A/N: First of all, I'd like to give a huge, heartfelt thank you to everyone who applied for my editing position! It was incredibly hard to choose because all of the submissions were so wonderful, but I am pleased to announce that the lovely resrie71 is my new beta!

Enjoy!

Holiday: (noun) an extended period of leisure and recreation, especially one spent away from home.

...

1.

The next morning, the two of them meet at Speedy's café in order to figure out the final details of the case. Despite the fact that their meeting was set to be at eight, both he and John show up at seven thirty, and the thought that John is so eager to see him makes something warm and lovely unfurl in Sherlock's chest.

At eight fifteen, Sherlock carefully takes a sip of his piping hot coffee and regards John from across the table, "I was under the impression that the case was a young man convinced that his sister's fiancé was stealing his money?"

"Yeah, may have misread the email a bit," John says apologetically, "apparently a woman called Janice McDermott believes that her ex-husband, Isaac Potts, stole a valuable family heirloom from her and pawned it off for money."

Sherlock mulls it over. "And what is she basing this supposition on?"

John pulls out his mobile, opens the email, and reads aloud. "She believes Isaac is guilty because, he is, quote, 'a filthy rat of a man with greed greater than the scummiest scum of the earth' who would apparently 'do anything to get his grimy hands on extra money.'"

"I see."

"She attached a rather unflattering picture of him as well, and I have to say, he doesn't look like the most trustworthy bloke in the world," John mumbles, turning the phone and showing the photo to Sherlock.

Sherlock scrutinizes the image for a solid three seconds before lowering John's hand with a faint grimace. "Well, his resemblance to a rodent is quite uncanny but we cannot base our assessment of his guilt on a bad photo."

"Well she also says that since they split up, he's purchased a considerable number of luxury items as well. And being that he is a man who 'doesn't get off his arse for anything,' she believes there is no way he earned those belongings honestly."

Sherlock raises a brow. "How much was this heirloom worth exactly?"

John whistles lowly. "Five thousand pounds. Apparently the heirloom itself was a pair of Victorian wall sconces."

"Wall sconces," he repeats, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Monetary worth aside, what is the purpose of five thousand pound decorative items?"

John shrugs and tucks his phone into his pocket. "Well, if they've been passed down generation from generation I'd assume they have significant sentimental value."

Sentiment. The root of all evil—and, admittedly, goodness.

"Right. Shall we head out then? Ms. McDermott is expecting at before noon."

…

The car ride to Sussex is lovely and slow and their time together, cramped in Mrs. Hudson's old car, stretches on as endlessly as the road out in front of them. John drives and Sherlock lounges in the passenger seat, messing with the radio dials and playing ridiculous games at John's insistence.

"'Guess That Song!' is the best car ride game ever," John protests when Sherlock groans at the idea. "Come on, it'll be fun. Give it a go."

Deciding to indulge him, Sherlock switches on the radio and listens to a few bars of the poppy, loud song that streams from the speakers. After a moment, the terrible music becomes too repulsive and he is forced to turn it down. "That was bloody awful. How do people enjoy this rubbish? It's the same four or five lines repeated ceaselessly over the same obnoxious beat! What's to enjoy about it?"

John chuckles. "I take it you don't know it then?"

"John, you know I don't listen to that rubbish, of course I don't know what it is."

"Well to be fair, I don't know either, though whoever it is sounds about fifteen years old. Alright, what about this one?" He switches to the next station.

"Dear god no."

Switch. "This one? A bit of country music?"

"Repulsive."

Switch. "Punk rock?"

"Abhorrent."

Switch. "Gospel?"

Sherlock only deadpans in response. "Really, John?"

The ride continues in much of the same manner, easy banter bouncing between them like it did when they were flatmates several years prior. Being alone with John like this nearly makes him forget that both of them lead completely different lives back in London now. John has Mary and his new flat and Sherlock has….well Sherlock has a John-shaped hole and an unused bedroom.

2.

Janice McDermott's house is small and cramped and it takes Sherlock less than one minute on her property to feel incredibly claustrophobic. Janice seems to be the sort of person with an affinity for knick-knacks and sentimental clutter, if the stacks of dusty yearbooks in the corner and mountains of laminated birthday cards on the counter are anything to go by. The sheer amount of stuff in her house is so incredibly vast that piles of belongings can be seen from the windows and clutter spills from every open crevice like magma.

