Work Text:
Southern comfort.
It was a hot, case-less day and almost every man, woman, dog and child of Britain had decided to spend it by going to the beach. This large congregation had also somehow included Sherlock Holmes, who had been begrudgingly-and with no small amount of complaint, been dragged to Bournemouth Beach. Something about it holding “dear childhood memories” for John and Mycroft.
Liar, they’d never been taken to the beach as children.
Oh what was that? Sherlock wanted to be a pirate? Where do you think he got it from!? It certainly was not summer family holidays at the seaside let me assure you. More the oppressed imagination of a child genius.
Anyway, he had been forced to this infernal beach. If anyone asked he had agreed to come purely to conduct deductive research. Not because of John had asked him and told him how much it meant to him. God no, what a preposterous idea.
And now he was stuck in this obscenely colourful wooden house, extremely dangerous in the case of a beach fire. You never know with them youngsters and their barbecues. He’d been divested of his highly fashionable coat and favoured purple shirt. It was understandable, since the day was rather hot and he would’ve been quite content with just t-shirt and trousers. But then John had insisted he wore a pair of swimming trunks. And Sherlock was 101% sure he didn’t own a pair.
So John had taken this opportunity with glee and bought him a pair anyway. Of course Sherlock had been expecting it and had already made it clear to John that he was not going to wear it as well as outlining all the reasons he had for saying so. Now whether John was present for the rant was debatable since Sherlock didn’t really…notice when the man came or went.
Which was how he found himself glaring at the sand stained mirror in the changing booth, practically naked except for the pair of extremely embarrassing swimming shorts.
He hated them with a burning passion. It wasn’t that they fit a little too snugly around his backside, or that they didn’t even reach the mid-point on his thigh (They were shorter than his underpants! How scandalous!).
No, it was that they were the most ridiculously shiny, silky pair of swimming shorts with glittery golden fabric. Golden.
Probably John’s idea of a joke. He didn’t really have an exceptionally outstanding sense of humour. Also there was the part where John was sure that Sherlock wasn’t going to wear it…but alas, the things he does for his friends-I mean, deductive beach research.
In any case he needed to make sure neither Mycroft nor John had a camera on hand. It could lead to all sorts of chaos. Government secrets being spilled, innocent people being killed, invading Poland. That kind of disastrous thing.
With one last disgusted look at the mirror, Sherlock gathered up his clothes into the little beach bag he’d brought. It probably wasn’t even his. Or John’s.
Next came on the pair of sunglasses that also probably weren’t his. Might’ve belonged to Mrs Hudson’s husband at some point. Well actually…judging by the condition, shape and smear of oil on the frames…they probably were Mrs Hudson’s.
As he began to leave the safe and private confines of the house, he noticed the ends of his beloved scarf sticking out from the bag. Its frayed tassels seemed to be calling him, sad and hurt that it had been discarded for a pair of Golden bottoms. He smirked and pulled it out, slipping it around his neck & revelling at the familiarity. He could already see John’s face “You can’t wear a scarf with swimming trunks.” Watch me John.
It was show time.
--
“Molly! So glad you could make it!”
“Oh I wouldn’t miss the chance to go the beach for a bit! I’d love to work on my tan. Is-uh, is Sherlock here? With you I mean?”
“Oh, Yeah he went off, something about deductive research. He doesn’t really do sun.” John said with a laugh, shading his eyes despite the sunglasses currently perched on the bridge of his nose.
“O-oh, yes, of course, wouldn’t want him to get burned now would we.” She said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, a little disappointed.
“Won’t you sit down?” John said, moving across on the little beach mat they’d set up. It was an old tartan blanket with the smell of musk and linen spray, underneath a large parasol that Mycroft had provided. It was a rather vibrant green thing, with woodland creatures printed on the surface, finally ending in a lace trim. On closer inspection it had the sort of tattered look that might be achieved from decades spent in a shoe cupboard. It was a cosy little spot, and John was just happy he was shielded from the sun.
“Oh yes, of course.” She smiled and sat next to John, taking out her towel and a little beach pillow.
“You look pretty today.” He said, admiring her pink bikini.
She blushed, “Thank you, you look…er..nice too.”
They sat in a comfortable silence, just admiring the beach and absorbing the rays with only the voices of Children playing, people conversing and the distant boom of a heavy bass from speakers on the other side of the beach. A few minutes passed like this before two sets of foot steps could be heard approaching their little island.
