A/N- This is kind of to convince myself (and everyone else) that I can still write properly after all the rambling nonsensical drabblings I've been doing lately.

'John.'

Sherlock's voice came lazily, unguarded, as if he was perfectly comfortable and enjoying the silence and easy contentment that came with just having finished a case. He was lying on the couch, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling; John was sitting on his chair reading the newspaper.

'Mmm?' John replied absently, not looking up from the cartoons (Sherlock was under the impression he was reading the world news pages. John was fully aware of this, and had no intention of correcting Sherlock's assumptions).

'Tell me a story.'

John closed and folded up the paper, his attention caught. 'A story. Like a fairies-and-dragons-type story, or…?'

Sherlock chuckled, a deep low sound that shook his chest. 'No, one about you. When you were a child.'

John looked at Sherlock quizzically for a moment, his head tilted to the side. His flatmate gave no indication that he had noticed; just kept gazing upwards as if the answer to life the universe and everything was written on the ceiling and drummed his fingers on his stomach.

John cast his mind around, picked out a memory. His fingers found the scar that cut across his right arm, just above his elbow, and he smiled. 'Well...

'Once we went on holiday to France…'