Chapter Text
A surprise announcement had been made at 221B.
Surprise announcements were generally welcomed at this address. But this was one was not going down particularly well in certain quarters.
"I don't want to!" exclaimed Sherlock, horrified by Lestrade's latest untoward suggestion.
Mycroft wasn't exactly thrilled either. But at a frown from a rather crestfellen Gregory, he coughed politely and attempted to calm his bristling brother.
"Hmm. Well, I'm sure it won't be all that bad, Lock..."
Sherlock could not believe what he was hearing.
"It will, Mycroft! It will be that bad. It will be the most boring holiday since Napoleon was exiled to Elba!"
Greg glared, greatly offended that his nice thoughtful gesture was being met with such hostility.
"It's a jaunt to the countryside, not a life sentence, thank you."
Some people had no gratitude, he reflected. Well, some people did. Why was Sherlock Holmes never one of them?
"Don't want to go on stupid holiday!"
John tutted at his petulant flatmate with his usual casual disapproval.
"You were saying only last week that you wanted a break from routine. Fickle little sod."
Sherlock rounded on him with great indignation.
"I wanted to go to Transylvania! Greg promised after the last time we had to cancel, and he's welshed on it again!"
All six feet of his lanky form flopped onto the sofa in high dudgeon. He pointedly looked in the opposite direction from the man who had stoked his ire with this careless organisation of an unwanted holiday.
Greg looked at John in mute appeal for some kind of backing.
John gave him his 'I know, mate, I know' look, and carried on sipping his tea.
Greg was tempted to just throw the towel in and cancel the whole endeavour. But he was not a man easily brow-beaten into cancelling well-laid plans just because a brat threw a tantrum.
"Tough," he said to the fuming detective. "None of us have got the time for longer than a Bank Holiday weekend. It's not fair to ask John's Mum to look after Rosie for longer than a few days. Anyway, I'm not schlepping all the way to Romania just for a whistle-stop tour of Dracula tourist traps."
Sherlock stamped his foot in outrage at the very idea he'd be so predictable.
"I didn't want to go there for Dracula! I wanted to go to the salt mines! And for the wolves. There'd be wolves, Greg," he whined, mournful at the very idea of all those lovely dangerous wolves prowling around in the evergreen forests of Eastern Europe, all unlooked at and unappreciated.
Mycroft made a rather insulting noise.
"Wolves indeed! Don't let him hoodwink you, Gregory. He wants to go to Transylvania for a case. There's been a spate of decapitations. Lots of local dentists being found unaccountably headless."
Sherlock scowled as his true motivations were laid bare by his awful omniscient brother.
Mycroft gave him a smug look, content as ever to be the one to thwart the completely unnecessary and extremely immature pursuit of a mystery with zero relevance to the national interest.
John snorted at the silent stare-out between Holmeses.
"Decapitated dentists? It'll be Dracula related, that," he said, nonchalantly. "Everything is over there."
Apparently this was the wrong response.
"It isn't, John, don't be stupid! It's a toothless villain with a grudge."
Sherlock pouted with great certainty. He'd invested hours of online research. He had a fully constructed map of crime scenes laid out and ready to go as soon as the plane landed at Bucharest.
All for nothing now, it seemed.
"Oh, that's a less stupid theory than mine, is it?" quibbled John, turning on an increasingly unbearable Lock. "And don't call me stupid when we're about to go on a nice holiday!"
"Fine, I'll save it for work time. Stupid..."
John kicked at his partner's shin but squeaked when he missed and spilled hot tea over his own leg.
Sherlock grinned sarcastically at him.
"Enjoy your third degree burn, Watson!"
"Bugger off, Holmes!"
Mycroft looked at the ceiling, waiting for responsible adults to once again commandeer the conversation.
Greg boldly took up the mantle.
"Stop being a pain, Lock! Just bloody lump it. We're having a nice little break because I say so. You'll enjoy it when we get there."
"But I hate non-London places!"
The tone was definitely shifting towards whinge territory.
"You've hardly been to any," said John, witheringly.
