AN: AU Oneshot

Sherlock Holmes let out an unhappy sigh, flopping backwards on his beach towel, closing his eyes, and laying his open book over his face. He couldn't remember a time when he had been so downright bored. Why was he here again? Oh yes; Mycroft had insisted he get away, and Lestrade concurred. The two believed he was working too hard, and pushed him to go on a vacation. Sherlock had scoffed and ignored them, but eventually, the nagging became too much. When Mycroft showed up at his door with a plane ticket and a cab, the man snatched the ticket, stomped down the stairs and unhappily rode to the airport.

He lingered, hoping to miss the plane, but eventually, with nothing better to do, got to his flight and went to the British Isles. Now, he was laying on a smooth, white, peaceful beach, the sun high and bright in the sky, and the ocean bringing in a lovely breeze. He was miserable. There was absolutely nothing on this island that could entertain Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson left his hotel room, limping to the elevator.

His therapist had insisted that taking a vacation was the best thing he could do for himself. John didn't agree, but she was resolute, and he decided it was worth a try. So far, though, he just wished he was back in London. His own little flat was more exciting than this place, full of couples and tourists. There was absolutely nothing on this island that could entertain John Watson.

He rode down to the ground floor, adjusted the bag on his shoulder and walked out onto the beach in front of the high-rise hotel. He sighed, glancing around at the couples and family groups scattered at different intervals around the beach. John picked a spot towards the middle of the beach, spread out his towel and lay down. He turned his head to the side and thanked the Lord he was wearing sunglasses; they hid his double take. To his left lay the most gorgeous human being he had ever seen, and, much to John's delight, he appeared to be alone. The man was stretched out on a beach towel under an umbrella, his ivory skin shaded from the hot sun. A book covered most of his face, but John could see his beautifully pink, slightly parted lips peeking out from under it. The man's dark, curly hair was periodically blown by the wind, hinting at a high forehead and wonderfully prominent cheekbones. His chest rose and fell with every breath, his pectorals curving pleasantly into a muscular abdomen. His long legs were crossed, and his arms were splayed away from his body, the sinewy biceps apparent from beneath his smooth looking skin. The man stirred, and John looked away quickly, pretending to be asleep.

Sherlock roused himself, tired of sleeping. Removing the book from his face, he propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. Couples walking in the water—boring; families building a sandcastle—boring; man sleeping near him—Sherlock did a double take. The man was obviously just pretending to be asleep; his movements were too rigid, too calculated to be sleeping. The detective's interests were suddenly sparked. This was the most interesting thing he had seen in the three days he had been here. First of all, most people on the beach were in groups of two, three or more. This man was alone. Second of all, most of the people here were rich, overfed, and had never seen a difficult task in their life. The sandy-haired man lying next to Sherlock was small, compact and leanly muscular. What's more, he had a cane next to him, and a pink scar on his shoulder. The detective could immediately tell it was from a bullet; the shape, width and depth made that obvious. The man stirred, rising from his false-sleep. Sherlock quickly looked away, surprising himself. He would never normally care about what a stranger thought about his icy, intelligent stare.

John got up, not wanting to lie there, knowing that a tempting, attractive, and most likely straight man just a few feet away from him. He couldn't help noticing, though, that when he began to rise, the man seemed to avert his gaze unnaturally quickly. Could he have been looking at him…? The doctor shook his head, pushing such thoughts out. A man like that would never be interested in someone like him; boring, war-scarred John. He gathered his things and began walking away. As he did, the stranger looked his way. John nodded to him, and the dark, curly head returned it. Watson hurried away as fast as he could, which, between the sand and his limp, was not very fast.

Back in his hotel room, John took a nap. It was the only way he could think of to get his mind off the man he had seen at the beach. It didn't work very well; his dreams were full of sand and sun and cheekbones and soft, dark hair. He woke up, unhappy with himself and went to take a shower. In his private bedroom, John dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt; it was too warm for his preferred jumpers. Aiming to get his mind off things, he grabbed his cane and headed down to the hotel bar.

Sherlock Holmes was disgusted with himself. He had read, taken a long, hot shower, even slept, but he couldn't seem to get his mind off the stranger he had seen at the beach earlier that day. He wrote it off to boredom; the man being the single most interesting thing he had access to at the moment, but deep down, he had his doubts about that. It wasn't possible, he told himself. Sherlock Holmes, with a crush? Inconceivable! Aiming to get his mind off things, he took another shower, dressed in his usual black pants and a purple, button-down shirt, and headed downstairs to the hotel bar. Who should he see, but the small, blonde man, sitting at the bar with an empty seat next to him. Sherlock sighed as he realized he was hopelessly smitten, surrendered himself, and went to sit next to him.

John nearly fell off his stool when he saw who was walking into the bar. The two glasses of ale he had ordered didn't help his motor skills either, and he struggled to contain himself as the man walked towards the empty seat next to him. The tall man was wearing a ridiculously tight purple shirt, and up close, John noticed that his eyes were stormy-blue. He attempted to nonchalantly sip his ale, trying not to watch as the man ordered his martini. Watson had a very difficult time remaining nonchalant, watching from the corner of his eye as those pink lips sucked the plump olive that had come in the drink off of it's toothpick. John disguised his involuntary squeak by sipping his ale, as the man's tongue darted out ever so slightly to lick the remaining olive off the stick. Finishing his ale, the doctor ordered another.

