain you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Right. That's reassuring."

They made their way along the sidewalk, their hotel growing smaller and smaller behind them until they came across a place called The Blue Whale. Sherlock groaned, remembering the terrible throbbing sensation he'd felt in his temples and behind his eyes.

"You know, John, it's not too late to turn around and—"

"We're going in." John tugged at the detective's sleeve.

The door jingled as they stepped inside. There was a sports game playing on an old TV in the corner, and a pool game was taking place in the back. A man wearing red looked especially jolly while a man wearing dark green was leaning on his cue, staring down at the table with sadness in his eyes. John led Sherlock between the tables and toward the bar, where an overweight man was polishing a tall glass.

John leaned against the counter, inhaling the scent of lemons. "Two glasses of whiskey," he said, "on the rocks."

"Why do they call it that?" Sherlock mumbled beside him. "It's ice. Not rocks. It makes no sense."

"So you're complaining about the ice, now, then?"

"Well, I've already complained about everything else I can think of," Sherlock said, sliding onto one of the bar stools.

"So you admit to being difficult?"

"Yes."

John smirked. "I guess there's no point in denying it."

The man slid two glasses toward them. John immediately took a sip from his, but Sherlock glared down at the glass in front of him as though it were full of poison or just purposefully trying to offend him.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John laughed. "Live a little."

"I can live perfectly fine without a raging headache every morning, thank you."

"One glass," John said, lifting his up to inspect it in the light. "Just one glass won't kill you."

"Of course it will," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes and took another sip.

An hour later they'd both had three glasses and were starting in on their fourth. John had started singing softly to himself and Sherlock was going on about the experiment he'd been doing before that had involved mass amounts of bourbon and butter. There was a man sitting next to him that seemed very involved in the conversation, his entire attention focused on the detective, who was rocking back and forth.

"An' I told myself, y'know, I told myself that anything would be better than being, ermm, bored?"

John suddenly burst out laughing. "You're always bored, Sherly!"

Sherlock scowled and pointed a wavering finger at the doctor. "Don't call me Sherly!"

"Yeah, yeah, go on, what did you do next?" The man sitting next to Sherlock tapped his arm.

Sherlock turned back to him. "Oh, well, so I...oh, I've forgotten."

The man's shoulders slumped with defeat. "You'll tell me if you remember, won't you?"

Sherlock patted his hand sympathetically. "Of course, darling."

"Will that be another glass for you both, then?" The bartender grinned and leaned toward them, taking their empty glasses. John shook his head.

"No, no," he said. "Have you got anything fruity?"

Sherlock snorted and slapped the counter. "Fruity!" he howled. "Johnn I didn't know you were the kind ter drink fruity beverages."

John rested his head on the counter. "I didn't neither."

"That's 'either'," Sherlock said. He frowned at his hands. "I think."

The bartender pushed two tall glasses of something bright red toward them. Curly blue straws stuck out the top. The two men glanced at each other before bringing the straws to their mouths.

"Cherry!" John cried, slamming his glass down. "It's cherry!"

"Very good, John."

When John woke up the next morning, the room was painfully bright. This time it was Sherlock who handed him a glass of water and the bottle of pills. He gulped them down and stared blearily at the nasty curtains.

"So much for restraint."

"Shut up," John grumbled.

"You know I called a man 'darling'?" Sherlock shuddered. "The most humiliating moment of my life. I'll never go near a bar again."

"That's what they all say."

They glared at each other, but their staring contest was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. "Who is it?" Sherlock called roughly.

"Housekeeping," came a woman's voice.

"Go away!" Sherlock said, throwing a pillow at the door. "Come back later!"

"That was rude."

"I don't care."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"It should be fairly obvious," the detective scoffed, digging his heels into the sand and rocks. "I'm swinging."

"That's meant for five-year-olds," John said.

"And?" Sherlock leaned back and the swing squeaked underneath his weight. A small girl on the swing next to his was staring at him with big eyes, her little fists clutching at the chains and her feet dangling above the earth. Sherlock eyed her for a moment before saying, "What?"

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous."

"Do you think I care? I'm having fun." As though to prove this he pushed off from the ground.

"People are staring."

Sherlock's eyes wandered to the various adults watching him. He smiled and waved at them, his fingers wiggling innocently. The little girl jumped off her swing and ran away, crying for her mummy.

"Why do I go out into public with you?" John groaned, running a hand through his hair.

"Because you loooove me."

"No, I don't."

"I know."

"Sherlock," John growled. There was a threat in his voice that made Sherlock laugh madly.

The consulting detective suddenly stopped, leaning forward with his elbows jutting out behind him. He watched the people around them, who had started deliberately trying not to look in the direction of the madman. "Maybe we could kidnap someone."

"What the hell!"

"We could experiment with Stockholm Syndrome."

"Sherlock, no! We're not going to kidnap anyone!"

"Fine," Sherlock sniffed. "I'll do it by myself."

"You wouldn't dare." John glared down at him.

Sherlock seemed to pout, though that wasn't a word that John was ready to use in relation to the detective without wincing. "You're no fun," he said. "I mean, you made me come on this agonizing 'vacation,'" he air-quoted, "so the least you could do would be to allow me a good kidnapping."

"Sherlock, I will not allow you to take some poor child—"

"It doesn't have to be a child," Sherlock mused.

"Listen!" John grabbed the chains of the swing to keep the detective from moving back and forth like he had been. "Stop being such a bastard!"

"No."

John groaned.

"Can I keep it?"

"Sherlock, that's a sea anemone."

"Yes?"

"No, you can't keep it."

"Where have you two been these past few days?" Lestrade was standing in front of their door on Baker Street, looking fairly peeved. He fumbled with something in his pocket and glared at each other them respectively.

John started to say, "We went to the beach," when Sherlock ran up to Lestrade and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"He forced me to go to the ocean!" the detective said. "He pushed me into a pool, made me eat breakfast every day, caused me to sunburn, got me drunk when he said he would restrain me, and he wouldn't let me kidnap anyone or keep the sea anemone!"

Lestrade stared at him with wide eyes.

"Oh!" Sherlock continued. "AND HE THREW MY VERTEBRA INTO THE OCEAN."

"Now hang on," John said, stepping forward. "I went and got that for you!"

"Yes, but it doesn't change the fact that you did it," Sherlock said, letting go of Lestrade.

"Look," Lestrade said. "This is all well and good but I've got a case—"

"A case!" Sherlock seemed to bounce with delight. "Oh, do tell!"