Chapter Text
Sherlock can't help it.
John and Mary have left for their ridiculous sex holiday, and Sherlock can't help himself. He knows that he's not supposed to do this, the way that a child knows not to touch the hot stovetop, and he knows that, like a child, he's going to do it anyway.
He flops over on the couch to face the quiet room and thinks that maybe, if his phone isn't within reach, he won't pick it up and do this, but there it is, a mere two feet away. He picks it up and strokes his fingers down the narrow, metal edge, over the smooth glass front, and lets his index finger rest in the hollow of the home button. Technology. How ironic, he thinks, that something so cold and precise can be the portal of so much sentiment.
Nothing left to lose, he thinks. His fingers fly over the touch-screen letters, the little clicking sound a pleasant staccato in his ears, then he hits the send button, listening to the swoosh of his words flying through space and time to John's phone several thousand miles away.
How's the sex holiday? SH
Sherlock considers what might happen next. John almost always has his phone on or near him. But will he respond to anything less than an absolute emergency while on his sex holiday? And what would constitute such an emergency? John is an idiot, so for him an emergency could be anything as mundane as Mrs. Hudson losing her keys to his idiot sister falling off the wagon again. It probably would not include Sherlock lying on the couch in his blue dressing gown and striped pajama bottoms thinking longingly about John.
I've only been gone 24 hrs. Go find something to do. Call Lestrade.
What are you doing? SH
Eating breakfast.
Boring. SH
Some of us eat on a regular basis, Sherlock. What are you doing?
Hmm. Best not to admit that he's lying on the couch doing nothing.
Setting things on fire. SH
Excellent. Have fun. Gotta go. Snorkeling lesson.
All things considered, that went far better than he had expected. He considers telling John to give Mary his best, and then thinks better of it. She already has his best. She has John.
Mrs Hudson appears with a plate of freshly baked blueberry scones and a hot cup of tea, muttering about the mess in the kitchen and something about pining, and Sherlock eventually gets up and pulls on some clothes so that he doesn't have to listen to her rabbiting nonsense anymore. When he re-emerges from his bedroom she's gone, but she's left the scones, so he nibbles at one for a moment before tossing it back down on the plate and pulling on his security blanket. The Belstaff – at least he still has that.
* * * * *
The plan was to storm into Gavin's office and demand a locked room murder case, because this insufferable boredom can not be tolerated for one more second, and John, stupid John, was on his sex holiday, snorkeling, whatever the hell that was. Before visiting Gavin, though, he reaches into his pocket, retrieves his phone, and fires off another text.
Snorkeling is stupid. SH
He flags a cab and sulks despondently for the duration of the thirteen minute journey, annoyed that no matter how hard he stares at his phone, John doesn't respond.
Gavin is shouting at him – something about a man named Greg, whoever that is – but Sherlock isn't really listening. The office seems different – too big, too empty, and completely lacking in its usual buzz and energy. John. The office seems too big without his genius-conducting flatmate by his side. Snorkeling, indeed.
Gavin insists that he doesn't have a locked room murder, or a serial killer, or a double homicide masquerading as suicide. He doesn't have a forged art scandal, a counterfeit ring, a drug cartel, or a Chinese gangster. He doesn't even have a goddamn shoplifter. Lestrade is useless. God, he is so overwhelmingly, horrifyingly, unacceptably bored.
He spends another fifteen minutes reducing Anderson to a quivering mess of fraying nerves, insulting Donovan's scabby knees, and poking around DI Dimmock's desk for anything at all of interest, before he eventually admits defeat and storms out, leaving a wave of smoldering disgust in his wake. How is he going to survive two weeks of this? It's all John's fault. No. Actually, it's Mary's fault. Mary, the thief. He flags another cab and digs in his pocket for his phone.
Come back. Emergency. SH
This time a text comes in less than two minutes.
Still bored I take it?
How was the stupid snorkeling? SH
Kind of boring, actually.
The side of Sherlock's mouth hitches up a millimeter. Good. That was good.
What's next on the sex holiday agenda? Bingo or shuffleboard? SH
You don't want to know.
