21. Vacation

The sun was ridiculously bright. The water the wrong shade of color. All in all, it was something Sherlock loathed.

"Come on!" John grabbed his arm and with a mighty effort managed to stir his flat mate into action, pulling the taller man towards the ocean. Sherlock looked reticent to go anywhere near the surging liquid, then again he had been reluctant to get into a bathing suit as well. John found the entire thing utterly ridiculous. The man looked like he had never exposed his nearly-florescent-white skin to the sun, let alone been on a beach vacation. Of course it wasn't exactly a vacation, but John was planning on enjoying the sun and surf as long as possible.

Dragging Sherlock through the sand behind him was taking forever, so John discarded the taller man and ran directly into an oncoming wave. It wasn't the smartest thing he had ever done. He had assumed the 90+ temperatures would warm the water. The cold water had not been expected, making for a very cold plunge into a very salty wave. John came back to the surface sputtering and shivering. He looked back towards his abandoned flat mate and saw him standing just out of reach of the demanding water looking highly amused.

"The current comes from Alaska." He stated, as if that explained something.

When John continued to look confused, Sherlock continued. "The cold water comes down from British Columbia and off the coast of Alaska. The specific heat of water is very high, therefore the water doesn't warm up until you get farther down the California coast."

John shook his head and climbed out of the ocean's icy embrace vainly hoping that the sun would bring his body back up to a normal temperature.

"Are we done now?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

John glared at him, but the effect was more or less negated by the fact that he was still shivering. "What, you weren't planning on getting a sun tan this trip?" John asked with an attempt at flippancy.

"On the contrary John, I have every intention of getting thoroughly sunburned."

Sherlock had been making a lot of odd comments like that. Of course he was always making odd comments, but usually they related to some sort of case, so John had come to the conclusion that the summons to California had some connection to a case past or present. But even that was looking more and more unlikely. It had all began about a month ago with the arrival of a postcard.

John had picked up the post from where Sherlock had habitually kicked it aside under the coat rack. He had idly flicked through the stack, sorting out the bills from the advertisements and promotions. He was just wondering why nobody bothered to sit down and write a letter anymore when he'd come across the postcard.  At first he'd thought it was another ad, but on second glance the tagline "Greetings from Sunny California!" was not a advertising ploy, but a legitimate greeting. Excited by the prospect of a relatively entertaining piece of mail, he flipped the card over and read the message scrawled in a carelessly elegant handwriting.

"Carmel Village. Number 18, The Wayside Inn. 24th of July, Please come." That was all. No name, no explanation, just a date, an address and please come. It sounded more like a text message than something one would take the trouble to mail. The right hand side housed the name Sherlock Holmes and the Bakers street address aside from the postage, ruling out the possibility of miss-delivery.

The man in question entered the room then and promptly ripped the postcard from the shorter man's grasp. He gave each side a cursory glance before clutching the post to his chest and throwing himself onto the couch. They spoke no more about it until the 21st of July when Sherlock looked up from a particularly disgusting eyeball experiment and asked whether John had packed yet.

John wasn't exactly sure how well Sherlock had planned out this trip, but when Sherlock had directed John to pull the rental car up in front of beach, he hadn't complained. He had made the assumption that they had come to swim; apparently not.

Sherlock handed him a sun-warmed towel which the doctor accepted eagerly throwing dirty looks at the apparently cold-blooded people romping happily in the waves. Sherlock gave the water an equally disparaging look, although John suspected it was for entirely different reasons.

"What exactly are we doing here?"

Sherlock didn't answer, not that John had really expected him to, but he usually a got an "All in good time, John" or "shut up I'm thinking." Now he just stood there, staring towards the water, looking like a marble statue clad in eggplant swimming trunks.

"Do you want to go check into the hotel now?"

"Why don't you like the beach?"

"I enjoy the beach in general, what I don't enjoy is this beach."

"This may be a stupid question, but why not?"

Sherlock smiled and started walking back up the hill towards the car. But honestly, what had John expected; a straight answer?

Yet they did not go to the car. Instead Sherlock dragged John toward the changing rooms and then up the hill to the village which was far more of a hike than John had expected. Sherlock's absurdly long legs made easy work of the hill, but John almost had to jog up the steep incline to keep up. They reached the first shop after a row of overly-cutesy hotel-cottages and Sherlock ducked inside. John had no choice but to follow the detective into the basement candle-shop and then right back out again when Sherlock apparently grew disinterested after a cursory glance. The next several shops followed the same pattern. Sherlock would go in the door, make a quick circuit of the place without even glancing at the merchandise, and rapidly exiting before popping into the next shop to restart the cycle. After two, full, steeply-inclined blocks of such behavior, John had reached his breaking point.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Looking."

