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John dragged himself tiredly up the flight of stairs. It had been an exhausting day at the clinic, and he couldn’t wait to have a quiet night in with takeaway, crap telly and lazy cuddles. He opened the door and smiled fondly at the sight of Sherlock stretched on the sofa like a lazy cat with hands joined under his chin, clearly in his Mind Palace, oblivious to the world around him. John kissed his forehead softly and headed for their bedroom to change into his pyjamas, and maybe have a quick nap before dinner.
Only, their bed was occupied. Not by human limbs or animal entrails, thank God, but by two suitcases, one closed and the other open and half full of John’s clothes.
With a sigh, John got changed and went back to the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch, next to Sherlock, and started brushing his hair softly and whispering his name. No need to startle him: he’d end up sulking all night and, as adorable as a grumpy Sherlock was, John really didn’t have the strength to deal with that.
Slowly, a soft smile spread on Sherlock’s face, and he leaned slightly into John’s touch as he came back to reality.
“Sherlock,” John called him once more as ice blue eyes opened to look at him, “our suitcases are on the bed. Care to elaborate?”
Sherlock shrugged and closed his eyes again. “We have a case, we’re leaving tomorrow morning. Pack your things, and don’t you dare bringing that awful khaki jumper, or I swear I’ll throw it out of the plane.”
John tried and failed not to giggle at Sherlock’s last remark, and the sound made the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitch in an ill-concealed smirk. “You utter cock,” John said, fighting back a grin. “And what’s the destination?”
“Rome. A group of antiques thieves is stealing parts of ancient monuments. They’ve been in Greece for a while, now they’ve moved to Rome, or so it seems. We’ll have to check the main archaeological sites and identify the faults in their security to deduce where they’re going to strike and catch them in the act.”
“Alright,” John said. He could have tried to complain about having to leave with no notice, but he didn’t mind the idea of a few days away from the clinic. And anyway, he already knew he’d follow Sherlock anywhere, so there was no point in wasting energy arguing. “Chinese or Indian?” he asked ruffling Sherlock’s hair and standing up.
Sherlock shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”
“Chinese it is. I’ll get shrimp Chow Mein for you.”
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise as John dialled the number of their favourite takeaway.
❤︎ ・ ❤︎ ・ ❤︎
The plane was at 6 am, which meant that they had waken up at an ungodly hour. Consequently, John had already fallen asleep when they took off. He woke up a couple of hours later, as the plane began to descend. Sherlock had dozed off too, at some point, his head on John shoulder. John kissed the top of his head and then shook him softly. “Wake up, love,” he whispered against his curls when Sherlock began to stir, “we’re almost there.”
❤︎ ・ ❤︎ ・ ❤︎
The cab left them in front of a huge five-star hotel in the city centre. John suspected that Mycroft had financed their accommodation, though he wasn’t really sure that he was aware of it. He preferred not to ask and simply enjoy it.
The room was huge, and he threw himself onto the gigantic kingsize bed as soon as they were inside. It was ridiculously comfortable, it had to be one of those memory foam mattresses.
Sherlock emptied his suitcase, took off his shoes and laid next to him. “There’s no hurry, we can rest for a couple of hours before we begin.”
John shuffled closer and rolled half on top of him with a mischievous grin. “Great,” he said against the pale skin of Sherlock’s neck, then bit it softly. Sherlock’s hands were immediately on his hip and on the back of his head, pulling him closer. “'Rest' was an euphemism, wasn't it?”
❤︎ ・ ❤︎ ・ ❤︎
When they came out of the underground station, the sight was breathtaking. The Colosseum, brightly enlightened by the midday sun, stood out against the light blue sky. It was huge and so different from how it looked in photographs: much more solid, it seemed to radiate strength. In a way, it reminded John of the first time he had seen Stonehenge with his family, when he was a child and they still went on trips every now and again: the Colosseum was not nearly as ancient, and yet it had survived the assaults of time and invaders. It had been scarred, but it still stood tall and proud. His hand went unconsciously at his own left shoulder, his fingers brushing the damaged skin through the thin shirt. His had to bit back a chuckle at the thought of how much Sherlock would have mocked him if John had voiced his sappily poetic thoughts.
He let go of his shoulder and took Sherlock’s hand, smiling when he felt Sherlock’s cold, slender fingers intertwining naturally with his own.
They bought ridiculously expensive hot dogs at a nearby cart and got in line for the ticket window. Though line was not the most accurate word, what with it being as messy as the dividers allowed. Quite annoying, actually, but when they finally got inside the sight was worth the wait. They wandered around a bit, Sherlock looking around with interest, surely looking for whatever it was that he needed for the case, but John let himself forget about the thieves for a while: as long as Sherlock didn’t put himself in danger John wasn’t really needed, and he’d be damned if he wasted his visit to one of the new Wonders of the World.