Now you have to tell me. SH
Mary's signed us up for a sunset boat tour of the bay. Dolphins. Champagne. Moonbeams, etc.
Jesus Christ. SH
No, he won't be there, just the dolphins.
Sherlock laughs out loud. John. Only John could make him laugh like that. One more text, then he'll drag his bored arse back to 221B and see if Mrs. Hudson has made anything for his dinner.
I can think of much better uses of your time. SH
No doubt you could. Gotta run. Something about a lobster boil.
Sherlock walks the few miles home, feeling lighter and less doomed than he had earlier in the day. This is what life is without John. Doomed.
In the face of having nothing else to do, seeing as how everyone in his life has completely failed to entertain him, Sherlock decides to take a bath. He fills the tub as high as he's allowed – he doesn't need another lecture from Mrs. Hudson about overfilling, or flooding, or ceiling damage – and then dumps half of John's stupid shampoo in the water, too. That'd teach him to go and get married and leave his idiot shampoo behind. So what if he smells like strawberries and coconuts for the rest of his life? It's fine. At least he'll die of boredom smelling like John and his strawberry-coconut shampoo.
He's half-asleep in the chilled water when his phone pings. He reaches over the side of the tub, fingers trailing over the loopy bath mat, and locates the phone. If Graham has a case for him now he'll just tell him to sod off. He's had his chance.
Help. I'm hiding in the jacks on the boat.
Sherlock sits up so fast he empties half the tub in one giant slosh.
That bad? I warned you. SH
What are you doing?
Taking a bath. SH
Sherlock's phone is quiet for too many minutes. Has he said something wrong? He's said something wrong. The bath was wrong?
I'll let you get back to it, then.
No, it's fine. I'll save you from the boring dolphins. SH
Why do you always sign your texts? It's obviously you.
I don't sign each text. It's an auto-signature. I could change it to anything I'd like. DOLPHINS ARE BORING
Yes, I agree.
No, that's my new auto-signature. DOLPHINS ARE BORING
You changed it from SH to dolphins are boring?
Yes. DOLPHINS ARE BORING
Git. Mary's looking for me. Enjoy your bath.
Good night. DOLPHINS ARE BORING
Sherlock crawls out of the bathtub and gives himself a cursory drying off, then flops into bed, rolls himself up tight in his sheet, and dreams about a renegade pod of dolphins eating Mary.
Sherlock has an excellent sleep. He can't remember the last time he slept so long – four whole hours. It's now three o'clock in the morning and the rest of London is busy being boring, so Sherlock drags his body, still wrapped in his sheet, to the lounge and contemplates his options. There aren't any. Even the skull seems to be sleeping. He curls up in John's chair, inhales the missing man's lingering scent, and falls asleep for another three hours. When he wakes up there's a hot cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table next to him. He really needs to figure out who does that.
The phone pings from the bathroom, where he left it after his bath last night. He gets up, sure that it's John begging him to rescue him from his insufferably boring dolphin holiday, steps on the bottom on the sheet, and falls flat on his face. Well, at least that's not boring, he thinks, as he half staggers, half crawls to the bathroom. The text is not from John.
How are you holding up, dear brother?
Fuck off. DOLPHINS ARE BORING
Dolphins? Let me know if you get bored and would like to have dinner at the club later tonight.
As if. DOLPHINS ARE BORING
Excellent. See you at six.
* * * * *
Sherlock arrives at the crime scene like a diva at the set of La Bohéme. He ruffles his hair and gestures with his loupe, takes deep inhalations of questionable things, and twirls elgantly in his Belstaff. His eyebrows are dancing on his forehead, insinuating all manner of disgust with everyone around him. These people are all idiots, those eyebrows say. Idiots. All of you.
He takes a series of images with his phone and strides over to a befuddled looking Gavin, spells out the crime details that any four-year-old with half a brain would have seen, and asks him if he has anything more interesting, for example, anything with psychotic dolphins?
“Dolph...? Nope. That's it. Sorry it wasn't up to your aquatic expectations. What do you need the photos for if you've solved it?”
