A/N: Well, here we go, my first venture into a new fandom in a long time! Easing in with a CM crossover, lol, although Sherlock and John are the primary characters, with Spencer and Derek secondary. Both couples are in established relationships.

Here's the set up: Both couples are on vacation at a tropical resort catering to gay couples. It's slightly AU for Sherlock and John, as my head-canon has it that Moriarty is locked up somewhere and I'm ignoring the events of Reichenbach for the purpose of this story. For Derek and Spencer, it is set a couple of years or so after Henkel.

Warnings-wise, there will be some language and references to boy-boy sexual activities throughout; in the near future, there will be somewhat explicit sexy-times.

This is mostly romantic fluff which I have to make do with, as I can't afford to go on vacation myself.

Hope you like it.

Seds

It was a strange sight.

Sherlock Holmes sat in a deck chair by a sparkling, unnaturally blue resort pool. He lay at a 45 degree angle, his long legs stretched out before him, elegant hands clasped at his chest. He looked rather like a corpse that had been propped up in his coffin as a sick joke.

Apart from the hands, every part of his body was shielded from the sun—a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head, oversized sunglasses protecting his eyes, his blue dressing gown pulled up to his ears over a white t-shirt, and a light cotton blanket covering him from the waist down. To the average passerby, he would appear to be an eccentric nut-job, or, to the more sympathetically-minded, a poor soul determined to enjoy the tropical sun in spite of some horrid skin condition.

But, in reality, Sherlock Holmes was just miffed.

He hated the sun, hated "tanning"— it was absurd that people so often did it on purpose, for God's sake—hated dressing like an idiot. He shifted, yanking fabric from a pair of overly long swimming trunks out of his crack. This caused a mild sneer to cross his face; John had ordered them for him from a catalog (they did have frolicking anthropomorphized dolphins all over them, which was cute, but hardly a look befitting a grown man) and they didn't fit, but as Sherlock couldn't be bothered to go shopping for beach wear in person, it was as John had said: "You get what you get, you tiresome great sod."

Once the wedgie situation had been attended to, Sherlock went back to his Zen-like pose, masking the dissatisfaction that was roiling in his brain. He didn't want to be there; hadn't wanted to go on holiday, not now, not ever, not when it meant being cut off from everything that might potentially relieve the tedium of an unengaged mind.

Back in the civilized world, there was always the possibility of stumbling onto a case, but here—that was highly unlikely (although that poor woman in Aruba had somehow met her fate, with no perpetrator ever being definitively brought to justice... Clearly, they should have gone to Aruba.)

And, he couldn't even look to Lestrade to save him, as the phone system on the island was for shit, and John had sneakily managed to nick his mobile just before they'd left for the airport, leaving it with Mrs. Hudson to safeguard.

John. Damn him, he was too clever by half, in Sherlock's opinion. Thankfully, he was excellent in bed, which mostly made up for it, and definitely accounted for the fact that he'd allowed himself to be dragged here in the first place (damn him and his sex games), but sometimes...

Of course, he'd tried to work up something before they'd left, not that it had done any good. In fact, Lestrade's last words to him before departure had been, "No, Sherlock. There's nothing, I swear, not a thing. Nothing that the feeble, dull-witted minds of the Yard can't handle. You're not needed, honest. Go on, have fun on your holiday, we'll talk when you get back."

Fun. In retrospect, it all sounded a bit rehearsed. The result of coaching, courtesy of Dr. John Watson, no doubt. Why, he'd probably even thrown in a bribe of some sort, and... The sneer returned.

Too clever by half.

Just then, the man in question strode up, wearing a well-fitting pair of trunks that hung nicely just below his waist, with a beach towel slung sportily around his neck. His short sandy hair was ruffled by the sea breeze, lending him an uncharacteristically roguish air that Sherlock would have found quite appealing had he not been so... miffed.

John stopped beside Sherlock, put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Seriously? This is what you wear to an exotic beach resort?"

"It's sunny," Sherlock intoned without moving. "There's sun all over the place. I don't care for it."

"You're just trying to embarrass me," John replied. "You look like an absolute idiot."

"Irrelevant. If I'm to suffer the torture of mind-destroying boredom, I might as well do it out here. But it is, as you know... sunny. Hence the outfit."

"Right. Well, what's it to be, then?"

Sherlock allowed one muscle on one side of his face to twitch with interest. He turned his head 25 degrees toward John and lifted his sunglasses. "Whad'you mean?"