After an unhurried tour of the Colosseum, they went to the Roman Forum, which was no less fascinating. It felt almost weird, walking on the same big cobblestones that had been paced, so many years ago, by Caesar, Cicero, Augustus and unnumbered other men that had changed the history of whole countries. They walked between ruins and stones, gigantic columns and triumphal arcs, never letting go of each other’s hand unless it was strictly necessary.
They received their fair share of curious and sometimes frowning looks, but John couldn’t care less. Certainly not when Sherlock kept pulling him left and right, telling him trivia about this temple or that arch, speaking fast and gesticulating excitedly. It made John smile fondly, since most of those facts were related to murders, dismemberments and other more or less eerie mysteries.
When they left the Forum, it was almost dusk. As they walked along the road that lead to the restaurant that Sherlock had chosen, surrounded by old ruins enlightened by a dim, violet light of the setting sun, John thought that, even though for Sherlock it was probably nothing more than an interesting case, for him it was still a beautiful romantic trip.
The restaurant was amazing: quiet and cosy, warmly lit, with soft pillows on the chairs and thick candles on the wooden tables. They sat in a corner, legs tangled under the table, sharing whispered words, hysterical giggles and comfortable silences. And they had to admit that, though they would have always loved Angelo’s, that pasta was something else entirely.
Back in their hotel room, they shared a warm bath in the roomy tub, washing each other and kissing lazily. John spent a particularly long time massaging Sherlock’s scalp and enjoying the almost purring sounds that escaped from Sherlock’s throat. The water had long since gone cold when they finally got out and, almost directly, tucked themselves in bed. Sherlock curled up against John’s side. John didn’t expect him to actually fall asleep, he rarely did when he was on a case, so he was pleasantly surprised when he felt the breath against his neck slowing down unmistakably. With a smile, he pulled the lanky body closer, burying his nose in the mop of dark curls, and let himself fall asleep.
❤︎ ・ ❤︎ ・ ❤︎
John woke up to a bony knee pressed against his full bladder. Sherlock was -incredibly- still sleeping, half draped across John, his face hidden in the crook of John’s neck. Disentangling himself from Sherlock’s sleeping body without waking him up was a hard task, but after a few minutes of struggle he managed to reach the loo.
When he came back to the sight of Sherlock spread out across the bed, naked under the thin bed sheet, lips slightly parted in sleep and curls gorgeously tousled, he came up with the perfect way to wake him up. His lips curled into a mischievous smile as he crawled back onto the bed.
❤︎ ・ ❤︎ ・ ❤︎
The long walk to Vatican City, that morning, was quite distressing. John realised that they had been lucky the previous day, since the roads around the Colosseum had been closed to the traffic, but the bustling streets were a whole other story. Apparently, either these people didn’t have a street code or it was considered just a friendly advice. Crossing the road alive was a little miracle every time, since drivers clearly didn’t consider zebra crossings a good reason to stop.
The long tour of the Vatican Museums, though, was worth the adventurous trip, and Sherlock seemed to actually enjoy it too. John was sure that most of his mind was focused on the security faults, or whatever he was looking for, but he was just as sure that his amazing brain was big enough to focus on his surroundings as well, and the ridiculously fussy questions he asked their guide proved it well enough. John had a hard time holding back laughs every time at the guide’s exasperated looks and at Sherlock’s grumblings about the incompetence of these so-called experts. More than once John caught Sherlock smirking proudly when he had to disguise a particularly overwhelming laugh into a coughing fit.
When -to the guide’s greatest relief- the tour was over, they ate a couple of slices of pizza on their way to Castel Sant’Angelo.
They both enjoyed the visit to the castle. Sherlock was predictably thrilled when they reached the execution courtyard, and he earned a couple of horrified looks as he began to ramble happily about the dynamics of shootings and the subsequent bloodstains. John, on the other hand, felt excited as a child when they reached the armoury, almost bouncing from a showcase to another and reading greedily the captions of old weapons that dated back up to the fifteenth century. They rested for a while on the observing platform, then they headed for their next stop.
They walked quietly, hand in hand, and reached Piazza Navona . This time, John was the one offering random facts he had read on internet: how originally it was an arena, how they used to flood it to organise water games, how at Christmastime it was full of stands. Sherlock looked at him with eyes wide, seemingly enraptured by John’s worthless knowledge, and John couldn’t fight the faint blush that rose to his cheeks.
Five minutes later they had reached the Pantheon. Even expecting it, when they crossed the threshold John was slightly taken aback by the contrast between the flat facade and the roundness of the inside, and he imagined how amplified the effect had to be when the houses outside clumped all around the temple, hiding the external round walls completely. The beam of light that filtered through the hole in the dome was thin and it couldn’t reach further than the last row of ceiling coffers, since the sun was almost setting, so the light was very pleasantly suffused.