“What photos?”
“I saw you take photos, Sherlock. You know you can't do that.”
“I don't know what you're talking about. Call me when you have psychotic, human-flesh-eating dolphins.” He strides away, phone in hand, texting without looking at the keys.
These may offset the boredom of your dolphin sex holiday. DOLPHINS ARE BORING
He attaches six of the crime scene photos to his next text message and sends it to John, John who is no doubt so bored on his mundane sex holiday that he is now, at this very moment, planning his great escape and return to Baker Street. How much sex can two people possibly have? Do dolphins have sex? He read somewhere that they have tons and tons of sex, and that they masturbate. He's also read that marine scientists believe that dolphins are more intelligent than humans. That wouldn't surprise him for one moment. A goldfish is probably more intelligent than the standard issue human. But if dolphins have superior intelligence and they like to have a lot of sex... Sherlock is lost in thoughts of dolphin sex when his phone pings.
Please tell me this is a crime scene and not one of your experiments.
Crime scene. DOLPHINS ARE BORING
Good, are you less bored now?
No. I solved it in ten minutes. DOLPHINS ARE BORING
That signature is getting old, Sherlock.
I'll change it. HOT DOLPHIN SEX
No. Just... no.
What's wrong? HOT DOLPHIN SEX
Change it, please. You're worrying me.
What's on the agenda for today? Macrame? Scrabble? Basket Weaving? HOT DOLPHIN SEX
Scuba diving lessons.
Didn't you do that yesterday? HOT DOLPHIN SEX
That was snorkeling. This is different.
Boring. HOT DOLPHIN SEX
Please change your signature.
I'll consider it when you stop being boring. HOT DOLPHIN SEX
Then, much to Sherlock's surprise, and something that might be considered delight, although he's not sure because he's deleted the sixteen emotions that correspond to the latin verb delectare, a photo appears on his phone. It's a photo of John, in the sun, with a floppy hat, a sunburned nose, a big grin, and a bare chest. John is bare-chested with a red nose and floppy hat. John has sent him a photo of himself with no shirt on, of his broad, muscled chest, of his oval nipples and defined pectorals and fuzzy sternum and the fine hair peeking out from under his armpits. And a red nose. And a hat.
That hat is ridiculous. HOT DOLPHIN SEX
Well, I tried.
Keep trying. HOT DOLPHIN SEX
Change your signature to something less disturbingly distracting and I'll see what I can do to entertain you.
Words swirl in front of Sherlock's eyes, words superimposed over the image of red-nosed, floppy-hatted, bare-chested John, and for a moment Sherlock is far, far away, his brain catching and sorting those words – banter, tease, taunt, jeer, joke, frolic – until he finds the right one, pulls it to the forefront, and studies it.
Flirting.
Sherlock stands suddenly, the phone dropping to the floor with a hard smack as he yells, “HUDDERS! I NEED TEA! NOW!”
* * * * *
At precisely six o'clock Sherlock heads down the stairs, opens the front door, and climbs into the open door of the waiting black limousine. He wasn't going to accept Mycroft's invitation to dinner, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and flirting is a very, very, horribly desperation-inducing word. The car pulls up to the entrance of the club in short order, and Sherlock wastes no time sweeping through the grand foyer, sailing through the whisper-quiet receiving room, and swiping the plate of hors d'oeuvres out of Mycroft's pudgy hand before pushing his phone into his brother's dismayed face.
“What on earth are you doing, Sherlock?”
“Look.”
“For heaven's sake, I can't see anything, you're too close.”
Sherlock steps back six inches, still holding the phone out at the end of his rigid arm, and wiggles it in front of Mycroft's face.
“What about it, Sherlock? It's a photograph of John on his honeymoon. Oh my, he really should be applying sunscreen on a more regular basis. At least factor 70, I should think.”
“Read this and then tell me what you think.”