"For good reason. I hate them," insisted Sherlock, eyes narrowing. "They're tedious and full of idiots. And there's no phone signal, and no internet!"
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"Sherlock, my dear, sweet, naive boy. The country does manage some kind of infrastructure outside of the capital city. It's not the 1830s. There's phone signal and broadband. In places as far flung as Surrey these days, I hear."
He smirked at Gregory, who gave him a chuckle for his trouble.
Sherlock scowled at being tolerantly mocked, though he tilted his head at the news of such technological advancement in the Home Counties.
"Hm. Fine. Well, I'll deign to leave the city if I can get online."
Greg cleared his throat, steeling himself to deliver another potentially unwelcome surprise.
"Well, no. You won't have access to phone or broadband. Cos I'm banning both. Digital detox."
Three pairs of shocked eyes - hazel, blue and grey - stared at him aghast.
"What?!" shrieked Sherlock, lost for words in the face of such wilful barbarism.
"Yes, what?" said Mycroft, hoarsely, looking rather pale.
Greg shook his head firmly.
"No arguments. Technology is banned. Fed up of things bleeping at me and you always distracted. There's an amnesty. You're handing over your devices before we leave."
"Really, Gregory, that's a little stringent...," protested Mycroft, automatically plotting ways around the prohibition.
Greg knew him too well to fail to see the calculating glint in the elder Holmes's eye. "I can be even more stringent if you force me to," he warned with dark foreboding. "So don't push it."
Mycroft gulped a little.
"Um."
"Yeah. Um."
Mycroft turned to his other lover, hoping to start some kind of peaceful protest movement. "John, dear..."
John chuckled.
"Oh, no getting round me, mate. I think I'm with Lestrade on this one, actually. Bit of peace and quiet, back to nature. Think it'd be nice. A proper break. You're out-voted."
Sherlock could not let this appalling mathematical error stand.
"Humph! Not out voted! It's two-all. Sensible clever Holmeses versus..."
He trailed off at the dangerous glares being cast at him by two very irked lovers.
"Versus who...?" said Greg, quietly.
John was opened mouthed with disbelief and looked very much like he was about to launch himself at Sherlock and wrestle an apology out of him.
"Whom," corrected Mycroft, absently. "Whom is the correct..."
He winced as Gregory took a tiny, terrifying step forward.
"Sorry, darling. You know I can't help it."
Greg nodded as his most pedantic boyfriend politely backed down.
"Oh, for goodness sake," huffed Sherlock, "Don't get tetchy, Lestrade, just because we're not keen on your stupid idea. Mycroft and I don't want to leave London, nor do we wish to sojourn in the Dark Ages. The matter is closed."
He waved an airy hand.
Greg felt his hand itching to grab hold of the lad's ear, but he restrained himself. A more cunning tactic was required. Divide and conquer.
"So... Mycie, doll. Don't fancy a break at all? With me. And John. And Lock. Somewhere nice and secluded. A few days with nothing to do except... Stuff." He waggled a suggestive eyebrow.
"Well... Is it necessary to slum it in the outback?" ventured the elder Holmes, trying to find some kind of compromise which would satisfy all of his demanding lovers. "I could book us into a very nice spa hotel in..."
"It's Dorset, love. Not the wilderness. Nice guesthouse all to ourselves, little village, hilltop walks, bit of unspoilt seaside."
Mycroft looked doubtful. "It sounds charming. But insecure."
"Which is why I'm telling you about it now. So you can do a sweep and install whatever you need to install ahead of time."
"I certainly will. Seems a dreadful waste of time for three days."
"Oh, for God's sake, I'll go on my bloody own!" burst Greg, fed up to the back teeth with holiday saboteurs. "I only wanted a few days downtime on Bank Holiday, like any normal bloke!"
John stepped up. "I'll come with you, love. I could do with a bit of time out. Leave these two here."
Greg scoffed with sarcasm.
"Oh, yeah, and come back to God knows what."
