Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, that wonderful honour belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss. But I can dream.
Prologue
"Kia Ora (hello) and thank you for travelling Air New Zealand, please keep to the left of the yellow line when leaving the gate and . . . " John tuned out the automated voice blasting through the plane speakers and helped Sarah retrieve her bag from the overhead compartment. Just two carry-on bags between them. One small suitcase for John and two large cases for Sarah were waiting for them at the luggage retrieval area outside gate 4.
John didn't have much experience with taking girlfriends on holiday, but he wondered idly if that was the normal amount of luggage for a woman to take on a two week trip. He sighed happily. It was nice - and he savored the feeling - that his biggest worry was whether or not he had packed enough clothes himself for the two week holiday; and not along the lines of semtex, endangered lives, severed heads and giant assassins. God he hoped the boredom wouldn't strike till he got home.
Things had been tense after The Pool. John was on edge, symptoms of his PTSD were making a subtle and ugly return in the form of cold sweats and tremors; Sherlock was sulking, or thinking. (It was hard to tell which sometimes. Probably both though.) He was spouting theories about the identity of Moriarty's mysterious caller, much to John's annoyance. The doctor had no desire to find their inadvertent savior, except to thank the caller for saving their lives and to advise him about the many potential health risks of being in the general vicinity of a psychopathic 'consulting criminal'.
The head was still in the fridge. It had begun to stink. John hoped it would be removed by the time he got home, but he didn't have much faith. John had left Sherlock lying on the couch in his blue dressing gown complaining of boredom and threatening to cause a 'national incident' if John left. John told him, with a stern look, that Tuesday's macaroni cheese was still good and he WOULD eat it by the weekend, or Mrs. Hudson promised to come up every evening and clean the kitchen - experiments be damned. With that he bade Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock goodbye, and sent a silent prayer to anyone capable of listening, that the flat would still be standing when he got back.
John and Sarah left the main terminal and made their way to the long row of taxis, stopping once to let four police officers hurry by on their way to customs; responding, John guessed, to the overhead speaker announcement stating that gate 4 was currently closed for 'safety reasons.' John had instinctively looked for Sherlock, before remembering that he was safely ensconced in Baker Street - too far away to rile up even these officers. Besides, Sherlock isn't his concern right now.
Dr. John Watson is officially on holiday.
A/N: I would like to give my sincere thanks to Lady Sam Mallory for reading over my work and giving wonderful advice - without which this story would still not be written. I would also like to thank johnsarmylady for her words of encouragement.
Any and all reviews and PM's are welcome, whether you liked it or not. Constructive criticism is very useful to me. I will endevour to respond to all of them.