"You have a…very nice home," John says awkwardly, as they tiptoe their way to the kitchen, trying to avoid stepping on the minefield of objects spread across the floor.

"Thanks," she replies snippily, "but clearly you don't mean that. Maybe I would've bought it if Mr. Holmes over there wasn't grimacing like we're in a bloody landfill."

"Aren't we?" Sherlock questions coolly, miffed by her sour attitude.

She gives him a black look but chooses not to reply. "Take a seat at the counter, I'll put the kettle on," she says, disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock glances at the cushions of the stools and, upon noting a questionable stain, decides he'd prefer to stand. John follows suit.

"Well she's a charming one, isn't she?" John snorts, leaning against the counter, "keeps a lovely home too."

"Thus far, I can't say I fault Mr. Potts for stealing from her," Sherlock retorts drily. "Though how he managed to find a valuable heirloom amidst these mountains of rubbish is beyond me."

"Tea," Janice calls, returning to the room with surprisingly organized basket of dressings and sweeteners. The sugar and milk pots look incredibly delicate—not to mention quite expensive—and the deftly crafted tea pot seems like something one might stumble across in a history museum. In contrast to the rest of her utilitarian furniture and dishware, the tea set appears elegant and painstakingly cared for.

"Your experience with Isaac has not made you treat your heirlooms with more discretion I see," he comments, taking a tea cup and examining the intricate paintwork of its handle.

"Just because my buggering ex got sticky fingers around my family treasures, doesn't mean I'm going to start hiding them away," she retorts defensively.

"Thank you for the tea," John interrupts, forcing an amiable smile in her direction, "it's delicious."

She raises her chin haughtily. "I should think so, it's imported."

It takes every last ounce of willpower for Sherlock to avoid rolling his eyes.

"Right. Now, why don't you tell us about your relationship with Isaac," John says, thankfully changing the subject, "I'd wager you two didn't end on good terms?"

"He cheated on me," she replies bluntly. "We filed for divorce a week after I found out—coincidentally, the last day he was here was also the last day I saw my wall sconces. And as if that wasn't damning enough, that jobless rodent bought two brand new suits less than forty eight hours after my sconces went missing. Isaac has never had more than a fiver to his name in all of his worthless bloody life—there's no way he got those suits with his own hard earned money. I confronted him a few days ago but he denied everything, obviously."

"And where might we find Isaac?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, I called the cops on his lying arse this morning, so he should be down at the station still."

Sherlock scowls at the woman. "Why would you bother my partner and me if you intended on bringing your case to the local police anyway?"

Janice is what John might call a 'feisty one', so instead of cowering at his dour expression and dark tone, she straightens her small shoulders and returns his scowl tenfold. "I was stolen from, Mr. Holmes," she bites, "of course I went to the police. But you know how these minor cases of theft tend to be swept under the rug and ignored—that is why I contacted you and Mr. Watson." She cracks her knuckles and looks menacingly at the photograph of Isaac on the far wall, "I'd like to ensure that my rat of an ex is properly dealt with."

John clears his throat uncomfortably. "Ma'am you do realize that we aren't going to, er, take care of your ex-husband, correct? We're not that sort of duo."

"Well, no shit," she says, annoyed, "I just meant I want him brought to justice. That filthy bugger thinks he can sleep with my sister and steal my bloody wall sconces? Ha! He's got another thing coming!"

"Yes, well you've made this task significantly more difficult by contacting the police," Sherlock snaps impatiently, "whereas before we could have simply broken into his home and scoured the scene for clues, now we'll have to circumvent a crowd of incompetent officers and detectives just to speak to Mr. Potts. John," he says, turning away from Janice, "If Ms. McDermott is correct and her ex-husband is currently being interrogated at the station, I assume we'll need to somehow sneak inside."

"Sneak in?" Janice says, placing her hands on her hips. "Isn't that a bit unprofessional? Not to mention illegal?"

Sherlock glares at her. "Oh yes, you're quite right," he drawls, "I suppose John and I will simply attend several years of police training, get out badges, join Scotland Yard, and then return to commit this act within the perimeters of the law. Does that sound sufficient?"

"I don't appreciate the sarcasm, Mr. Holmes," she says with a glower. "I don't care how you incriminate Isaac, I just want it done. Understood?"

Sherlock does not particularly care for being ordered around like a servant and is on the brink of saying something truly scathing when John lays a firm hand on his shoulder, as if to advise him to let it go. Reluctantly, he does.

