"Good morning, Watson," Sherlock Holmes greeted his friend.

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson replied, smiling. He joined the detective on the patio of their hotel, reclining in a wicker chair and watching the sunrise.

"Ah! Look at that! Have you ever seen such a magnificent view?"

"I'm sure I've seen just as magnificent views," Holmes replied diplomatically. "Though each view was, of course, magnificent in its own way. This morning, however, I'll admit I can't think of anything to surpass this. British Honduras does seem to have a… charm all its own."

"Is it what you'd imagined it would be, Holmes?"

"It's not, Watson," Sherlock Holmes murmured. "It's so…" he paused, as if searching for the right word.

"Alive," Watson finished for him. "That's what you mean, isn't it? Everything here is just so alive."

Holmes nodded. "A romantic way to put it, perhaps, though in this situation I believe it does fit."

Watson hummed. "You know, Holmes, the romantic poets weren't so bad. You really should give them a chance."

"Yes," Holmes scoffed. "I'll certainly go and dance with some daffodils on a perfect summer's day. That's quite realistic, and not romantic at all."

"Wordsworth's poem is also about loneliness and reflection. Surely you can relate to wandering, lonely as a cloud, and to sitting alone with 'that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude.'"

Holmes grunted.

"Poems are full of things like that, Holmes," Watson continued. "When you read a good one, it's like… like holding up a mirror. In it, you see the world the same and yet skewed just enough you also see it anew."

The detective sighed. "Perhaps you are right, Watson, but I still simply cannot enjoy the poems. I'd rather be here, actually in the world. And nature! You yourself admit it's hard to imagine a more beautiful display! This, Watson, this is real. No poems need apply."

"And perhaps you are right," Watson sighed. "Here, with that sunrise, I really can't find it in me to argue."

"And to think," Holmes murmured, "we almost didn't come."

Watson nodded. They'd been in New York City in America investigating a string of murders. The case had been dark and depressing and Holmes had been overwhelmed with the American people's obsession with him as a celebrity. He'd been offered jobs at five detective agencies throughout the city, mobbed in public four times, proposed to by three separate women, two men had brazenly offered to replace Watson as his companion, and he'd been shot at by one lunatic. Watson had insisted they leave quickly after the case lest they get the whole twelve days of craziness.

The subject of a quick holiday before returning to London had been brought up, and Holmes had suggested British Honduras since they weren't too far from the Caribbean and he tales of canoeing through ancient cave systems intrigued him. Watson had agreed on the destination. They'd hesitated for a day before booking passage: they'd both wanted to come, but also both wanted to go home. Holmes didn't like being away from London for long, and Watson didn't like traveling by boat. In the end, however, each had insisted they come, not wanting to disappoint the other and each thinking the other needed the break.

"Sometime in the future, Watson, I do believe it will be possible for all men to see the world," Holmes sighed, looking out over the sunrise. "We are already connected, and the world is only getting closer."

"I don't mind seeing new places," Watson said, "it's the traveling itself I don't like. Don't you somewhat dread getting back on a boat, now matter how nicely built, to cross the Atlantic?"

"Now where are your romantic notions, Watson? Surely standing on the deck of a boat with the moon shining overhead and the water sparkling below would induce you to, at the very least, remember it for your inward eye?"

Watson sipped his coffee. "It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming," he murmured, "and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage. There would be more than ocean-water broken, before God's last put out the light was spoken."

Holmes chuckled. "I concede my defeat," he murmured. "I suppose there really is a poem for everything."

For the prompt from Wordwielder: A trip abroad

Notes: "British Honduras" was the name of Belize until 1973. It achieved independence in 1981, but is still part of the Commonwealth.

Watson would not have known the Robert Frost poem. The author freely admits the choice was a self-indulgent one.

The choice of location was also self-indulgent. Belize is as beautiful as Watson claims.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Once by the Pacific

by Robert Frost

The shattered water made a misty din.

Great waves looked over others coming in,

And thought of doing something to the shore

That water never did to land before.

The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,

Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.

You could not tell, and yet it looked as if

The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,

The cliff in being backed by continent;

It looked as if a night of dark intent

Was coming, and not only a night, an age.

Someone had better be prepared for rage.

There would be more than ocean-water broken

Before God's last Put out the light was spoken.