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"Do you think he's dead?"
"He's just going through a phase."
"He's been lying there since this morning."
"It's better than some other alternatives."
"He's going to get an awful sunburn. As a doctor, I don't think I can condone this."
"Here."
"Your umbrella? What—"
"Put it on a raft and push it over to him."
"Oh, for god's sake—sod off, Mycroft."
"I'm serious."
"You're taking the piss."
"You're worrying too much. And that's coming from me. So believe me when I say that he's fine."
"He might actually be dead. Can you even tell?"
"Don't be dramatic, Dr. Watson. He's breathing, can't you see?"
"The sun is going to cook him."
"It's going to rain within the hour."
“Doesn’t look cloudy to me.”
“Are you a meteorologist or a doctor?”
"...Do shut up," Sherlock mutters from where he lies in the pool, shades obscuring his eyes and his boneless, mostly-bare body supported only by an inflatable donut.
"Oh, you bastard. You couldn't have said something when I called out to you an hour ago?"
"I told you he was fine, John."
"Piss off, Mycroft.”