Croissants. Strange little things, they are. A lot like life itself, really. They taste incredibly sweet and yet last such a short time. You can fill them up with a million different things but in the end; it's the same basic formula. How tragic.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock. Can you not just eat it, rather than mull over the philosophical implications of it? It's just a piece of bread." Sherlock seemed to take offense at this. "John, please don't insult my intelligence by acting the joker on this trip. Nothing is ever just what it appears to be, unless it is just what it appears to be. A croissant, this lonely piece of bread from France, Is nothing of the sort. It is beautiful, delicateā€¦" Sherlock popped the croissant into his mouth. "And a great tragedy to see it gone. But no matterā€¦." He said, picking up another one. "Life comes and goes."

They were in the back of a taxi, heading for Scotland. Thank god for the privacy glass, because Sherlock didn't think he could listen to a taxi driver's audio collection for 7 hours. If he wanted to listen to Genesis, he would be trying to get to sleep. He had been having trouble sleeping. His mind was beginning to spiral. Not out of control, mind you, just spiral. John had been kind enough to pack food for them both, with the croissants being a request of Sherlock's. As Sherlock rarely ever ate, let alone asked for food, John decided to entertain his request. "Sherlock?" John asked. "What do you think Lestrade would say if he knew we were just running off without telling him?"
Sherlock was uninterested. "Well, he can say whatever he likes; he can't do anything about it. He doesn't own us, no matter what he would want every one of his friends at the yard to believe."
There was an element of truth to Sherlock's words. They had heard of him bragging about the great detectives he had under his finger. They had laughed at it a great many times too.

"Do you remember why we're here, Sherlock?"
"How could I forget? We're here for a holiday. Personally, I would have preferred Venice, or perhaps Paris, but the highlands will suffice."
A manor. John's old army friend had invited them to stay. Sherlock hoped they had croissants in Scottish manors. There was a loch nearby, as well. Could you skim croissants like stones? Sherlock hoped so.

Just then, Sherlock Holmes woke up. He grinned to himself. Dreams. Strange little things, they are. A lot like croissants, really. They taste incredibly sweet and yet last such a short time. You can fill them up with a million different things but in the end; it's the same basic formula. How tragic.