"Indeed," he replies evenly. "We will contact you again this evening with the fruits of our investigation. Good day, Ms. McDermott."

…

"Well she was a bit annoying," John says as they push open the doors to the police station. After spending the entire walk over stewing in annoyance, Sherlock simply shoots John a dry look.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

John only snorts. "Right, well, props to you for sparing her a verbal lashing."

The local police station is small and somewhat cramped so it takes only a moment to locate Isaac Potts. He is sitting on the other side of one of the officer's desks, slouched in a plastic chair, as he answers what seems to be a series of questions regarding the theft.

"Now what?" John asks, following Sherlock's line of sight. "What if the police just handle this themselves?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes and reads the officer's lips as he speaks. "They won't," he says confidently, "the man interviewing Isaac has already decided that the case isn't worth their time because Isaac has flat out denied every claim and there is hardly any substantial proof that indicates otherwise. What he is doing right now if purely a formality. In his eyes, the case is already closed."

"So I suppose we'll have to talk to Isaac ourselves then?"

"Well, yes, but—oh! That was unexpected," Sherlock exclaims, watching as the head investigator—a stern-looking woman with the nametag 'Sanders'—leads Isaac away by the arm. Her mouth moves too quickly when she speaks, but he catches the words "interrogation" and "room" which are the only clues he really needs. He watches with keen eyes as Sanders disappears around the corner with Isaac in tow, only to return a few moments later, this time alone.

"Splendid, we'll have to sneak into the interrogation room," Sherlock says, clapping once with finality. "I'm sure if I can manage to charm the head investigator, she'll be willing to allow it."

John raises a brow, looking incredulous. "Sorry, did you just say you're going to charm her?"

Sherlock shoots him an annoyed glance from the corner of his eye. "Yes, I did, John. Clearly. You know I hate repetition."

John only laughs. "Right, yeah, I just wanted to make sure I heard you correctly. Apologies for being a bit taken aback that Sherlock 'I don't mingle with useless pedestrians' Holmes plans on charming his way into that interrogation room."

"Are you implying that I cannot be amiable?"

John smiles and shakes his head, his eyes still alight with mirth. "Of course you can be. But you're also quite prickly around the edges and while I enjoy it greatly, I don't think sharp wit and dry observations are going to woo that terribly stoic looking woman."

Sherlock knows it is petty (and also quite unnecessary as he agrees with John that he isn't the best person for this task) but he raises his chin in defiance anyway and says, "Well do you suppose you can do better?"

A surprised huff of laughter jumps from John's mouth, but his eyes go bright at the prospect of a challenge. "And what do I get if I manage to persuade her?"

"What do you want?"

John tips his head in thought, mulling it over. "You know," he says after a long moment, "I think I'll hold onto my favor if that's all right."

"Fine," Sherlock agrees, crossing his arms over his chest. "Now go on then, get us into the room because I'm so incompetent."

Without missing a beat, John grabs Sherlock's hand and presses a quick peck to his knuckles in order to placate him. "Don't cry too hard," he says cheekily, "this is definitely your only area of incompetence. It's nice to be the genius for once." And with that, John spins around and heads in the direction of the front desk, where Detective Sanders is having a deep discussion with her partner, Detective Michaels.

The feeling of John's mouth on his skin, however brief and teasing it was, twists his stomach into knots and sends his heart careening through his chest like a rouge firework. He flexes his fingers and stretches his palm and although he knows logically that he has not undergone any biological change, it feels as if something magnanimous and irreversible has seeped into his skin and rearranged his molecules, all from that simple contact.

He shoves his hand in his pocket—stupidly, for the sake of protecting it from unworthy onlookers—and turns his attention to John and the Detective.

Smoothly, John enters the pair's conversation with a half-apologetic, half-winning smile, saying, "So sorry to interrupt, Detective Sanders, but could I have a word with you? It'll only be a minute."

Detective Sanders does not strike Sherlock as someone who takes kindly to being interrupted, what with her broad shoulders, stony face, and perpetually clenched jaw, but the moment John lightly touches her arm and grins warmly, every trace of gruffness melts from her expression. As if unused to the sensation of smiling, she offers an unpracticed twitch of her mouth—which John correctly interprets as a positive reaction—and allows John to lead her a few feet away. John happens to be facing him, so Sherlock is able to read his lips and discern every word he is saying.

