It was beautiful – if a cocktail could be called beautiful. Shades of orange and red, layer on layer; no wonder it was called a Tequila Sunrise. Beside it sat a tall glass filled with a liquid the most amazing blue. Apparently it was called a "Blue Lagoon", but to him it was "John's Eyes".
"Sentiment", he muttered under his breath. "These drinks are making me maudlin," he said as he downed the blue libation. Sherlock waved the empty glass in the air and called to the bartender, "Another!"
He was now into his sixth month of self-imposed exile, and he had never been so miserable. He was exhausted, and sore, and heartsick. He missed London; damn it all, he even missed Mycroft!
But most of all, he missed his John. His unassuming, gentle yet steadfast friend, with the execrable taste in jumpers and the steadiest hands of anyone.
His John … who made him tea and bought him Hobnobs. Who worried almost too much about the wellbeing of the World's Only Consulting Detective. Sherlock had known at the beginning of this debacle that leaving London, leaving John was going to be difficult; but he never realized how difficult until now.
Sitting here, in a grotty bar in a forgotten part of the world he downed his drink in one, feeling bilious.