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“This is probably the second worst vacation I’ve ever had.” Jim pouts, skimming his fingers along the water on the side of the raft.
“Don’t do that,” Sherlock warns, dragging his paddle through the flooded street beside them, “It’s highly likely that this water is full of contaminates, not limited to, but certainly including sewage.”
Jim retracts his hand, lip twisting in disgust as he wipes his fingers on the bottom on the boat. “The one week we’re in Florida, hurricane whatever-the-hell decides to sink the city.”
“I find the unpredictable meteorological patterns interesting. London always has such scheduled rains.” Sherlock smiles, turning the corner “Besides, isn’t this a little neat? We’re sailing through city streets.”
“Apparently on a river of sewage.” Jim mumbles, grateful he’d at least left his Westwoods in the hotel room. The thankfully high-rise hotel room. “And the sun isn’t even out.”
“I thought that’d be good for you. Prevent your delicate skin from crisping up.”
Jim shoots him a sour look, “Like you’re any more melanin-gifted.”
“Sunscreen, darling.” Sherlock sets the paddle into the stirrup, letting the current drift them down the street-stream. Near the back of the boat, he pats the spot beside him, leaning back on the raft.
Reluctantly, Jim curls up next to him, listening to Sherlock’s calculations on whether or not they’d run into an alligator.