Mycroft tilts his head and studies his younger brother with a questioning look. Never before in the history of their antagonistic relationship has Sherlock asked Mycroft what he thinks, not about anything. Not about his very first elementary chemical experiments, or his selected course of uni studies, or his drugs of choice, and certainly not about his flatmate, the esteemed John Watson. He blinks several times, working hard to keep a neutral mask over his hawkish features, and gingerly takes the phone from Sherlock's fingers.
It takes him all of five seconds to scan the last few texts, glance at the photo again, and press it back into Sherlock's outstretched hand. He gestures toward a chair and Sherlock takes it. There's a bottle of wine and the previously snatched plate of hors d'oeuvres between them, and Sherlock pokes at the assortment before selecting something with cucumbers on it. He sniffs at it, tosses it over his shoulder, and reaches for something that looks like lemon-drenched salmon on toast.
“Well?”
“Well, what, Sherlock?”
“You know what, Mycroft.”
“I'm not sure that I do.” Mycroft picks up a bit of rare roast beef encrusted in pastry dough and pops it into his mouth.
“Why? Why now? He's flirting with me while with his wife on his dolphin sex holiday.”
“I dare say, I wasn't sure he had it in him.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Mycroft taps a fingernail against the edge of his crystal wine glass, taking the time to pull his thoughts together, then smiles at Sherlock with a look that says and you call him the idiot?
“Did he... say anything to you after the wedding, before he left?”
“More specificity would be appreciated.”
“He didn't mention anything … special … about his holiday?” Mycroft won't meet Sherlock's eye, and spends too much time studying the assorted hors d'oeuvres before selecting a morsel of raspberry preserve topped brie.
“Mycroft, what the hell are you getting at?”
“Nothing. Nothing that you need concern yourself with.”
“Mycroft!”
“Eat, Sherlock.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself. And please, do change your auto-signature.”
They sit in silence for another five minutes before Sherlock is convinced that Mycroft isn't going to tell him what the hell is going on. He shoves a handful of cheese cubes into his pocket, then sweeps out in the same manner that he swept in, all drama and danger and daring, and the whole club seems to breathe a sigh of relief when he's gone.
* * * * *
Bath, stupid strawberry coconut shampoo, towel, sheet, phone.
What did you and Mycroft talk about? YOU'RE AN IDIOT
Nice. Is that your new signature?
Don't avoid the question. YOU'RE AN IDIOT
He wished me good luck and reminded me to use sunscreen.
Nice try. YOU'RE AN IDIOT
Did you like the photo?
Sherlock loves the photo. He's looked at it two hundred and sixteen times today, and each time he sees something different. A freckle, a laugh line, a bit of sand clinging to the brim of the ridiculous hat, the shadow playing in John's suprasternal notch. He does not see Mary.
You need to use sunscreen. You're going to get skin cancer and die. YOU'RE AN IDIOT
Let's not jump to drastic conclusions.
How is Mary? YOU'RE AN IDIOT
Busy.
Busy? Doing what? YOU'RE AN IDIOT
She's been taking extra scuba diving lessons all day. Turns out she loves it, wants to get certified.
Boring. YOU'RE AN IDIOT
I have a gift for you.
Sherlock's heart rate is already elevated, but when the phone pings again and he looks at the screen, all the beats blur together in one great wave, and he has to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep his lungs from sucking themselves right up and out of his esophagus. Lungs are boring.
It's another photograph, but someone else must have taken this one, because it's a full body shot of John, on the beach, with the waves lapping the shore behind him. He's wearing a navy blue bathing suit and a short sleeved linen shirt, has his hands on his hips, the floppy hat resting far back on his head. He's not smiling in this one, at least not fully. He looks determined, serious.
The shadow of the person taking the photograph falls at an angle to John's side, meaning that the photo must have been taken in the morning, with the sun still in the east, and low. The shadow is a bit distorted over the uneven sand, but Sherlock can tell that the person who took the photo is male, tall, wearing a suit, short hair, no hat. Resting against the man's right leg is a rectangular box, similar to a briefcase, but longer and narrower, like a … no. That can't be.
