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Harry calls him on Skype. It's almost midnight in Florida and John shudders to think what time it is in London. Her eyes look bloodshot but her smile over the grainy videochat seems sincere. “How's life in tropical paradise?” she says.
“Technically still in the subtropics.”
“You'll still be there for Christmas, right? I've talked to Mum, and we might come visit you.”
“Sherlock will be thrilled.” John has a guilty moment where he wishes he had never told her he'd left Oklahoma. It'd be nice to see Mum, but John's last holidays with Harry are better off forgotten. Not that she had been in much of a state to remember them.
“I'll be thrilled to meet the famous Sherlock Holmes, finally.”
“I'm sure you two will get along.”
She grins at the tone of his voice. “Like cats and dogs, right?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“Really, though. How are you doing, John? You seem more – lively.”
John leans away from the computer for a moment. “Fine. Everything's fine. Living with Sherlock, you know. Always an adventure.”
“Don't do anything too dangerous. You know how Mum worries.”
“I'll do my best not to be eaten by an alligator,” he says. “And you can tell her I've got a job again.”
“Oh, she'll be pleased. Where?”
“Urgent care center. It's only part-time, but I felt guilty not putting up my half of the rent.” Not that Mrs. Hudson charges them much. She makes quite a bit renting out her cabins to easily fleeced vacationers. John can see why Sherlock is fond of her.
“Good for you, Johnny,” Harry says. “Glad to see you back on your feet.”
“Thanks.” He fiddles with a broken letter on his keyboard. “How about we talk again tomorrow? I've got to sleep if I want to be able to keep up with whatever Sherlock's got planned for tomorrow.”
“I'll leave you to it then.” Harry runs her fingers through her hair. “Talk to you later, Johnny. I miss you.” She signs off quickly.
It takes him a minute to figure out how to properly close the program, but John gets it done. He goes to bed and dreams about rain.
♦
There are shells scattered all over the sand. The low light of the sun rising over the Atlantic casts John's shadow long over the rows of clam and cockle and donax. The beach is two miles from Mrs. Hudson's rental cabins and there are only a handful of joggers disturbing the sandpipers at this time of the morning.
Sherlock watches the clouds. There's a formation building on the southeast horizon that he's kept his eyes on since he woke up, predicting the times it will begin to precipitate, storm, join up with another cell, and eventually - somewhere over the ocean - die out. It's taking John some time to get used to the daily Florida thunderstorms, but Sherlock is in his element.
It's flat here, like many places in the Midwest. You can see the clouds growing towers and rainstorms far out at sea. John misses his little Oklahoma flat sometimes, but the palm trees and seabirds and girls in bikinis have smoothed the transition. It'll be nice to have a winter where he won't have to dig his car out of the snow.
“Ocean temperatures looking very interesting,” Sherlock remarks. He's scrolling through the NOAA website on his phone. “Tropical depression about to form just west of Cuba.”
“You're not going to make me drive you down to Miami again, are you?” John says, leaning down to pick up a shell.
“Mm. I don't think so. No hurricane coming from this one. Depression Eight, though, is quite promising.”
“Good to know.”
Sherlock tucks his phone back in his pocket and squints at the sun. He shifts a little, carelessly coating his expensive shoes with sand. “Rope tornadoes in North Dakota last night,” he says, sounding offended that the weather had dared to turn severe when he was too far away to observe it.
“I'm sure you'll get your hurricane soon.” John doesn't want to admit it to Sherlock, but he's not sure he wants to trade his sun and southern weather for storm surge and hundred-mile-an-hour winds. Sherlock always takes a partiality for fair weather as some kind of personal betrayal.
“September looks best,” Sherlock says. “Although southern Mexico might have some luck earlier. How's your Spanish?”
John picks up another shell, lopsided and grey. He turns it over to where chipped mother-of-pearl gleams in the early morning light. “Nonexistent.”
“Too bad.”
“Tell you what,” John says. “I don't have a shift tomorrow. We can go back to Miami then.”
“You thought the NHC was boring.”
“I've decided to start a campaign to have a hurricane named after you.”
Sherlock smiles at him. “Don't think I haven't already tried.” He turns and starts walking back, avoiding the waves reaching for his feet. A trio of white ibis scatter at his approach, flapping their wings. “Come along, John! Storms are starting early today.”
“I'm coming,” he says, tossing his shells back out into the water. He doesn't feel the need to hold onto them as tightly as he once would. He can always find more tomorrow.