They didn’t stay for too long, and when they left Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pulled him towards the street on the opposite side of the square. Ignoring John’s questions, he stopped after a couple of minutes in front of an ice-cream parlour. “Dinner?” he asked with a wide, childish grin, nodding towards the front door.
John couldn’t help beaming at him and chuckling fondly: far from Sherlock Holmes eating too healthy food. But, John decided, definitely better than not eating at all, so he squeezed Sherlock’s hand and nodded. “Starving.”
It was, as Sherlock excitedly explained, one of the most famous ice-cream parlours in Rome. Choosing among more than 150 flavours was a hard task, but soon they were thanking the girl behind the counter and heading off with two gigantic ice-creams. Quite expensive, that much was true, but they were worth it, up to the last cent.
They ate them on their way to Trevi Fountain. When they reached it, cutting their way through the crowd of tourists, they managed to find a free spot near the edge. They stayed there for a while, silently watching the nighttime lighting of the fountain. After a while, Sherlock leaned slightly against John, and John took it as a cue to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s waist, holding him from behind, his chest pressed against Sherlock’s back and his mouth resting lightly against Sherlock’s shoulder. It was nice. There was noise around them, a buzzing crowd in a packed square, but in that moment it felt like it was just the two of them.
After a bunch of minutes, John reluctantly pulled away and rummaged in his pocket. At Sherlock’s questioning gaze, he took out a coin from his wallet. “Don’t you even try to complain,” he said with a knowing smile, “I don’t care how stupid it is, it’s a tradition and you can’t stop me.”
Sherlock frowned confused, then his eyes went wide and his mouth slightly agape. “So…” he began, looking at his feet, and John didn’t even try to fight the wave of affection that bubbled in his chest. “So, you- you want to come back one day? Does- does this mean you’re enjoying this?”
John really couldn’t help himself. He carelessly stuffed the coin in a pocket of his jacket, cupped Sherlock’s cheeks in his hands and raised onto his tiptoes to kiss his nose, something that he knew Sherlock loved even though most of the times he tried to pretend to be annoyed. “Of course I am, love.” John’s thumbs brushed Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones. “I’m having a hell of a great time, you know? Thank you. For bringing me here, I mean.” His hands slid down Sherlock’s shoulders and his arms. He squeezed his hands, then let go to to take the coin again. He showed it to Sherlock again with a smirk. “Care to fulfil a pointless superstitious tradition with me?”
Sherlock tried to snort and roll his eyes, but the wrinkles around his eyes gave him away. He reached out and held the coin with John, chuckling and muttering something that sounded like “This is the most idiotic thing we’ve ever done.”
They turned their backs to the fountain and threw the coin behind them, into the water. There were exactly four seconds of silence and absolute stillness, as if time had stopped; then they started giggling like schoolboys, at the same time - a coordination that had always been natural between them and had improved during years of friendship.
It took them a while to get a grip and set out for the hotel, their hands clutched and a smile on their faces. When they finally arrived they were more than a little tired, so John didn't overthink the fact that Sherlock was fast asleep next to him for the second night in a row.
❤︎ ・ ❤︎ ・ ❤︎
The next day, as they left the hotel after breakfast, Sherlock adamantly refused to reveal their destination. John, more than used to be in the dark, didn’t complain, and just obediently followed the man.
Turned out that the plan for the day was wandering around Villa Borghese, one of the main public gardens. It was nice, not too crowded, with some beautiful fountains and a variety of buildings and monuments scattered around the green. Sherlock showed him a reconstruction of the Globe Theatre, even managing -God knew how- to persuade the man at the entrance to let them have a look at the inside.
They had lunch at an absurdly posh restaurant with a breathtaking sight. The food was amazing -though not as much as Sherlock’s hand casually resting on his own- the waiters kind, pleasantly fun and always quick to refill the wine glasses. God, Sherlock was spoiling him.
They spent the early afternoon cuddled under a tree, lying on Sherlock’s coat, warmed by the sunlight that filtered through the branches and lulled by the chirping birds.
Around four, Sherlock shook him softly from his slumber. John tried to snuggle closer and doze off again, but Sherlock was adamant and heartlessly disentangled himself from John’s hold. For a good cause though, John had to admit twenty minutes later as they were entering the zoo: few things excited Sherlock as much as animals -and most of those things were connected to murder- and nothing made John happier than seeing Sherlock excited. He kept running around, pulling John’s hand, pointing at an animal, squishing his nose against the glass to observe another, rattling off informations about species and habitats, and John’s heart threatened to explode for how adorable he was. He smiled so much that his cheeks were aching when they left the zoo almost three hours later.