"For?"

Sherlock looked away, slowing his pace so that John could keep up.

"You're right. I'm overreacting."

"Overreacting?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately, instead he asked "Do you want to know why we're here?"

"Yes." For a man who deduced huge things from pinky movements, Sherlock could be amazingly thick.

John watched as Sherlock swallowed and looked out across the street. The often cold and calculating eyes were surprisingly vibrant in the Californian sunshine, not deducing, just looking at the people, plants, sidewalks, shops  and cars along the road.

"Do you want to check into the hotel now?"

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The two pulled up to the hotel after Sherlock's directions had given John and impromptu tour of Carmel Village. The hotel was a quaint little place, trying (and failing) to mimic an English country chateau. Honeysuckle that would have been long-since faded in any other climate still clung in sweet-smelling clusters to the balconies as brightly-colored petunias exploded from  the flowerbox surrounding the hotel's sign. The Wayside Inn the sign proclaimed reminding John of the postcard summons.

"Room 18?" John guessed, hoping to glean some specifics from his companion.

"No." The detective answered shortly.

After parking and watching the lanky Holmes bend down to nearly half his size to turn the hobbit-level doorknob and get through the low door of the front office, the two received their room assignment, number 28, and began unloading the car. As the pair trudged up the staircase with their luggage, John couldn't help but notice that they were conveniently located directly above room 18.

The room was smothered in toile. everything from the wallpaper, to the bedspreads, to the bathmats were a matching pattern of apple-green toile. It was almost sickening and John had to stand in the doorway for a few minutes trying to stop his eyes from smarting. Sherlock apparently did not have this problem.

As soon as they got into their room, Sherlock flung his bags on the floor and collapsed onto the nearest bed, effectively claiming it as his own. Conversely, John spent the next twenty minutes neatly placing bags in the closet, putting necessary toiletry items in the bathroom and hanging his wet bathing suit over the shower rod to dry. By the time John got around to wondering whether or not to unpack the rest of his items into the chest of drawers, Sherlock was up and apparently revitalized enough to begin bossing John around.

Another ten minutes later the two were in the bright afternoon sunshine and walking back towards the main road, at a more leisurely pace this time. They had only walked about a half a block before Sherlock came to an abrupt halt. He was staring at a raised flowerbed in the middle of a brick walkway, sandwiched in between two shops so that until you were right next to it, the path was invisible. Even right next to the path, it would be easy to miss because of its lack of anything particularly eye-catching. Yet the consulting detective had halted before the flowerbox, planted entirely with purple pansies except for a single white rose blooming in the center. Slowly, the man turned and followed the brick path between the buildings and into a hidden courtyard. A glass-walled restaurant and a wide, crystal-blue fountain faced an ivy-covered wall with a few odd tables scattered in the gap. Only one of these tables was occupied, but the occupant was quite consuming. Her auburn hair fell in effortless ringlets  around her  perfectly proportioned face. Her delicate fingers were curled around a battered paperback, as her eyes, concealed behind dark sunglasses, greedily scanned the  pages.  Her tanned legs were exposed up until the hem of her short shorts, most of the way up her thigh. One of the legs was crossed  over the other sending a scarlet stiletto jetting out away from the white café table.

It seemed a bit of a pre-mature conclusion, but there was no doubt in John's mind that this was their mysterious hostess.

"Wuthering Heights?" Sherlock asked when they reached the woman.

"What else?" She seemed utterly unimpressed by the fact that they had found her, and unperturbed at being interrupted during her reading.

She looked up then, lowering the dark glasses with one finger as she did so, to stare straight at John. Ignoring the detective entirely, she set down her book and held out her hand.

"You must be Dr. John Watson."

She smiled at his stunned expression. "You live with him, I thought you'd be getting to used to it by now."

"What do you want Irene?" Sherlock grumbled, making the woman focus her penetrating green eyes on him and raise one eyebrow quizzically.

"Well, it's nice to see you too. It has been a while, hasn't it." She mocked, apparently convinced that he had some sort of decorum.

"Yes, it has been a while. But if I remember correctly, last time you were trying to kill me."

