Chapter 1

Pack Your Bags John! We're Going to Greece!

A/N: So i'm on holiday at the moment and i've been wanting to write a holiday/away from Baker street fic for a while now - so here it is! Oh and to those of you who have been reading my other fic Our Little Paradise,don't worry, this is not me abandoning that fic for this one or anything hehe, this is simply some fun on the side, (which will still probably still have me up all night writing and perfecting) whilst i'm experiencing a little bit of writers block with the other one :p

Anyway, on with the story...

It was on a normal, quiet Saturday morning in 221B that John was awoken by an excited Sherlock bustling into his room with a suit case, saying "Pack your bags John! We're going to Greece!"

John sighed.

Well, these spontaneous outbursts from Sherlock weren't exactly uncommon or unexpected. It was something you knowingly signed up for when agreeing to be flat mates with Sherlock Homes. And John loved it. But still, one day of normality and tea drinking, maybe getting into a good book or watching a bit of telly wasn't too much to ask for, was it?

Sherlock stood impatiently in the door way, "Come on, John! A case that's finally worth my time! Oh yes, thank youMrs. Demetriou for causing someone to want to murder you so elegantly. I had been getting rather bored."

"You know, a normal person might express sadness towards a murder." John chastised.

"And what fun would that be?"

John laughed. He couldn't help himself. "None at all."

"Exactly. Now come on. The flight's in an hour." Sherlock walked out of John's room briskly, coat flapping behind him.

"What? An hour!" John shouted. "We'll never make it! Have you ever been to the airport before Sherlock? You have to be there two hours before! Do you know all the procedures you have to go through? "

But Sherlock quickly popped his head round the door and simply said;"Mycroft."

Oh.

Well he may be a pretentious dick, but that interfering and frankly worrying ability of his to get things done efficiently could come in handy sometimes.

It was an hour and a half later that John and Sherlock were sat on a plane to Greece; John reading his book he'd been meaning to get into for several months now, Sherlock tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm rest.

John watched Sherlock's eyes darting between various holiday goers; observing, deducing. One of his knees was now bouncing slightly.

Something wasn't right.

It was when the doors closed loudly and Sherlock's hand, which had previously been tapping the arm rest, viciously grabbed it, that John knew that something definitely wasn't right.

"Sherlock, you okay?" He asked quietly.

"Me? Yeah. Fine. I'm just not particularly fond of planes. Or any kind of small spaces for that matter."

Oh.

The plane began to drive along the run way, building speed. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly.

"I don't ever remember you being claustrophobic before…" John mused, thinking back to many a night spent waiting for hours on end, inside narrow alleys, on stake outs, or hiding inside tight closets when breaking into suspects flats…

"Yes well…it's just an irrational fear I picked up whilst I was…away." When Sherlock was away. That was how they referred to the period of time when Sherlock had John believe that he was dead to save John's life. It was a dark time for both of them and they only ever brought it up when they absolutely had to. Which was why John found it odd that Sherlock should do so now. Sherlock had told him next to nothing of what had actually happened while he was away. He had filled him in on the basics, but most of the details including things such as the scars he had received, and undoubtedly the scars he had given, remained unspoken of. John assumed that possibly Sherlock had deleted these details himself.

"Had a nasty run in with one of Moriarty's men on their private jet." Sherlock breathed, eyes still closed. John's hands clenched at that name.

"It's how I got that scar on my ankle. That plan didn't go too well, the jet ended up nearly crashing. Moriarty's man got away – jumped form the jet, with a parachute. I got him soon after though. But I've never much taken to planes since then."

It was then that the plane began to incline. Sherlock's grip on the handle tightened. John looked at him worriedly. Sherlock hadn't been the same since he'd returned. He had eventually gone back to his obnoxiously brilliant self with his snarky remarks and his sulking on the sofa in his blue robe and playing his violin late into the night. But there was something different. Little things like this. There were moments where he'd remember something and his eyes would glaze over, then he wouldn't speak for the rest of that day, retreating to his room and remaining there.