"Now, I'm aware that what I am about to say is not of dire importance, so try not to hold it against me," John says, putting his hands up in mock surrender, "but you look absolutely divine in the color green."

Sherlock can't see her face, but she ducks her head and her shoulders shake slightly with what must be a giggle, so he presumes she is somewhere between flattered and embarrassed. Judging by John's reaction, she responds with something faux-casual in effort to appear nonchalant and unaffected.

"No, really!" John insists, "That scarf really brings out the colors in your eyes. It's quite lovely."

She shakes her head, most likely making some excuse about having to get back to work. Perhaps with another man this might've worked, but not with John Three Continents Watson.

With a charming smile, John 'brushes a lash' from her cheek, says something about her eyes, and all bets are off. It is clearly only a matter of seconds before she hands over her entire bloody key ring.

Having stumbled across this moment of reflection, Sherlock wonders to himself why he isn't jealous of Detective Sanders. Is it because she clearly is not John's type? Is it because he knows John would not stray from Mary?

He glances down at his (now sacred) hand and the answer hits him like a brick. As strange as it may be to think so, Sherlock realizes that the reason he doesn't feel jealous is because when John kissed his hand, it was almost as if he was making a promise to Sherlock. Not consciously of course, but perhaps John's unconscious mind meant it as a way to reassure Sherlock that whatever transpired between him and Detective Sanders was purely for the sake of gaining access to the interrogation. What else could explain Sherlock's utter lack of jealousy? It certainly isn't his renewed sense of romantic confidence, as that department is still as minuscule as ever. It definitely isn't his strong self-assurance, as that is also quite low in stock. The only possible answer is that he feels strangely comforted by John's unexpected display of affection, however joking it may have been.

Though, Sherlock does wonder why John's mind, unconscious or not, is concerned with reassuring him.

"Come along Detective Holmes," Sanders calls, pulling him out of his reverie, "Captain Watson here has already explained everything."

As soon as he sidles up next to John, he drops his voice and whispers, "Captain? Really?"

John just grins. "Never could resist the urge to pull rank."

…

"Now," Sanders begins with her hands on her hips, "you two are allowed to watch the proceedings but you may not interrupt or ask questions of your own. I understand that as professionals yourselves such a task will be somewhat difficult but I'm afraid we have to adhere to our rules here. Can't just have anyone walking in and tampering with our cases."

"Completely understood," John says with a nod, "thanks again, Velma."

She nods her head but a distinct flush spreads across her face at the mention of her name. "No problem, Doctor Watson. Officer Deb will be running the interview but holler for me if you need anything."

"Thank you," Sherlock says, bowing his head slightly.

Once Detective Sanders has made her way back around the corner and returned to her desk, the pair of them turn their attention to the glass-paned interrogation room before them. Inside, an officer reads off questions and accusations from a clipboard while Isaac passionately disputes each one.

The questions are dull and Isaac's voice is quite whiny and grating, so Sherlock tunes out the noise and focuses instead on the man's physical appearance. A plethora of answers lie within his attire alone.

"Got anything?" John says after a moment, nudging his shoulder lightly into Sherlock's.

Isaac is skittish and cagey-eyed. Everything from his nervously chewed nails to the patch of obsessively scratched skin on his left wrist indicates that he is guilty. In fact, Sherlock surmises if they compared his bank account figures today to what they were a short month ago, there would be a significantly higher number of zeroes and commas tucked inside his savings account.

If Sherlock were to wager a guess, he'd say the man before them suffers from compulsive kleptomania, caused by some childhood trauma or another, most likely at the hands of his father. Behavioral disorder aside, he is also afflicted with mild paranoia that he self-medicates with—if his jittery movements and gaunt face are anything to go by—a variety of unprescribed anxiety pills.

As for the material evidence of his guilt, the answer lies quite blatantly in his uneven attire. His shirt is two sizes too big—further enhancing his reedy frame—his shoes are at least four years old and scuffed beyond repair, yet the watch on his wrist is glossy-faced and gold-plated. The jacket bundled under his arm was obviously a hand-me-down, perhaps from an older sibling, but instead of being adorned with simple wooden buttons there are shiny new silver fastens lining the edges of the coat. Additionally, the pungent smell of his designer cologne fills the hallway—Clive Christian's newest release, clearly—and the kind of man who can afford to splurge hundreds of pounds on perfume is not the same man who can wear a pair of battered sneakers and a shabby clothes like a second skin.