Irene smiled and stood up and waved her hand about slightly, murmuring something about details.

"I'll see you later darling." She said as she walked toward the exit, book in hand and still waving like a pageant queen.

"What do you want Irene?"

She smiled and turned back for a moment, pushing her sunglasses further onto her nose with one, well manicured finger. "It can wait darling."

"What," John managed to stammer out after a few minutes of silence, interrupted only by the gentle trickle of the fountain, "was that?"

"That was…" Sherlock trailed off.

He cleared his throat. "Irene Adler. I assume you want to explore the village, there's a lovely sweet shoppe down the road." He put his incredibly long legs to good use and flew out of the courtyard before John could even respond.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six hours later the sun had long since slipped beneath the horizon, but not so long as to dissipate the heat of the day still radiating from the cement. John was now sporting a "Carmel" t-shirt and carrying several bags containing, among other things, a Pebble Beach jumper, a small music box and a very large lollypop. Walking next to him, a very grumpy Sherlock was sporting, while not exactly a t-shirt, a short-sleeved polo. Honestly, the man didn't seem to understand the concept of casual clothing. John had practically had to stand over the iridescently pale man and force the shirt over his head (he's actually had to stand on a box since he was so much shorter), but eventually the dress shirt came off and the polo was wrestled on.

Currently Sherlock was wearing an expression similar to that of a cat who has been dipped in water, when all that had really happened was a couple of hours walking between shops with the man he had dragged half-way across the world to mentally spar with a world-class criminal. In Sherlock's defense though he had gotten pretty red and one of the items in John's shopping bags was aloe which would have to be applied to the detective's lobster-red arms, face and neck.

John was actually pretty happy, considering. After all he was on a free vacation in California and, for the moment at least, it looked like there was going to be no jumping, running, shooting or general lack of safety on this trip, and he was finding it very relaxing.

Sherlock's stride shortened as they turned onto the street housing their hotel, allowing John to catch up from where he had fallen a few paces behind.

"Irene's an old… friend." He said.

John looked up in surprise. He hadn't mentioned Miss Adler since their earlier meeting in the courtyard, and Sherlock hadn't exactly been forthcoming with information.

"We were close at one point. Never that… but still… close." It was odd to see the usually eloquent detective at a loss for words.

"She's just so…"

"Beautiful, mysterious, aggravating?" John tried to help by suggesting possible adjectives.

"Intriguing." Sherlock finished.

John looked away and smiled. "So you fancy her?"

"What? No. I don't– I just–" Sherlock stammered and John raised his eyebrows, as if daring him to deny it.

"Something's wrong. It must have been wrong for a while for her to have planned all this. But it's wrong enough that she's not telling me, which makes me worry that someone's controlling her…" He started talking quickly, ignoring his previous, unfinished sentence.

"So you fancy her."

"We're in America, John. I believe the correct term would be 'crushing on' or something equally uncouth."

John raised his eyebrows, almost unable to believe that Sherlock would admit to any emotion as human as attraction. Well, sort of.

"She's one of the most interesting people I have ever met. She's a constantly shifting anomaly, but a logical one, unlike most women. Except…"

"Except?"

Sherlock looked remarkably uncomfortable. "Every time we meet, she tries to talk me into sleeping with her."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Of course it's a bad thing!" Sherlock looked shocked that anyone could even insinuate otherwise.

"So you don't fancy her…" John looked utterly confused.

Sherlock sighed, trying to think of a way to explain his thoughts to a man who flirted with every attractive woman who entered the room.

"I… fancy, as you say, the idea of her. I enjoy her company, and the idea that I can never know everything about her." He finally explained as they approached their hotel room. "But as I mentioned before, she has attempted to kill me several times."

The pair entered their hotel room and John was just thinking about trying out the shower when they heard a knocking sound. Sherlock  immediately dropped to the floor and rapped experimentally. The answering knock was more insistent. Sherlock then bounded to his feet and grabbed one of his customary dress shirts, allowing John another snicker at the hard lines of his sunburn which the dove grey dress shirt covered, more or less. His face was still an obvious shade of red, despite the massive amounts of sunscreen John had caught him applying throughout the day. It was like Sherlock's skin was made to burn.

After Sherlock was more traditionally clothed, he dug his violin out from his luggage (when had he packed that?) and hurtled himself out the door.

"Come on John!" He yelled over his shoulder as he took the stairs down three at a time.

