John huffed and staggered under the bulk of the weighted net that Sherlock had practically thrown at him, pausing only to wipe his streaming eyes as they were pelted, once again, with a spume of briny water. He finally wobbled his way to the starboard prow of the boat, flinging the net out into the water with as much strength as he could muster, given his bad shoulder.
"Generally people use box nets to trap crawdads," Sherlock said dreamily, looking out over the Louisiana coastline as if analyzing its atmospheric salt content using his eyes alone. John honestly wouldn't have been surprised if that was exactly what he was doing.
"Remind me again why we're here?" The doctor replied, his tone dripping with the sulkiness he generally only displayed when Sherlock infantilized him with a brutal comment.
"We're on vacation. A little fresh air – "
"You clearly forgot about the BP spill."
"- fresh water –"
"Like I said, BP spill. Deepwater Horizon? Never heard of it?"
"- and some vigorous exercise. Well, for you."
"I can't argue with that one," John sighed, plopping down into the rickety chair perched on Sherlock's left. The dinghy they had rented was beyond decrepit and had clearly never been dry-docked in its entire career: barnacles encrusted its entire hull as it if was actually a part of the ocean floor, and its steering was completely shot. John had nearly given himself heat stroke while laboring to pull it into the water, while Sherlock merely stood nearby, offering criticism of his technique as if the fact that he even paid attention to John's struggle was a compliment.
Still, the good doctor couldn't find it in him to be angry with the consulting detective. The look in Sherlock's eyes as he looked out over the horizon staggered him; it reminded him of the night that the detective had looked up at the stars over London and called them beautiful. Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock was not actually a sociopath at all; perhaps Sherlock felt so much and so deeply that it pained him to share, and he only maintained a façade of cold criticality because it protected his inner whirlpool of emotion from cycling out of control.
"But seriously, Sherlock. Did you not hear about the oil spill that happened here? It was all over the news for almost two years. You don't remember that at all?"
The taller man turned to him, his eyes serene, reflecting the clouds in their surface as if they were tiny tidepools of the ocean, a piece of the watery wilderness encapsulated forever in his face. "I probably heard of it and then deleted it. Regardless, that is irrelevant to the matter at hand." He smoothly leaned over the boat and pulled a writhing creature from the net, holding it gingerly. "Do you remember what a crawdad looks like? I don't."