Sherlock swipes over the image with two fingers, enlarging it so he can take in every detail. John's nose isn't sunburned in this one, so it was definitely taken before the one he sent last night. There are creases in the bathing suit, so it's new, he hasn't worn it before. There's a square shape in the left pocket of the bathing suit, probably his phone. His hand is resting on his hip, near that pocket, the fingers splayed, but tense. He swipes over to John's other hand. It's also splayed, but dangling from his index finger is the circle of a silver keychain, and there's something hanging from the loop. He can't quite make it out, but based on its shape, he'd say that it's a flash drive.
John is on his sex holiday having his photo taken by a man in a suit with a gun case while he holds onto a flash drive. The fuck?
What are you up to? YOU'RE AN IDIOT
What does it look like I'm up to? I'm enjoying the beach.
This was taken yesterday morning, before snorkeling, before the lobster boil, before the dolphin tour, before the scuba diving. YOU'RE AN IDIOT
So?
I'm going to call you now. We need to talk. YOU'RE AN IDIOT
I won't answer. I'm going to have cocktails now, with some other newlyweds. Change your signature.
I'll figure it out. YOU'VE PUT ON THREE POUNDS
Change it to something nice, Sherlock.
Why should I? YOU'VE PUT ON THREE POUNDS
I'll send you another photo later.
Fine. NICE BATHING SUIT, GIT
Ta
He hears Mrs Hudson making her way up the stairs, slowly, slightly weighted down. When she reaches the flat she calls out in her silly yoo-hoo way, so he throws on a dressing gown and goes to meet her.
“I wasn't sure you'd be eating properly, Sherlock, pining the way you are. I've made you a nice shepherd’s pie.”
“Pining? I'm not pining.”
“Oh, Sherlock,” she says, amusement and pity in her voice. She sets the tray down on the desk and turns to look at him, her face bemused and kind. “Eat up. I'll bring you some tea later.”
Sherlock huffs and pouts and sulks, but he lets her baby him a bit, and eats half the meal, making a replica of the Sphinx and Khafre pyramid at Giza with the remaining mashed potatoes, peas, and carrots. By the time she returns with a pot of tea, he's stretched himself out on the couch, his fingers steepled in the telltale mind palace position. He doesn't hear her come in, deposit the tea, or leave with his to-scale rendition of the Sphinx and Khafre.
It's hours later and the flat has fallen dark when Sherlock hears the ping of his phone. He'd fallen asleep, his mind working the puzzle apart, looking for clues that he may have missed. Even in sleep his brain was searching the gaps, which are considerable at this point, and when the gaps remained unbridgeable he had dreamed of dolphins with sniper rifles wearing floppy hats tearing Mary limb from limb.
He reaches for the phone and smiles despite his frustration. In the photo John is grinning and holding a cocktail up to the phone, as if in toast. He looks freshly showered, his hair combed back and slightly tousled, his sunburned nose less inflamed now and smeared with some kind of lotion. The drink is pink and frothy, and there's a delicate paper umbrella hanging over the edge of the glass.
In the background he sees Mary, her back to the photographer, chatting with another woman. There's not much there to deduce, just the straight posture and squared shoulders of a confident woman at ease in her environment.
The most striking thing of the photograph is the wink. John is winking at him.
The phone pings again.
Miss me?
I must admit, it's quite boring without my blogger. NICE BATHING SUIT, GIT
What do you miss, Sherlock?
Sherlock doesn't know how to do this. He doesn't know what John is up to, but whatever it is, he's doing a masterful job of scrambling the synapses that control and regulate his thought processes. He tries for something light.
I miss your tea. Mrs. Hudson doesn't put in enough sugar. NICE BATHING SUIT, GIT
Okay. Is that all?
I can create a spreadsheet and email it to you if you'd like. NICE BATHING SUIT, GIT
Don't email. Texting is fine, but don't email.
Why on earth not? NICE BATHING SUIT, GIT
Not safe.
What the hell is going on? NICE BATHING SUIT, GIT
It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine. I have to go. Say something nice.
I don't do nice. I MISS YOU
Sherlock holds his breath until the next text comes in, then exhales sharply and takes another deep breath.
I know you do.