WE DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK
It was a dreary day; the sky no more brilliant a blue that polished gun metal and the sun no more brilliant a gold than tarnished silver. The fragile beads of rain shattered, each in their own way, against all the roofs, leaving their mark as nothing more than a drip from a roofline and a ping from where they struck. There was a certain beauty to it; the rain. It wiped away the dirt and filth from the air and the mind and left everything gleaming, as if turned to crystal by their touch. But rain also has certain wretchedness in its existence; it was the heavens' tears striking earth, touching every soul with their sadness.
Some are not as acutely affected as others; people who have lightness in their hearts might see rain as silver falling from soft, billowing clouds. But those whose hearts are saddened may think of rain as another problem; another reason to be morose and melancholy.
The man starring at the rain wasn't sad or depressed; he was empty. To him, the rain was a reminder; nothing more than a horrid memorandum of love that was lost and swept away with the shattering of crystal raindrops on bloodied pavement. He stared at the leaden spheres in resentment, reveling in memories long since passed. He heard the landlady hustling about downstairs, cleaning and cooking and various other activities a landlady would generally spend her time with. He felt the old chair beneath him and the cool air around his face, trying so hard to still smell the long over experiments never again to be conducted; to hear the violin being played by the window and the gun shots fired at the wall.
The only thing that brought John Watson out of his thoughts and into the present moment was the short burst of the doorbell. That quick sound only brought back more memories; when they would both get a glint in their eye and look at each other, the word "Client!" silently passing between them.
He shook his head, displacing those thoughts and silently went back to starring at the ashen diamond rain – whoever was at the door could wait. John didn't even bother thinking that the person at the front stoop might be Sherlock; he stopped that false-hope over two years ago.
The bell didn't ring again; whoever it was must have left. John returned to his misery, oblivious of the figure with curly, black hair and startling blue eyes silently walking up the steps, lock picks in one hand and a soft, dark blue scarf in the other.
The figure hung the scarf on the rack and silently placed the organized set of tools back in their pocket. Then, with the utmost ease and gracefulness, the one with the brilliant eyes slowly swung open the door with one gloved hand pressing against the dirty, frosted glass and silently stepped inside, only enough to lean against the door frame with ease.
The figure took a solitary breath before speaking two words that would change both of their lives forever.
"Hello, John."