"What do I have to do to get you to quit sulking and pretend to have a good time?"

"Oh! Finally, you're asking the right questions... I suppose recreational drugs are out of the question?"

"A bit, yes."

"Well, then, let's see—I'd like something to drink."

"Fine. Coke? Tea? Mineral water?"

"Alcohol."

John's brow shot up. "Really?"

"Of course. It's not as though I'm using my brain for anything, it might as well be pickled."

"All right, so, what do you want?"

"The hard stuff, a really good scotch, neat. None of that watered down bilge they typically serve at this sort of place. Bribe the barkeep if need be, I don't suppose that's beneath you." He shot him a knowing look, but John didn't appear to notice.

"I'll see what I can do. What else?"

"Dinner. Something unusual, not like what we get at home. But, not too unusual either, no sea urchin or mango-glazed fish intestines, nothing like that."

"Regular little Goldilocks, aren't you? All right. And?"

"Sex. I'll be needing lots and lots of sex from you, John, and something other than the anemic, luke-warm variety you've been dishing out lately. You're better than that—put some effort into it for a change, for God's sake."

John rolled his eyes, determined not to take his lover's baiting him seriously. "You know perfectly well that our lovemaking has been just fine, but if I've been at all lacking, it's because I've been tired. I told you, I need a holiday. We both do, and that's the point." He sat on the edge of Sherlock's chair and fought his way through the hat and sunglasses, revealing Sherlock's peevish scowl. John leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss. "There'll be sex, Sherlock. Anything you want." In spite of himself, he caressed Sherlock's face and he couldn't help giving him a fond grin. "Now, would you please smile?"

Sherlock had fixed him with an annoyed glare, but his expression softened, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a grotesque approximation of a smile. John nodded resignedly.

"Lovely. Better than nothing, I suppose. I'll get you that drink." He stood up, and muttered as he turned, "As your legs are apparently broken..."

Sherlock didn't respond, just rearranged himself into his death pose and settled in to wait for John and the booze to appear.

Spencer Reid viewed himself in the mirror of his and Derek Morgan's resort hotel bathroom. He had on a wide-brimmed straw hat, a long-sleeved white shirt hanging open over a gray t-shirt, and a rather long and baggy pair of swim trunks, adorned with colorful smiling fish playing beach volleyball. He shook his head and sighed.

"I look like an idiot."

"You look fucking adorable, kid." Morgan stepped into the bathroom and tipped back the hat in order to give Reid a deep kiss. "Thank you for this. I know you didn't really want to go."

"It's all right. I need to learn to do things outside of my comfort zone." In the past, Reid's idea of a dream vacation was being able to ensconce himself in his room surrounded by stacks of books and his ancient computer, free to devote himself to whatever new area of study it was that had lately intrigued him.

But at some point, he'd altered that vision to include Morgan—cuddling on the couch with him, barbecuing in the back yard with friends, going out to explore the town together—and sex. Lots and lots of sex.

Of course, being whisked off to an exotic gay-friendly tropical resort still hadn't been included on the list. But Morgan had made his case—they needed to get away, far away, from their work; they needed to goof off and rediscover each other in some remote place where they could be carefree and pampered. He'd topped it off with a sweet nuzzle and pleading puppy-dog eyes, and Reid had eventually caved.

Morgan had made one call to their co-worker and mutual friend, Penelope Garcia, and three days later, they'd been on a plane to the island.

It was bewilderingly quick; Reid had made the mistake of protesting that a) he had nothing to wear and b) that he burned easily, and had promptly found himself being dragged off to to the mall by Garcia, AKA the Shopping Goddess, herself. Two hours later, he'd been deposited back at home with bags filled with shorts, tank tops, sandals, sun screen, sun glasses, the hat and the absurd swim trunks, none of which he'd chosen for himself, but all of which it had seemed easier to accept than to extend the misery of shopping by another couple of hours.

And now, here he was, looking like a Vegas tourist, pasty white skin and all.

"I'm going to burn," he said resignedly.

"No, you're not. I put enough sunscreen on you to baste an elephant, and with that get-up, you won't even turn pink." Morgan put his arms around him from behind and then pulled a thatch of long hair away from his neck in order to bury his nose under his lover's ear. He inhaled deeply and smiled into the mirror. "You smell like coconut."

"Wonderful. Now I guess I can look forward to being infested with coconut mites."

"Coconut mites?"

