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"Alright?" John asked him.
Sherlock hesitates, then hums, gaze fixed on the bloodied surfboard lying on the sand surrounded by forensics, where the body of a twelve year old boy has been found earlier. It was taken to the morgue now.
Soon he lost himself inside his mind palace. When he received the e-mail from a client about the disappearance of his son, Sherlock didn't expect it would end like this. A suicide. Dull. Boring. A blindfold for the truth that he's not handling cases like this for that reason. But it was more than that. It was something he was before.
A nudge by his side ends his thoughts, John, eyebrow raised in enquiry and carrying a surfboard.
"Surfing?"
John nodded his head over his bag where a paperback novel picturing two surfers, lies half-opened. "I've read about it,"
Sherlock shook his head, he knew what John was trying to do and he couldn't be more grateful.
"Care for a swim?"
John stripped off his clothing until what's left was the offending black swim shorts. Sherlock looked away and back to the sea. It was as blue as John's eyes.
"Come on, Sherlock!" John's voice sounded muffled from the wind.
Sherlock smiled. He will be alright. But for now, he's contented watching John on a surfboard, braving his first barrel.