It's raining terribly, and every time he runs through a puddle, water splashes up the leg of his trousers and soaks his skin that much more. Sherlock hardly notices, engrossed in the case and the thrill of the chase. It doesn't matter, not when there's a crime lord fifty paces ahead and they're closing in quick. He can feel John behind him, a steady presence at his back.
The rain is sluicing down in droves, flattening dark curls to his forehead and making it hard to see - vision is a wily thing at 3 AM during a downpour anyway - but it doesn't matter. Through his waterlogged eyes, Sherlock can make out the tell-tale flash of police cars, and the criminal has nowhere to go - they'd ensured that.
Well, John had.
Sherlock feels a momentary blossoming of warmth in his chest at the memory of John - sweet, unassuming, would-you-like-some-tea?, John, ordering Scotland Yarders to block off all the alleyways. The shock on their faces had been priceless; not something he'd soon forget.
They've reached the ring of police cars now, just in time to watch an officer cuff the man, who spits and snarls all the way into the back of a cruiser. Lestrade gives them a weary nod over the hood, and a look that clearly says, 'We'll deal with specifics tomorrow.' Watching the cars disperse, Sherlock lets himself feel fleetingly disappointed. It would have been fun to see John rugby tackle another suspect.
Shaking the thought away, Sherlock turns to the man in question, only to stop short. John is standing behind him, as always, but several things immediately make themselves known under Sherlock's gaze.
The threadbare jacket John insists on wearing is soaked straight through - probably not offering any warmth at all. His teeth are clenched, probably to keep them from chattering. His normally tan face is pale in the light cast by a street lamp, and even through the downpour Sherlock can see he's hugging himself in a vain effort to capture some of his own body heat.
This is not okay. John is Sherlock's - John's comfort is Very Important. A chattering John with a pained expression that means his shoulder hurts in danger of hypothermia is definitely not good.
"Come here." His voice sounds muted in the rain, but the smaller man hears. His face takes on a wary sort of expression, and Sherlock feels like he's trying to coax a frightened animal to himself. "John, come on now!" Impatiently, he tugs open his own coat and pulls John into it, and smugly realizes that yes, they have the perfect height difference - the golden crown of John's head tucks itself neatly under his chin.
Deftly, Sherlock maneuvers the small man to his side, keeping the coat tucked firmly around himself and wrapping an arm over broad shoulders. He gives himself a moment to enjoy the warm press of John's body against his, alternately soft and hard and reassuringly alive. After a moment, John's frame relaxes against his, and a shy arm comes to wrap around his waist under the coat. Sherlock can't help but smile, just a little.
"Alright, then. Come now, John. Let's find a cab and go home."
A/N: Just a tiny piece of fluff I wrote at 6 AM. I know, I know. I should be working on 'Cat's in the Cradle' - don't worry! Third chapter is in the works. :)
I do not own Sherlock. This is written with an appreciation for the original works in mind.