A/N Wow, lots of reviews this time! :D Thanks to each and every one of you.
Thanks to ThisDayWillPass, Fayet, johnsarmylady, LinkinPark X, and Harriate Slate-Res-Hari-Agnew
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XXI. Vacation
"Venice!" John declares, gesturing to the winding expanse of canals, streets, and multicolored crowds. Sunlight glints on the water in undulating ripples, and wide crests of churches top the lower roofs of small buildings clustered over the man-made island. "Not bad, huh? Not a total waste of that client's ridiculous payment?"
Sherlock mutters something wordlessly under his breath, surveying their grand surroundings with a distinctly unimpressed air. "There's probably all matter of killings back home, Lestrade won't have a clue what to do…" His underwhelmed attitude is emphasized by the heavy black coat that, despite the pounding summer heat, he refuses to remove.
John sighs, wondering how it's even possible for the detective to care so little about the historic and architectural magnificence that they're surrounded by. It had taken a lot to persuade him to come to Italy in the first place; his not enjoying the vacation whatsoever is a bit of a damper on John's meekly hopeful spirits.
"Don't worry about Lestrade right now, oaky? Just… let it go. That's the point of a vacation."
"I don't go on vacations."
"Now you do. Come on, let's get to the hotel. The crowds are supposed to get worse in late afternoon."
It's the heat that wakes him, heavy and pressing, a glutinous, smothering substance that seems to lay over him like a blanket. His actual blanket, as he discovers through muzzy examination of his current state, is in a tangle at his side.
Air conditioning must be broken.
Heaving a sigh, John rubs his eyes absentmindedly with the heel of his hand, blinking widely to try and focus in the pressing darkness. After a few disoriented movements, he detects a small pool of light in the corner of the room, liquid and silver. It streams from the window, where a tall silhouette stands, long fingers grasping the edge of the thick, dusty curtain. Sherlock's profile is illuminated by a faint, starry glow, transforming his face into a pale, shadowed carving. Something in John's half-asleep mind connects him with one of the statues they had seen the previous day, some ancient interpretation of a nameless Roman deity.
He's standing up without thinking, trudging across the creaky wooden floor of the two-room apartment they've rented. Before he has time to figure out why he's gotten out of bed in the first place, he's at Sherlock's side, joining him in his silent observation of the glittering city below. Venice really is spectacular at night, a sprawling tapestry of golden lights clustered like fireflies, rich dollops of luminescence reflected in the black waters of canals, which ripple mutely, tearing the solid streams into fragmented ribbons of midnight sunshine.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" John whispers, the faint rasp of his voice barely disturbing the air.
Sherlock rumbles deep in his throat, a wordless, neutral sound. John finds himself gazing at his companions' face, the glowing reflections in his wide irises, the perfect stillness of his lips and eyelashes. Something about him is unshakably beautiful, carrying with it the softly romantic atmosphere of an Italian portrait.
Something inside John twinges, and suddenly he can't stop looking.
The brunette's eyebrows draw down slightly, and he finally pulls away from the window to look at John. "Why are you staring?" he questions suspiciously.
Heat teases at John's cheeks, born from the awareness that there's no proper answer. He quickly glances towards the window again, hoping that the small shrug he provides his enough to quell the other's curiosity.
"The view," he comments, swallowing to dispel the sudden dryness in his mouth. "It really is nice."
"Quite." Something ouches his hand suddenly, and he looks down in surprise. There's just enough light for him to discern Sherlock's fingers curling shyly around his own. He hesitates for a second, then squeezes back gently, something unidentifiable shooting through his stomach at the tiny gesture.
"It's better now." Sherlock's voice is a mere breath, barely touching John's ears. The doctor doesn't reply verbally, sufficing to exhale slightly and move in just a tiny bit closer, watching the lights.