So I went on vacation to Mammoth Cave this weekend and it gave me this idea. I'm really sorry if I made Sherlock OOC. He's a hard character to write. Sorry for any spelling/grammar mistakes. BTW, White Scar Cave is an actual cave in the UK.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

"I really don't know how you managed to talk me into this, John," Sherlock complained as the two waited under a large pavilion for everyone to assemble together before their tour of White Scar Cave in Yorkshire Dales National Park.

"Well, Lestrade, had no interesting cases for you, so you were bored. And you were annoying the heck out of Mrs. Hudson and I with tearing up the flat for cigarettes and insisting I play Cluedo with you. And you were shooting at the wall again!"

Sherlock was about to reply when the tour guide started explaining that they would be going through a very low area, a very skinny area, and be climbing over five hundred steps.

Sherlock did not look happy at the mention of the low-ceilinged portion of the cave. John, on the other hand, didn't seem worried at all.

The beginning of the tour went fine—until they reached the low portion of the cave. This caused Sherlock to shout "I hate this bloody stupid cave!" and several more, shall we say, explosive outbursts. Unfortunately, they were close enough to the tour guide (whose name, John remembered, was Emily) for her to hear Sherlock's coarse exclamations.

"Excuse me, sir," she said. "I would like to remind you—"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you would," Sherlock said briskly.

Emily favored him with a nasty glare. "—That there are children here and you will not be welcomed back if you continue your current language."

"Oh, it's not like they haven't heard it all before. It's all over the telly and radio."

Emily stepped up close to Sherlock. "I recently got my black belt in Tae Kwon Do. I assure you, you don't want to mess with me," she hissed.

"No, you haven't. And you wouldn't hit me anyway because you need the money from this job to save up money to divorce your good-for-nothing, drunkard, abusive husband."

"Sherlock. . . ." John warned.

"How—?"

"It's quite simple—"

"Sherlock!" John warned again.

Sherlock ignored him. "By the mark on your finger, I can easily tell that you regularly take your wedding ring off, but not to go sleeping around as you would have a distinctive odor about you. Therefore, you are unhappily married. Your fingernails are short and cracked and your hands are rough and calloused. You obviously do almost all the work and you smell of alcohol you did not consume, so good-for-nothing and alcoholic. You flinch whenever a man comes too close to you and you have bruises under your clothes. How did I know that, you ask? You walk with a limp and you refrain from bending or twisting as much as possible. But how do you know I'm saving up for a divorce, Mr. Holmes? Easy. You need new clothes as those have been sewn several times and you have worn a few times this week, judging by the stains. You refuse to pay the money to buy new clothes because we really need the money for the divorce."

Emily started to cry and ran as well as she could back the way they had come.

John watched her leave then turned to Sherlock. "Oh, jolly good job, Sherlock," John said sarcastically. "Now we don't have a tour guide."

Well, hopefully you liked it and I didn't get Sherlock totally wrong. Please review!