This type of Sherlock worried John. He could deal with a sulking Sherlock, and a Sherlock who was whining because he wanted his cigarettes. Even an insufferable Sherlock who hadn't had a case in days. But John didn't know how to deal with this Sherlock. He didn't know what one was to say to someone who had been through what Sherlock had. He didn't even know what half of that was.

But looking at his friend whose body was now completely stiff, and breathing shallow, he decided he had to do something.

"Here." John said, offering his hand out to Sherlock, who had opened his eyes at John's words and was looking down at his hand, frowning in confusion.

"Take my hand."

"But why?"

John stared at Sherlock incredulous, but he just stared back, equally as incredulous. Had nobody ever offered Sherlock their hand before? He decided he would need to explain.

"Well when I was younger, if I got scared or if I was hurt, my dad would tell me to take his hand and squeeze it as hard as I could, and I don't know how – but it helped."

Sherlock crinkled his nose at him. "That makes no logical sense."

The plane was getting faster now.

John looked down at his outstretched hand and then back at Sherlock, who was also looking down at John's hand. Sherlock then quickly took it in his and rested their hands on the arm rest, looking straight ahead fixedly.

John looked straight ahead also, realising that the situation was slightly awkward. He supposed this wasn't exactly the behaviour of flatmates, but then again, not much concerning the behaviour of their relationship was. They were more than just flatmates, both knew this. From the moment John killed a man to save Sherlock's life. The fatal question however, was how much more? John worried over this thought as the plane began inclining. But when the plane jolted and Sherlock squeezed John's hand hard, he smiled in triumph. It didn't matter whether this was the correct behaviour or not, in that moment Sherlock needed him and he would always be there for him, in whatever way he could, when he did.

Their hands remained joined throughout the remainder of the flight and after a while, Sherlock began to relax and he opened his eyes again, beginning to talk about all his theories on the case.

"More than a third of women are killed by their partners you know, but not this one."

"But I thought you said it was obvious that the partner had done it?"

"Exactly. It's too obvious. And a murder this elegant would have been done by a murderer more cunning than to leave clues everywhere. I mean, the wedding ring on the side? Obvious. Too obvious. I don't know how, but the murderer managed to get the husbands wedding ring and leave it at the scene of the crime. Possibly they were close to the husband? Or the wife? Or both? Anyway, somebody knows that it is likely that the husband will be suspected first, and they're using this statistic to their advantage, for a fault many people have is seeing what you want to see, and missing what you really see. The murderer knows this."

John listens contentedly, proud of the way Sherlock's knee has stopped bouncing and his pulse steadies under John's fingertips.

However, as they get off the plane, they eventually release each other's hands - both immediately missing the contact, but neither verbalising this.

When they got to the little BnB in which they were staying, a little old Greek lady, who John had discovered was called Rosa, valiantly led them up the thin spiraled staircase, with her hunched back and shriveled shoulders, to their room. Yes. Their room. Because there was only one room, with one bed. It had turned out that their room had been double booked and so they had been moved to another room, the only room left, which was of course; the honeymoon suite.

The young girl at reception, who was Rosa's daughter by the looks of it, was positively smiling as she told them.

How coincidental. Thought John. Only the honeymoon suite my arse.

The room was small and had only a cabinet with a mirror, an old TV protruding from the wall that Sherlock deduced hadn't worked in at least ten years, a small en suite bathroom with a pathetic shower, and a double bed which held the only indication towards it being a particularly romantic room; a single plaque in the shape of a hear which said "Love" on it. The bed was situated at the back of the room and looked as though it would just about fit two people in it. If they lay half on top of each other.

John stood in the door way and sighed, and then he was laughing. Sherlock looked around the room once and joined in with his deep baritone.

"Do you think" John wheezed, "that there is anyone, anywhere who doesn't think were a couple?"

"I suppose people talk, the word spreads." Sherlock mused.

"People do little else." John smiled and Sherlock laughed and walked through into the room.

So that's it for chapter 1, hope you enjoyed it! Chapter 2 is written and will be up soon!

Please review and let me know what you think so far,

Bye for now! :D