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With Spring in full stead comes a variety of increased demand, both in the homicide department, the government and, most prominently, the GP surgery. As with every annual tick of the clock into brighter days, there is a surge in viruses and sniffling symptoms that bring hacking coughs and whinging children to John’s door, hoping for treatment to alleviate their ailments. And as always, he is there to provide.
Though the glory of battle in arid sun bitten streets isn’t matched here by thrills or complexity there is still a lot of productive work to be done and people to help, and for that, John is grateful. He cannot follow Sherlock and Greg to cases, and for the time being has preferred to isolate himself where he cannot spread what he may have potentially brought home with him, much to his partner’s disgruntlement.
John needs a break, it is decided amongst his family, and with his birthday on the horizon they weigh out some activities he may enjoy partaking in. A plethora of ideas are shot out across the kitchen table, dodging mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits getting emptier by the minute.
“There is one thing he wanted to try.” Sherlock says around a mouthful of biscuit. He catches Mycroft’s disapproving lip curl and swallows thickly, licking crumbs from his bottom lip.
“And that is?” Greg asks, glasses perched on his nose. He looks so fatherly Sherlock can barley hold his gaze without feeling the urge to slip.
Instead, he advises, “rock climbing. Since his shoulder’s been feeling better, maybe that would be something to suggest?”
“You won’t catch me up there. Not worth doin’ me back in,” Greg grumbles.
“Would you enjoy it too?” Mycroft adds.
“I assume so. Quite like the Work. Now that the weather is warmer we could do it outside.” Shrugs Sherlock.
“Well, that’ll be something for the both of you to do.” Mycroft finishes his tea with a decisive sigh. “I certainly won’t be joining you.”
“No problem.” Sherlock chuckles. That had, after all, been his intention.
“Jesus christ, how tight are these harnesses?”
“I think my balls have receded into my throat.” Sherlock does look rather queasy, humping the air to shift the straps around his groin.
John snorts. “These are the real budgie smugglers, my god.”
Their instructor overhears and squawks a laugh, decked out in his own gear. “Tight, innit? We all react the same when we first put the harnesses on. You’ll be distracted in a minute.”
“Will anyone else be joining us?” Sherlock asks.
“Two more, should be. I’ll give them ten more minutes. Feel free to wander about but stay close.” Their instructor, Dave, takes their consent forms into the outhouse, leaving them alone.
“Ta.” John and Sherlock move across the grass, a few metres away from the hut to look over the misty terrain. The air is different here than London, most notably fresher, but with that tinge of farm life ever present.
“It’s so… quiet.” Sherlock regards the craggy mountains before them, endless fields of thick grass going on as far as the eye can see.
John stands beside him, taking in a deep breath of fresh air one could never find in the capital. “Nothing about for at least a mile. Thank god we rented that car.”
“Indeed. This is nice.”
“Well, thank you for bringing me,” Watson nudges Sherlock with his shoulder, “a wonderfully unexpected holiday.” John’s smile is small but warmer than the sun peeking through rolling clouds.
“Birthday holiday. Though a few days belated, I’m disappointed to say.” Holmes frowns.
“Don’t be. We had a lovely dinner and Jawn got to open some toys. It was perfect, and so is this, and so are you.” John checks behind him for onlookers, and upon finding none, drags Sherlock by the front of his windbreaker to snog him proper. They’re both smiling by the end of it, giggling like schoolboys.
They are only intended to be in Wales for a short time, perhaps a week at most, as they will finish their weekend getaway and jump right into a case not too pertinent but related to a spate of break-ins and attempted murder across the UK. Better yet that they have such a wide range of outdoor climbing opportunities.
Silence permeates the air, no cars or bustles of people to peck at the ears; the kind of silence daunting to those used to the constant noise of a city. Standing in a most comfortable silence, the couple are startled as Dave approaches them with a backpack stuffed with equipment.
“No shows. Well, their loss, means you two get a private experience.”
“Nice!” Sherlock cheers. John shoots him a look, but he shrugs innocently. For once he did not have a hand in this, yet it has worked out in their favour remarkably.
Trudging along uneven ground, stones slipping undertow and patches of soil emanating thick rich scents of untouched earth, the trio make their way to one of the many cliffs guarding a small river leading to the mouth of the sea. They cannot see the ocean from their viewpoint, but the trickle of water grows louder the closer to the edge they venture. Eventually their hike ends in a small cove, the walls damp with vivid stripes of green algae. Below, the river stares up at them.
“God, ‘s beautiful.” John breathes.
“Isn’t it?” Dave grins. “Never gets old, I tell ya.”
Running through the mandatory safety spiel, Dave hooks John up to some abseil ropes, making John check himself that he is secure.
“What about the rock climbing?” Sherlock asks.
“How do you think we’re getting out of the crevasse?” Dave winks, easing John over the edge. It takes a moment to gain footing on the shockingly slippy rock, until he finds the craggy surface beneath the lip, and is able to lean all the way back. It seems counterproductive to drop back so far and trust his instructor, his rope, and not look down at the sheer drop beneath him, but the exhilaration of those first steps is exactly what John has needed. His heart pounds but his hands are completely steady, and once he has the hang of it, he is skipping gleefully down the cliff onto a mossy embankment below.