He waited impatiently at the bottom for John (who was taking the stairs one at a time and not breaking his neck, thank you very much) to catch up. As John had expected, the next stop was the door of room 18. John reached out a hand to knock, but the door swung open before he even touched the wood.

In the doorway stood a vision. The woman they had met earlier in the courtyard had certainly been alluring and attractive, but now she was positively stunning. The word sexy came unbidden into the particularly male parts of John's mind. The figure silhouetted in the door way before them was clad in a rose-colored dressing gown that draped effortlessly around her curved figure. The neckline swooped across her chest revealing her lightly tanned shoulders and surprisingly apparent collar bones. A sash of the same material tightened the fabric around her waist showing off the curves of her hips. The neckline swooped across her chest revealing her lightly tanned shoulders and surprisingly apparent collar bones. Her auburn hair flowed loose  and bounced in light curls around the shoulders, making them appear even more alluring. Her green, cat-like eyes were focused solely on Sherlock taking him in from his shoes to his violin. A tiny smile tickled the corners of her mouth when she reached his sunburned neck.

"Champaign's in the fridge. Make yourself at home Doctor Watson." She called over her shoulder as she turned and walked back into the hotel room.

John opened his mouth to speak, but found he had to clear his throat before any sound would come out. Sherlock seemed to find this very amusing as he opened the Champaign without spilling a drop.

If John had been expecting some sort of odd sociopath romance, he wasn't disappointed. They mostly just sipped champagne and listened to music. Sometimes it was from the CD player in the corner, other times it came from the radio on the table, but mostly it was Sherlock's violin. John found that his flatmate's repertoire was much larger than he had ever imagined as the progressed from Brahms and Beethoven to Bon Jovi and Lady Gaga. As they got more and more pissed, they started singing along quite loudly (and off key in John's case) along to the more recent songs. Sherlock's energy was contagious as he bounced and danced with the music and Irene flirted and teased the pair of them as her contralto tones mixed with Sherlock's baritone and John's… well John's voice at any rate.

It was about four a.m. when John stumbled up the stairs to pass out on the bed, but he left Sherlock down with Irene, dancing slowly to a waltz on the radio.

Let me teach you how to dance,

"What's wrong Irene?"

Let me lead you to the floor

"Who says there's something wrong?" Irene lifted her head from where it had been resting against Sherlock's shoulder and flashed him a seductive smile. "I'm not allowed to want to spend some quality time with my favorite sociopath?"

Simply place your hand in mine,
And then think of nothing more.

"You always have ulterior motives Irene. And," He added, interrupting her attempt to argue, "I know you. I know that you're just as happy to find some poor sucker who doesn't know what's going on as you are to bring me all the way out here."

Let the music cast its spell
Give the atmosphere a chance,

"Sherlock, I--"

"Just tell me what's going on Irene."

Simply follow where I lead,

"He's gone."

Let me teach you how to dance.

Sherlock was silent for a moment as the track ended and the next song didn't come. He considered Irene's words, there was only one man Sherlock could think of to warrant this reaction from this woman.

"Victor?" He asked softly.

Irene nodded into his shoulder, obviously trying to hide the emotions playing across her face.

Poor Victor. Victor who got knocked around and cheated on repeatedly by Irene had finally caught a clue and left her. Finally understood the futility of his love for a woman who employed herself by seducing the most powerful men in the world and selling their secrets. Victor who was neither important nor extraordinary. Victor, who was quite possibly the only man Irene had truly loved.

Sherlock fit his chin over the top of Irene's head in what he hoped was a comforting motion.

"You always knew it could happen."

"Sleep with me." Sherlock didn't even blink as Irene changed the topic.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're hurt and I wouldn't take advantage of that even if I was attracted to you." He said smoothly.

"Are you attracted to sleeping beauty upstairs?"

"No." He was not admitting to Asexuals Anonymous in front of Irene, but John didn't deserve to be dragged into his problems as a cover. Odd if you think about it, many gay men used women as covers and Sherlock was thinking of using a man to cover up his complete lack of a sex drive. Now there's irony for you.

"What am I going to do?" Irene murmured as she nestled into Sherlock's collar bone.

"What you've always done. Be the most interesting person in the room."

Irene smiled even as a tear slipped of the end of her nose.

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Sherlock awoke the next morning stretched out on the bed of room 18 with a single white rose beside him. Irene's belongings were nowhere to be found, but ht violin was on the table along with a short note.

See you soon Sherlock.