"They're big boys. Can look after yourselves, can't you?" he said, turning to the insulted-looking Holmes brothers. "Me and Greg'll have a nice romantic weekend for two."
Mycroft blinked. "Oh."
"So selfish!" stormed Sherlock, compelled by outrage. "You can't leave me here! Who'll do my ironing?!"
John barked a dry laugh as the phrase 'make your bloody mind up' floated across his mind. "Cheeky sod. That's sealed it - we're definitely going on our own now."
"I suppose I could do with a few days respite," conceded Mycroft, before the opportunity passed him by. "And it would be rather..."
"Romantic, doll. That was the general idea."
Mycroft blushed a little. "Yes. Of course. I'm sorry, Gregory, I didn't... If you'll have me, I'd be delighted to go on a 'mini-break'..."
"I'll have you, darlin'," grinned Greg, showing his canines. "Good. But if you're coming, so's baby brother."
Sherlock gasped at the betrayal.
"You just said I could stay in London!"
"With Mycie's supervision I might have considered it," scoffed Greg, knowing he'd never agree to any such thing, not yet being completely insane. "Not leaving you to your own devices. I'm not that much of a mug. You're coming, tough."
Lock stamped his foot and wailed. "You can't force me to go on holiday!"
Greg merely chuckled.
"What's the betting I can?"
"Rather high odds in your favour, dear," intervened Mycroft. "Oh, come along, brother. Being taken on holiday is generally considered a treat."
Lock tossed his head.
"I'm not being taken on holiday, I'm being taken hostage!"
"Yeah, tied up in the bloody car boot if you don't shut it," muttered John, darkly.
Sherlock scoffed, though he had the wherewithal to realise he was rather pushing his luck with John today. "Mean. Anyway, what car? You don't have a car. This is London, no-one actually has a car."
"I have a car,” said Mycroft, with a supercilious air Greg didn’t quite care for. “Well, the Government has a car. I'll arrange a driver."
Greg folded his arms in a way that brooked no further debate.
"Nah, fancy driving down myself."
Mycroft looked askance.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I'll hire a car."
"Hire a big car, then,” interrupted John, wagging a thumb at Sherlock. “I'm not having him kicking the back of my seat for five hours."
Sherlock had not thought his incredulity could climb any higher during this abominable conversation. But it did.
"What makes you think I'm sitting in the back?! People with long legs go in the front. You sit in the back, Watson."
John pointed his finger, twitching with irritation and wounded pride.
"Oi, watch it, dickhead!"
Sherlock stepped in, spoiling for a fight.
"Shan't watch it at all. If you make me sit in the back I will kick. I'll kick very hard. And I might be sick. And I'll scream all the way there!"
John took a step closer. Greg and Mycroft moved subtly into position, one behind each of their partners, ready to make a grab should they be unable to resist the ‘let’s see who can get out of a headlock quickest’ game.
"Sherlock Holmes, I'm warning you now,” said John in a voice quivering with fury, “if you kick the back of my seat even once, you'll be sitting very bloody uncomfortably for five hours."
Greg had had enough.
"Pack it in, the pair of you! We're leaving on Friday and I don't want to discuss it anymore! Not car seating arrangements, not whether there's a telly - there isn't - or anything else! We're all going on a nice bloody holiday, and that's the end of it, so just shut it, yeah?!
They looked round guiltily. Greg wasn’t just pissed off. He was a bit upset.
Feet shuffled and throats were cleared.
"Yeah,” said John, sheepishly. “All right. Sorry, love."
"Apologies, my darling,” said Mycroft, soothingly. He reached out to pat his lover’s hand. “Of course we shall go, and gladly too. I'm sure it will be very relaxing."
Sherlock regarded them all as if they had sprouted horns.
"Hmph!" he said with feeling. And he meant it.
Greg gave him a narrow, suspicious look. Even by his usual standards, Lock was behaving rather childishly over this one. He'd have to be kept on watch.
Sherlock glared in return, then smiled his fakest Cheshire Cat smile and turned away in a huff.
Holiday... I'll show them a bloody holiday.