He unhooks the rope from himself so Sherlock can use it, watching under the brow of his helmet as it is cinched up, revealing just how far John has abseiled. He gets a good sniff of the water, the trickle of it delightfully playful like Sherlock’s jumpy violin tunes, and observes as his partner takes to the edge. Without needing to hear the words John knows the cockiness is started to sneak through the cracks of his polite demeanour, and he waves off Dave’s helping hand to lower himself past the top grass and onto the rock.
Unlike John, Sherlock is not used to odd climates, and though he is excellent at adapting, there has been no point in his career in which he has needed to be in the same physical situation he is in now; plunging backwards off a rock edge, back to the river, looking up at endless sky as he trusts his own feet to gently push down. For a moment he seems to have gathered his bearings, taking tentative steps away from Dave as he realises how difficult this actually is — and if John would guess, annoyed he hasn’t immediately mastered the skill — but that confidence is sucked into the breeze when his right foot skids against a particular wet patch and he falls to his knees, vertically, like Spiderman crawling up a wall.
“Aurgh!” He yells, hands grappling for purchase until he is sharply reminded to hang onto his rope. The flailing continues, panic superseding logical reasoning, so instead of slowly getting back into the crouch position he previously maintained he tries clawing up the wall with his feet.
That only makes it worse, and as John pulls out his phone to record what will be a monumental moment Sherlock goes from speed-walking in place to full on sprinting, yet he does not move in any discernible direction. It is like he is stuck in a loop, unable to stop running lest he crash again but lacking the traction needed to slow down and rebalance.
Even Dave is chuckling until he shouts something to Sherlock that John cannot here, and releases more rope so that Holmes is forced backwards. It takes his feet right out from under him, flailing wildly as he dangles, but it allows his brain to reset and assess the situation, recovering his stance if not his dignity. Before he can demand it be wiped from existence, John sends the video to the family group chat which is promptly saved onto Greg and Mycroft’s devices, kept safe, and if John strains his ears he can almost pretend he can hear his surrogate dads laughing their heads off like he.
Determined not to humiliate himself Sherlock is much more careful descending, watching hawkishly his feet against the rock. He makes it to the bottom minutes later covered in a thin sheen of sweat yet triumphant. They watch in awe as their instructor works his way down rapidly, almost floating down the rock with easy, practiced toes. He drops to the moss with a grin, and disconnects his line to clip John back in.
“Ready to go up?”
“Sure.” John checks the knots himself then takes the stage, finding the first divots in the rock easily. In truth, it seems easier to ascend when he is more aware of the crags to grip onto. That is until midway up, when he becomes stuck, scanning for a place to grab. Were it not for the rope he would surely tip.
“There’s a dip to the right. Lean up with your weight on your legs.” John finds the spot as Dave instructs and with a mighty gasp he is up that little bit further.
It is hard to get into the swing of it when he feels so wrong-footed, that his balance depends on finger strength, agility, and the two men watching below to give him just enough slack on his safety line to not yank. John makes it a metre higher before his left foot slips, and he yells out in a perfect imitation of a screeching goose with a sore throat. Shimmering laughter rises from the river, and John knows that Sherlock has just got him back with his own embarrassing video.
Pushing on is the only way to the top, however, so John flips his boyfriend off as best he can and tries to speed up. Whole groups of muscles are crying for mercy, giving no assurances to last the journey to the clifftop, and by the time John completes the challenge his limbs are trembling.
He feels alive.
Sherlock, used to leaping and vaulting around London, finds his bizarre upper strength a great advantage for the task, practically skipping up at speed with agile movements and small jumps to reach farther grip placements than John could. He too is exhausted, and collapses onto the grass at John’s feet, panting and laughing out the effervescence of adrenaline. They are in high spirits when Dave greets them, and he joins in their laughter, patting John on the back.
“You both did fantastically, well done lads!”
“Sherlock even got some cardio in! Double whammy!”
“Shurrup.” Sherlock snorts, holding out his hand for John to haul him up. He does so, but does not release his hand, in fact grips tighter. They pose for a photo over the cliff they’ve just scaled both ways, their hands melded subtly, so that on the hike back to the hut their fingers remain interlocked, Sherlock’s thumb rubbing over John’s knuckles.
With a glance Dave seems to do a double-take, then smiles. “So the rumours are true?”
“Say again?” John asks.
“The papers always said you’re a couple. Not that it’s my business of course.” Dave shrugs.
“No, it isn’t.” Sherlock snaps, a flame flickering in his eye.
“We’re very happy,” blurts John, all starry-eyed with a closed-mouthed smile of utter affection. He is blind to Dave’s gaze, bringing their joined hands up to kiss Sherlock’s wind-bitten fingers, who settles down with softened eyes.
At the hut they chat between removing their gear, setting the lot into assigned bins for the next group. Dave takes a photo of them against the gorgeous backdrop, smiling as widely as they do.
“Right then. Enjoy the rest of your day, and happy birthday John.”
“Thanks. You too mate. Take care!” Sherlock responds with a nod, bone-tired as if he’s had a full day of playing at the beach with Jawn.
“What now?”
John inhales deeply. “I saw a lovely little café. And then we can get a bottle of champers, maybe one of those mini BBQs Greg’s always going on about, have some dinner on the beach?”
Sherlock’s expression is etched by sunlight. “Watch the sunrise?”
“Oh, don’t turn me on,” John groans with a grin. Sherlock kisses the look off him, turning them out of the entrance towards the car.