Ever since he was very young, John Watson had always thought of rain as a type of dying.
The drops fell to down to Earth like tears, as though the heavens were mourning a loss. And when the last flash of lightning and the final clap of thunder faded, and the clouds vanished, wasn't that the definition of dying? If something no longer existed, than what was it, if not dead?
Getting shot only seemed to give credit to this idea. Every time the sky darkened and the rain hissed down in sheets, the scar tissue on John's shoulder would twinge and ache, as though reminding him that he himself had almost known death. The dull pain, despite hot showers and painkillers, would stubbornly refuse to subside until the weather finally brightened and the sun showed its tangerine face.
John didn't hate the rain, but he didn't like it either.
And then he met Sherlock, who changed everything with a few deductions and that infuriatingly gorgeous 'the devil may care but I obviously don't' smirk. John lost his psychosomatic limp and his loneliness, and gained an adrenaline addiction and a lifelong friend.
And seven months after they first met, he gained something more.
They had just caught a man suspected of murdering his pregnant mistress, and they stood, grinning at each other like idiots, as rain pattered down softly around them.
Sherlock's hair was damp with moisture, and his pale face was flushed from the slight chill of the wind, and his lips parted so, that when they both wordlessly leaned in, John tasted everything that was Sherlock: tea, spearmint toothpaste, something unknown that was both bitter and sweet and oh-so-Sherlock, and rain. This man, who he was suddenly pressing against an alley wall and who was wrapping his long arms around his shoulders, tasted overpoweringly of the weather surrounding them.
As a desperate whimper issued forth from the lips pressed against his own and greedy fingers twisted in his short hair, John faintly felt a solitary raindrop work its way down his neck before slowly tracing along his collarbone. As it bled into his jumper and Sherlock began to slowly rock against him, his need apparent against John's thigh, John smiled and allowed himself to lean in and take what Sherlock was offering, and to, in turn, happily provide what Sherlock was all but begging for.
For the life of him, John wouldn't be able to tell you how they made it home.
But they did, the door slamming shut behind them just as the first peal of thunder rumbled its displeasure to the world.
Soaked garments are flung to the floor without hesitation. Shaking hands caress bare skin. Moans are quickly swallowed by eager, wet mouths. Brief pain, and then an all encompassing heat that drags matching cries from raw throats. Movement, at first as fluid as a choreographed dance, and then erratic and primal, pushing and taking, giving and seeking. And then there is nothing but the two of them and the liquid bliss that has seemingly replaced the very marrow in their bones as their lips meet tenderly, saying everything that has not yet been said, but surely will be in the near future.
Rain may be a type of dying, John muses later, his fingers lazily tracing along one of Sherlock's bare hipbones as the consulting detective sleeps peacefully beside him, but maybe, just maybe, it was also a type of living.