He is guilty, and that is that.

However, instead of saying any of that aloud, Sherlock elects to hold his tongue. If he solves this case within an hour of their arrival, what reason will John have to stay?

He convinces himself it is not lying, it is omission. They are very different things.

"I'm not entirely certain. As much as I'd hate to prolong this case and keep Ms. McDermott waiting in the wings, I suggest we confront Isaac in person. Perhaps later in the day when these legislative measures have been dealt with?"

"Hm. Alright, well that works too. Lunch?" John asks as they make their way out of the station.

"Starving," he answers immediately. Even though this case was hardly enough to stir up a ravenous appetite, the thought of sitting in one of the town's quaint, cozy restaurants with John beside him is quite enticing.

"Hey, that's exactly what you said the first night we met too," John points out, nostalgia coloring his features. "And then you went on about how you could judge the quality of a Chinese place based on their door handles."

"Well that is because I can," Sherlock informs him haughtily, "and just so you know, I can also discern the quality of an Italian restaurant based on the paintwork."

John rolls his eyes and bumps his shoulder playfully into Sherlock's. "Well then, why don't you point us in the direction of the best café, detective?"

…

After thoroughly inspecting the handles, paintwork, and doormats of each shop on the block, Sherlock ends up deciding on a little Spanish restaurant called Luna Rosada.

"You turned down a delicious bakery and three posh Thai places, but you're willing to settle with a place called 'the pink moon'?"

Sherlock smiles cheekily and pushes past the chiming bells on the door, "Indeed."

The shop is small and painted in a variety of warm colors that give it the permanent appearance of fall, and the owners are a man and a woman, respectively named Kimberly and Michael Gonzales. Kimberly is small, petite, and blonde and Michael is her polar opposite, all lanky limbs and dark scruffy hair.

"Welcome!" they chime in unison.

Sherlock nods in greeting while John cheerfully returns the sentiment, "Thank you!"

Sometime after they've made their way through two servings of heavenly Paella and easygoing conversation, John heightens the experience even more by ordering the two of them a delicious slice of chocolate cake.

"I'd like to own a bee farm someday," Sherlock says around a bite of the rich dessert, "out in Sussex. They have lovely rural locations here, you know."

John looks surprised at his statement. "You would be content to retire to a bee farm someday?"

"Of course," Sherlock replies easily. "Bees are fascinating creatures and it would take years to conduct all of the experiments I have in mind for them. Non-harmful ones, of course," he clarifies.

"And you wouldn't miss London? The exciting, ceaseless chaos of city life?"

"Oh I'm sure I might feel a pang of longing every now and then, but for the most part I would be far too engaged with my bees to worry over it."

John eyes go soft in the same way they do when Sherlock accidentally says something charming. The expression is a mix of things and Sherlock feels annoyed that he cannot pick apart and analyze each component: he despises being left in the dark.

"What?" he asks, somewhat self-consciously.

"It's just, I never pictured you saying something like that," John says, "and I mean that in a good way."

"You could always come along," Sherlock suggests casually, dropping his gaze to his plate to avoid John's eyes. "I wouldn't mind the company."

"Lovely thought, but I doubt three people would fit comfortably in a small cottage out in the country," John replies with a friendly chuckle.

Ah, right. Three.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock says, waving the notion away with a hand gesture, "that wouldn't work. Besides, I'm sure you're quite fond of your flat in London." He risks a look up at John and finds his smile has dimmed. A second later, his expression brightens tenfold, but Sherlock gets the impression that it is a bit forced.

"Right, yeah, it's great," John says with too much enthusiasm, "sure, it's a little domestic for my tastes, but I reckon I'll grow to love it. I guess I'm still too used to our flat with all the mess and comfortable chaos."

He desperately wants to say 'Well you could always just move back in'. Or perhaps 'You like our flat better anyway, why not stay with me? We're happy. We make sense'.

Maybe 'I miss you even when you're right in front of me because I know at the end of the day you're still Mary's.'

Or 'It isn't fair'

Or 'What's the point of the bee farm if you're not there too?'

But because he is well versed in the language of lies, he simply smiles and takes another bite of cake. "But your new apartment is lovely too. I'm sure you'll grow into it."

A/N: The case continues in chapter 12! Tune in next weekend, darlings, and don't forget to leave a review!