"Mm-hm. The worst of the coconut pests. Their feeding scars and distorts the coconuts, which leads to premature fruit drop."

Morgan chuckled. "I'm not gonna let that happen, pretty boy. Your fruit's going to stay right up where it's supposed to be, okay?"

Reid frowned, not getting the joke, but he brightened when Morgan nuzzled him one more time before announcing, "I'm going to go sign us up for some activities. I'll meet you out by the pool in a few."

"All right."

Sherlock felt—and smelled—the stranger's presence well before he bothered to open his eyes. He allowed these words to escape his lips in a soft sigh of disgust:

"Three hundred ninety-eight point two."

He felt the man pause in his preparations to settle into the deck chair next to his, and then, startlingly, heard his voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you, it's just that this is the only open chair on the shady side of the pool."

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He looked up to see a young man, outfitted similarly to himself, holding a straw tote bag and staring at him uncertainly.

"Ahem. What makes you think I—"

"Three hundred and ninety-eight point two square kilometers is the area of this island. Of course, I converted it from miles, we never did embrace the metric system in the States, but I assume the thought was 'Three hundred and ninety-eight point two square kilometers on this island, and this guy had to pick a chair next to mine.'" He raised an eyebrow. "Am I wrong?"

"Ah... no. You're quite correct," Sherlock said, intrigued. "But, it's fine. Do sit down."

"Thanks. Did your boyfriend force you to go on vacation, too?" the young man asked with a gesture toward Sherlock's outfit as he sat down and stretched out his long limbs.

"Obviously."

"Yeah, well. I guess we have to do this kind of thing sometimes—compromises, sacrifices. Just part of it." He spoke idly as he leaned down and pulled a book out of a straw bag at his side.

"Part of what?" Sherlock asked, genuinely bewildered.

"Of being in a relationship. I didn't get it, myself, for a long time. But now..." He shrugged. "He does stuff he doesn't like to do for me all the time. I figured this was payback." The young man smiled, a sunny, happy smile that was really quite attractive. "But, he's worth it, you know? Hey, how'd your boyfriend talk you into it, anyway?"

"He bet me he could make me come within three minutes just by using one finger and a feather. How'd yours?"

"Sad puppy dog routine."

"I'm sorry?"

Reid gave Sherlock a close approximation of the hopeful, woebegone expression that Morgan had pulled on him and then made a dismissive gesture. "What can I say, I'm a sucker. Every time, man, every time..."

"Ah. I—" Sherlock's remark was cut short by John's reappearance. He was carrying two ridiculous-looking drinks, one in each hand. They were served in huge goblets, creamy yellow liquid topped with white froth and a cherry, garnished with a spear of gaudy tropical fruit chunks, and a little paper umbrella sticking out on the side. John proffered one to Sherlock, who merely stared at it.

"What in God's name is that?"

"It's a pina colada, Sherlock, and do not give me a hard time about it."

"It's an abomination!"

"It's delicious and, dare I say... fun. Pina coladas are fun. Just take it."

Against his better judgment, Sherlock took the drink and continued to stare at it. "What's the parasol for?"

"Haven't a clue. Part of the fun, I imagine."

"Using paper umbrellas as drink decorations started in 1932 at a tiki bar called Don the Beachcombers in Los Angeles." The stranger spoke without looking up from his book. "The idea was to invoke the atmosphere of island culture. It's possible the umbrella originally had a practical application, intended as shade to keep the drink cool, but now it's just tradition."

Both Sherlock and Watson regarded the young man with some interest. He must have felt them looking at him, because he slowly lowered his book, raised his eyes and smiled. "I'm Spencer, by the way. You are?"

"John. And, this is Sherlock."

"Nice to meet you."

Sherlock continued to stare at Reid in consternation. Intelligent, obviously. He'd made no attempt to shake hands (Sherlock liked that) so, a bit off, socially. The clothes were not his usual of course, and he seemed stiff and uncomfortable in them, but he'd already revealed his reluctance to be there, so that offered no insight. He was in a happy long-term same-sex relationship, that was evident enough. But, what did he do for a living? Where was he from? Sherlock identified the accent as Western United States, but...

"Why don't you ask him?" John said from where he was perched on the edge of Sherlock's chair.

"Hmm?"

"You're trying to figure him out—we're on holiday, you can just ask him. Oh, hell, I'll do it—Spencer, where are you from?"

"Las Vegas, originally. But, I live near D.C., now."

