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It was a beautiful Sunday morning, a very ordinary one. A conclusion of a no-mind palace-worth-even-nicotine-patches cases week and that is why John understood why Sherlock was being difficult.
"Dear God! Where are the criminals when I need them!" Sherlock growls.
"Oi! None of that! Think about their victims!" John snaps as he place their mugs to the sink.
Huffing, Sherlock pounced on his chair.
It's as if John's on déjà-vu, that he knew what Sherlock would do next—turning the flat upside down for supplies. He won't allow that.
"Pack your essentials, Sherlock."
His flatmate looks up at him, eyes narrowed.
"What for?" Sherlock asks.
John sighs palming his nape.
"Well... I need a vacation. You need a vacation. So—we're having one."
Sherlock stared at him as if he had grown another head.
"But John, what if a case—"
"—there's none at the moment. You deserve a break. You always run, think and then repeat. This vacation will be worth it. I promise."
Sherlock stares at him, that John feels any moment now, he would blush.
"Fine." Sherlock stands abruptly, walking towards his bedroom, shuts it, followed by the sound of frantic movements inside.
John then picks up his phone to contact someone as eager as him to get Sherlock a vacation.
"Mycroft? Yes. Yes. Finally—"
John smiles. "Bahamas."