Before dinner, they stopped for a while at the Pincian hill, watching the sun setting on the horizon until the only lights remaining were those coming from the city.
After a delicious pizza and two rounds in the sack, John was pretty sure that, even without Sherlock’s deductive skills, he could make an accurate guess about their trip.
❤︎ ・ ❤︎ ・ ❤︎
The following morning Sherlock brought him to yet another overlook, the Orange Garden. They didn’t stay for too long, though, moving quite soon to the near rose garden: something almost ridiculously sappy, kissing lazily under floral vaults, and yet there they were.
To reach their next destination, the Mouth of Truth, they decide to pass through the Circus Maximus - green grass looked a lot more appealing than tarmacked pavement.
So, one moment they were trotting down the turfy slope, and then suddenly Sherlock was rolling down, ending up in a heap at the end of the grade. John was next to him in a heartbeat, helping him onto his back and checking for scratches and bruises before Sherlock could even open his mouth.
“Sherlock, you alright?” he asked, face twisted in concern.
“Yes, I’m-” he winced as he tried to sit up, John’s hand reaching out immediately to help. “I’m quite alright. Just a little bit stiff.” He tried to stand up, but he hissed in pain as soon as he tried put his weight onto his left ankle. He rolled his eyes at John’s sympathetic wince. “I’m fine, I can walk!”
John snorted. “Like hell you can! Let me check, ok?” He pulled Sherlock’s foot onto his lap, gently undoing his shoelaces and taking his shoe off, prodding and moving Sherlock’s ankle as carefully as possible. “It doesn’t look broken,” he said in the end, “but we can’t be sure without an x-ray. And it’s already swelling, so it’s quite a bad sprain anyway. No!” he interrupted Sherlock’s attempt to reply, “We’re going to the A&E, you’re not allowed to refuse, I am your doctor and I decide what’s better for you.” He purposefully ignored Sherlock’s mutterings, that included something that sounded a lot like ‘awful doctor’ and ‘can’t even take care of his patients’, and wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist to support his weight and help him up. Then he turned his back to Sherlock and crouched slightly. “Alright, hop on.”
Nothing happened for a few seconds, and when he turned his head to look over his shoulder Sherlock was looking at him wide-eyed. “You’re not going to give me a piggy-back ride,” Sherlock said, shaking his head vehemently.
John sighed exasperated. “It’s either this, or I’ll carry you bridal style.” Sherlock’s huffed, but he climbed up John’s back without further complain. John grabbed his thighs firmly and headed for the nearest stairway, not daring to climb the grassy hill.
When they had reached the street and Sherlock was on his feet again - careful to keep his weight on his right foot - John called a cab. When, after an annoyingly long time, it arrived, they got in. The ride was silent, in a comfortable way, with Sherlock’s foot on John’s lap and John caressing Sherlock’s shin tenderly.
The wait at the A&E was not nearly as pleasant: Sherlock was, as always, more impatient than a five-year-old, and after deducing everything about the other people in the room in less than five minutes, he spent the next four hours grumbling and whinging.
In the end, after two more hours of visits and waiting - mostly waiting - he was released with a diagnosis of ligament sprain, a tight bandage and a rented pair of crutches. Luckily, nothing broken, so he would have probably been able to walk in a couple of weeks. It could have been worse, even though two weeks would probably be an eternity to the restless detective.
Half an hour later they were snuggled up on the bed of their hotel room. Wrapped around a pouty Sherlock, gently stroking his arm, John whispered soothingly against the pale skin of his neck “I’m so sorry you got hurt, sweetheart. It’s been a beautiful holiday, though, you know? Apart from this accident, I mean. The best holiday I’ve ever had.”
Sherlock seemed to hold his breath for a bunch of seconds. “It was a case,” he mumbled then.
John chuckled and tightened his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Sherlock, I know that there’s no case. Did you really think I wouldn’t have understood? I’m not that much of an idiot.” Sherlock snorted at that, and John nibbled his neck playfully. “I’m not! Listen, you don’t have to be ashamed, you know? There’s no need to make up a case if you want to go somewhere or do something with me. Actually, I’m quite flattered that you want to spend some time with me instead of, say, disembowel a pig or whip a corpse or chase after a serial killer. It makes me feel quite important,” he added with a kiss to Sherlock’s temple.
Sherlock struggled a bit to turn around and face John, and when he managed his hands went to cup John’s cheeks, pulling his face closer to bump their foreheads together. “But you are important, John,” he murmured with a soft smile, and the honestly in his ice blue eyes stirred something in John’s chest. “You’re the most important.”
It was easy, almost inevitable for John to reach out and kiss him softly, tenderly, lovingly.