Working up all his nerve, Sherlock Holmes spoke, his voice half an octave higher than usual. "Put it on my tab." He coughed, clearing his throat. "Ahem. Sorry. Put it on my tab."

The man next to him looked up in surprise, and Sherlock held out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

"J-John Watson. Thanks for this… You don't have to—"

"Oh no, no trouble at all." He offered John a smile, glad to finally know his name. It suited him, Sherlock thought. The bartender brought the drink over, and John began sipping at the foam gathered on top.

"So," John began. He wasn't about to let this conversation die. "Um… Why are you here all alone?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "My stupid brother decided I was working too hard. Said I needed to 'get away'."

Watson nodded. "I see." He began awkwardly. "What's your, uh, work? What do you do?"

The man sipped his drink elegantly, smiling. "I'm a consulting detective. Invented the job, actually. Means the police come to me when they're out of their depth, which is always. How about you?"

"Interesting. I'm a doctor actually. Army doctor; got sent home a few months ago. My therapist practically forced me onto the plane to get me here. She's convinced it will help with my recovery. I-I got shot."

Sherlock laughed nervously. "I, um… I know. I have a bit of a confession; I watched you on the beach today. Saw your scar. I'm, uh, I'm sorry."

John blushed. "Oh! Oh no, it's… It's fine, it's all fine." He mumbled the rest of his sentence, "I may have… been watching you a bit as well."

It was the other man's turn to blush. "It's alright, I… really don't mind."

To be honest, he didn't mind at all. In fact, he was rather excited by the revelation—that must have been why John had been pretending to sleep.

Ordering another round of drinks for them, Sherlock turned his stool to face John. "So, you're from London."

It was more of a statement than a question, and John was slightly surprised. Yes, he had the accent, but that was it. "Yeah, I am. How did you…y'know, know that?"

"Simple, really. You have an English accent, that much is obvious, but that wouldn't necessarily mean you live there. Your shoes—you can only buy that particular style and brand in the UK, and from what I've deduced so far, you aren't one for vacations, so, UK. You've already revealed that you were in the military, sent home early with a war wound. Since it's already healed and scarred over, you have to have been home several months, at least. However, it still appears pink and tender, so you can't have been home longer than six or so months. Compare that to the latest installments of soldiers from the UK; the troops deployed from Greater London is the only one that matches perfectly."

John realized he was gaping, and shut his mouth. "That's brilliant—you're brilliant!"

Sherlock ducked his head, not used to the feeling of pride that suddenly washed through him. "That's not what people usually say."

"Oh… What do people usually say?"

"Uh… Freak."

"Are you serious? You're stone-cold amazing!"

"Th-Thank you. John." Sherlock smiled, waving at the bartender and ordering another round of drinks, despite noticing himself getting more and more intoxicated. Sherlock had never liked alcohol-it impaired his deduction skills-but the thought of getting Watson drunk rather intrigued him.

Another round of drinks

Sipping, his words slurred together slightly, the blonde man asked, "So where are youuu from Sherlock?"

The dark haired man's words were becoming just as slurred, to John's surprise. "London. I'm from London too."

"Really? Damn, we should...we should...see each other again then."

Sherlock, on his fourth martini, took a moment to register that John wanted to see him again. "Yeah… Yeah, we should."

"Uh-huh. Give me… Give me your number I'll call ya when we get back."

Sherlock blinked, scribbled his number on a napkin and tucked it into John's pants. The doctor jumped when he felt Sherlock's warm hand softly brush his leg, putting the piece of paper safely in his pocket.

"But maybe… Maybe we can see each other again during… During our vacation." Sherlock looked down into his drink. "I mean, if—if you wanted."

"I do. I mean—I wanna." John sipped his fifth ale, the alcohol making him braver.

Sherlock relaxed. "Great! I just get so damn bored. There's nothing to do here."

John mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like 'you could do me.'

Sherlock laughed, reaching over to pat John's back. "At ease, soldier. I just met ya. Barely know you."

The doctor leaned into the other man's embrace. "D'you want to know me better, then?"

The detective looked down at him, locking his blue-gray eyes into John's. "Yeah. Yeah, I—I do."

That was all the blonde needed—he reached up to press his lips to Sherlock's. The other man tensed, but didn't resist, relaxing into the kiss after a moment. Watson's lips tasted faintly of alcohol and salt air, but mostly of something irresistibly and indescribably John. Sherlock couldn't imagine kissing anyone else. They broke apart after a moment, both blushing with excitement and alcohol. John smiled into his drink as he felt Holmes lean over to rest on his shoulder. Reaching up to put an arm around him, the doctor knew one thing; he wasn't letting Sherlock Holmes go.

The detective returned the embrace, his intoxicated limbs wrapping clumsily around his new friend. He too, knew something; He was not going to be bored on this vacation any longer. Doctor John Watson was to be a bigger part of his life than he had ever expected.