The case had ended in the Scottish Highlands; someone asked if they'd be stayin' on a bit for the sights. John's face had flickered and Sherlock said they would, indeed. Now they had haversacks with water bottles, sandwiches and (John) matches, first-aid kit, binoculars, Ordnance Survey maps, compass, extra socks; (Sherlock) phials of acid and lye, geology map, lichen and flora handbooks, ziptop bags, his favourite jemmy (it made an excellent rock-hammer)).
The hills and fresh air had taken years off John. He scrambled up hill and down dale. "This weather," John said, panting, as they stopped beside a little blue lake. Whole, it reflected the sky; in ripples, splintered sunlight too bright to bear. "Scotland this once has remembered to take its meds."
Sherlock chose a stone along the water-margin, threw it. Five skips. "Not bad."
"Never had the hang of that."
"Dependent on a number of factors. In the wrist, mostly. Like this." Sherlock wrapped himself around John's back, arm along his arm, corrected their hold upon the flat pebble, threw. A bit as though John were an atlatl, or he an exoskeleton.
John leaned his head back beneath Sherlock's chin, pulled Sherlock's and his own arms around them. The bright world stood still. They hesitated, nestled closer.
"The follow-through always like this?" John asked.
"It should be."