"So, government employee," Sherlock mused.

Reid pursed his lips. "Uh—right." He returned to his book, effectively cutting short the line of inquiry. Sherlock shot John a meaningful glance.

"Sensitive area," he whispered. "Some sort of research facility, I suspect. Wonder what the boyfriend does."

Just then, a tall dark-skinned man walked up. He was wearing only swim trunks, which was nice, because every part of his exposed body was exquisitely muscled and he was decorated with a number of tattoos. His face was gorgeous, and he flashed a million-dollar smile as he came up, bearing two of the same fruity drinks that John had brought.

"Here you go, pretty boy. Something to get you in the island mood."

"Wow, thanks!" Spencer took his, but before he could take a sip, his partner leaned down and gave him a warm, loving kiss. Spencer smirked as he took a long draw on the straw. "Mm. That's good." He then pulled his boyfriend back down and kissed him deeply, letting the sweetness of the drink meld with their own flavors.

The two Brits watched the display in a combination of discomfort and envy. John nudged Sherlock. "Now, that's the way to thank a person for bringing you a drink."

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock wrinkled his nose and took a tentative sip of his own drink. One eyebrow went up. "All right, this is quite refreshing. One point in your favor, John. Keep it up, perhaps you can earn another."

"And, what'll that get me?"

Sherlock just smiled.

Once Spencer's boyfriend pulled out of the kiss, he asked, "Who're your friends?"

"Oh, this is John and Sherlock. Guys, this is Derek."

At that moment, a phone rang. Spencer scrounged in his bag and pulled out a battered flip phone. He frowned at the number, and then answered, "Hello?" He stood up and walked away from the group.

Sherlock was staring, agape. "He's got a phone!" He turned an accusing look back at John. "His boyfriend allowed him a bloody phone," he said as petulantly as any four-year-old.

"Perhaps his boyfriend isn't inclined to sneak off on his own in order to find a murder mystery to solve," John hissed in Sherlock's ear. Looking at Derek, he said, "Spencer's not a workaholic, then?"

Derek shrugged. "Oh, he is. I had to block our work number and threaten him with bodily harm if he made any outgoing calls. It's just that he has a... family situation, and needs to be available if something comes up." Now tense, Derek watched Spencer as he spoke on the phone, visibly relaxing when he saw the young man smile as he ended the call.

"Everything okay?" Derek asked as Spencer returned.

"Yeah, they wanted to take her into town to shop, but the release they have on file is out of date. I had to give verbal permission."

"She's doing pretty good, then, huh?"

Spencer nodded. "They finally got her meds on track again. My mother," he said, addressing Sherlock and John. "She's in a care facility." He didn't offer any further explanation as he returned his phone to the bag and started to sit down.

"Don't get comfortable, babe. The ocean's just a few steps away, and I want to get wet. Come on." Derek started walking, but Spencer stood in place.

"Uh... I don't really think it's a good idea right now."

"Why?"

"We just had a full moon."

Morgan gave a mock-sympathetic nod. "Werewolves?"

Both Sherlock and Reid answered at once: "Jellyfish." Spencer glanced approvingly at Sherlock and added, "They're present all the time, but they tend to swarm most heavily shortly after the full moon." He paused, expecting agreement from Morgan, but got only silence. "Jellyfish stings are really painful," he pointed out.

Both Derek and John rolled their eyes.

Derek shook his head. "Now, babe, I was down there earlier—there're plenty of people on the beach, and none of them are rolling around in agony. I think it's pretty safe," he said soothingly.

Spencer stood pat for a moment, considering. Then he reached for his bag. "Well, I've got a first aid kit in here, so I guess it'll be all right. Let's go. See you later, Sherlock, John."

"Which room are you guys in?" Derek asked the other couple.

"We're 107," John replied.

"Cool—we're neighbors. We're in 105. See ya!"

The two headed toward the beach, Derek slinging an arm around Spencer's shoulders and Spencer leaning into him. John watched their easy affection for each other, and tried to imagine a day when he and Sherlock might attain something close to it. He started to say something, but Sherlock made a loud slurping noise as he sucked down the rest of his pina colada, and the moment just didn't seem right.

John sat perched on the edge of Sherlock's chair for a long time, trying to put his thoughts in order. But by the time he'd properly formulated a sentence, the unheard of was happening—Sherlock had actually fallen asleep and was snoring lightly.

John sighed.

Definitely not the right time.