John looked up and smiled to see Mycroft and Lestrade turning to sit on the mat, both men looking equally flustered-the cause of which was most definitely not the sun.
“It wouldn’t take Sherlock’s deduction skills to know what you two have been up to.” He said with a smirk as both men looked away, heat rising to their cheeks.
“Speaking of who, have you seen my nuisance of a brother anywhere?”
“No, probably bothering some old lady in the name of science.”
Lestrade sighed, “And no doubt I’ll be the one who has to clean up after him.” The three men shook their heads in a moment of silence celebrating Sherlock’s unique character.
Molly suddenly sat up, slipping her shades off as one would do in the movies, when it was obvious something rather bizarre had happened. Otherwise the shades would always be on, because it’s cool.
“John…are you absolutely sure Sherlock wasn’t coming to the beach?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Because I think that’s him there…” She said, a hand shading her eyes from the sun as she looked into the distance.
John laughed, “Molly, look, you and I both know Sherlock as well as each other and I’m pretty sure Sherlock Holmes would never be caught dead in…” He paused as he turned his head, taking off his shades in a movie star manner too.
Because there in the distance, making his way down the beach, was a tall pale man in Golden swimmking trunks, familiar unruly brown hair bouncing as he swayed his hips, ridiculous blue scarf tied around his neck.
“Oh fuck me.”
--
Sherlock smiled as he walked through the haphazard placement of people and beach towels, stepping over them carefully as he went. He couldn't help but notice the appreciative looks both men and women alike were giving him. And therefore there was purely no need to feel conscious about wearing a scarf on his bare chest.
A song started blasting from the speakers and Sheelock couldn't help but bob his head to the best, not normally a fan of modern songs but the lyrics spoke to him on a spiritual level. I don't care, I love it. It referring to the scarf.
He continued his trek through the sand, scanning the crowd for John, his eyes finally settling on the ridiculous umbrella he knew Mycroft had brought. It actually belonged to their mother.
Under which were four faces, each harbouring a humorous expression of pure shock. Sherlock smirked and began to sway his hips as he walked, attracting the attention of a blonde waitress with a tray full of drinks. He took the opportunity to slip a glass off her tray whilst giving her a smile and a wink before walking on. He supped it, releasing a sigh of pleasure as the taste of Sourgern Comfort filled his mouth.
By now, he was sure John had caught at least a whole hoard of flies, his mouth was so open.
He finally arrived at the mat with his friends with at least half the beach staring at him. (And his behind)
"Hot-I mean, you're hit-I mean..." He sighed. "Hello Sherlock."
"John," he said with a small nod to the others as he sat down between John and Molly.
Molly desperately tried to look away from the spectacle next to her whilst Mycroft and Lestrade were still staring. Their minds probably couldn't process his sexiness. A regrettable side effect of being Sherlock Holmes.
"Well? This is turning out to be a rather dull beach trip. "
"It's not dull when you're wearing something as ridiculous as that." "As I recall, you were the one who bought it for me." "Yeah but I didn't think you'd actually wear it!" "That's a sight I never thought I'd see..." Lestrade said, attempting to avert his eyes from the golden booty. "Sherlock are you drinking Southern Comfort?"
"Yes, . Quite delightful actually. "
"I'm experimenting some Southern discomfort. " John muttered. This was followed by a yelp as Sherlock leaned over and grabbed John's face. "Really? And would you like me to fix that for you?"
John swallowed, shaking under the intense stare of his eyes. "What right here...right now?"
"If you want, though I do have a suite in the beach hotel that requires appropriate defiling."
"Guys please take it to the bedroom. " Lestrade had a pained expression on his face whilst Mycroft was simply neutral, secretly a little happy for his brother. Molly was still looking away, accepting the inevitable that there was no chance between her and Sherlock.
"With pleasure. " Sherlock said never taking his eyes off John. He picked the other man up, with no small amount of protest on his part, and carried him to the hotel.
I think it's safe to say we all know who got the D that night, indulging in true 'Southern' comfort.
--
The other three unfortunately lonely people were stuck sitting in an awkward silence at the hotel bar, each stuck to their own thoughts on what had taken place that day.
Mycroft looked over to Molly, who was the picture of heart break.
He then looked to Lestrade, a silent conversation taking place between their eyes before he turned to Molly again, a small smile in place.
"Molly...have you ever thought of having a threesome?"
The end!
Sent from my iPod