The rain was falling fast, pouring, making the drops that hit the ground look like smoke against the grey pavement. It was a dark day, and people's mood seemed to be matching the cloudy sky. Passers bumped into each other on their hurry to find a warmer, cosier and drier place in the great city of London. Cafes were crowded, but those who had no choice but to go around with their work and life passed by hurriedly, umbrellas bumping into each other, grumpy faces and fast paces.
Sherlock stood in the middle of the pavement, almost unnoticed by the people around him, who only acknowledge his presence when they had to step aside to avoid hitting him. Everyone so unhappy, annoyed and disappointed with their boring, uneventful lives.
The rain had already soaked his hair but, even if he did notice it, he didn't bother. It had been a good day. A very good day, on Sherlock's parameters. Lestrade had called in the morning with probably the most interesting case Sherlock have heard. He hadn't yet found the solution to that problem. He hadn't even started to solve it, though he had thought about it. But it didn't matter, none of it mattered. He would find the murderer; he would finish the puzzle and illuminate the darkest corners of that case. There was no need to hurry, he had his brilliant mind and he could trust it. The promise of an investigation like this was enough to set his gears in motion, to chase the boredom away.
He felt the rain stop falling. And he sensed, even before seeing, the man who was holding the umbrella next to him. In order to keep Sherlock dry he was getting soaked as well.
"What are you doing here?" John asked, a concerned expression on his face.
He had been talking with Sherlock over breakfast and the other man was telling him all about the new case. John heard him talk, his own expression changing slightly as he heard Sherlock speaking passionately about the case. And something happened in that moment. His heart didn't start beating fast, and nothing in his body function had changed, but he felt as if something had finally been completed. Like a machine with a missing piece and suddenly, as it gets the piece back, starts working, everything in place, everything as it should be. And he knew right then that he had been lying to everybody and himself. He might not have seen that he was in love with Sherlock, but he could see it now. It was true. He was in love with him. With him and his grumpy mornings, and crazy ramblings and laziness. With him and his errand curls and his violin playing at 2 in the morning and the mess over the kitchen table.
Sherlock saw John's expression change as he placed the newspaper down, talking about the case Lestrade had given him and he too understood something had changed. Finally John was looking at him, seeing him, with the look he had been longing to see forever. Sherlock wasn't sure John realised it, but he knew it, he recognised it. The expression on John's face was of admiration, but not like before. It was passion, and lust and, mostly, tenderness. After all these years his John had fallen for him at last. Had realised what he had been trying to deny all along. And that had been too much for Sherlock to handle. He had stopped talking and he had come down the stairs and into the street, feeling the rain as it cooled him down and washed away his euphoric mood, ready to burst.
John was now keeping him out of the rain. Sherlock, taller than him, looked down and took the umbrella from the other man's hands, able now to protect them both from the heavy rain. But he hadn't settled down enough yet, and the euphoria seemed to be rising again from inside his chest and up his throat and he felt he needed to scream. And then John smiled at him, his blond hair now darker and wet, the hair on his neck prickled up because of the cold rain. Sherlock didn't smile. He leaned down and he kissed John. A quiet kiss, a felt one. He noticed John apprehension at first but that was quickly replaced by passion. And John grabbed the collar of Sherlock's coat and kissed him back, unable to feel the rain that was falling on them again, as Sherlock had let go of the umbrella, or to care that they were kissing in the middle of London, where anyone could see them.
There were them, and the umbrella on the pavement, and everyone going on with their lives without stopping to look and enjoy all the amazing things it had to offer. And there was love, the good kind, which no rain would ever be able to wash away.