A/N: This is a Sugarverse story set after Dans la Même Direction. If you haven't read that, this won't make much sense.
The hot Mediterranean sun was exchanged once again for the cooler, gloomier London skies. There had been brilliant moments of sunshine but the fleeting brightness of autumn skies had been replaced with clouds overnight, casting the city in grey. John could feel coming rain, forecasted by the dull ache in his shoulder. Not a storm, but something that would settle in for days, dampening streets and spirits.
There was something else coming, too.
He could feel it in Sherlock – moments of quiet distraction where there should have been focus, periods of stillness when there was meant to be movement. They were small, close enough to Sherlock's normal behaviour to be unnoticeable by others. Like a wrong note in a symphony that didn't halt the entire performance.
Sherlock said nothing of it – probably thought John didn't notice – and John kept his silence, just waiting. The subtle change in the tone indicated Sherlock wasn't fighting it this time, but he wasn't ready.
Routine returned: John at the surgery, Sherlock with his experiments. John was still called upon regardless of the hour to assist with some case. Sherlock still gave dazzling performances at crime scenes. Crossword puzzles and violin music in the flat. Breakfast cooking in the mornings, faint sighs as warm bodies shifted against each other at night.
None of it stopped when the rain started – why let being soaking wet slow you down? John thought wryly once with icy droplets slipping down his spine while they awaited an art thief in a narrow alley.
But this was a quiet day in. He'd lit a fire for the warmth and extra light, mug of tea in hand as he settled into his chair with a crossword. A faint sound from the bedroom where Sherlock had gone to dig something up for his latest experiment, then his husband's voice:
"John."
When no instructions were forthcoming, John put his tea aside and went into the bedroom.
The light from the bedside lamp did little to dampen the dimness, and Sherlock looked somehow small, lost, standing in the middle of the room. Eyes closed, tears reflecting the weak light, a palm pressed over his lips as if that would contain it. A brief shake of his head – but not a denial this time..
There was relief at the thought of 'finally' but John said nothing as he crossed the room, closing warm hands loosely around Sherlock's face. A shaky inhalation broke the silence; John wound his arms around his husband, pulled them gently to sit on the rug that covered the hard floor. Sherlock's body, accustomed to odd contortions and to John, folded in on itself and around the doctor as if there were no obstacles..
Lips were pressed into hair, a hand smoothed up and down a silk-covered back as the pattern of the rain on the windows outside matched the grief finally resolving itself inside.