I set fire to the rain
It was Thursday, at least John thought so. All the days seemed to float into each other, an endless row of waking up, going to work, going home and falling asleep. Finally those words were true, nothing ever happened to him. Nothing.
He heard someone call his name, probably Greg or Donovan. John walked faster, he hadn't talked to them since the funeral, he hadn't talked to anyone outside work since the funeral. He didn't want to. Even talking to Mrs. Hudson burned, she, Greg, the flat, Scotland Yard, London. Everything burned him with memories, memories of Him, of Sherlock.
He felt something cold on his cheek, was he crying? No, John Watson didn't cry. He mourned, he sulked but he did not cry. Not any more, he couldn't. The first weeks he'd cried, sobbed, but when it didn't bring Sherlock back he stopped. Now there was only emptiness, emptiness that burned.
The voice called out again, deep, a man's voice. Not Donovan then, Anderson perhaps? More raindrops fell on him as walked on, just a few streets away from Baker Street. He sighed as he turned his collar up, it reminded him of Sherlock.
Someone put a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, ready to defend himself from whoever it was. But his fists fell to his side as he looked up, up into those blue eyes. The eyes he last had seen staring empty into the void, and beneath them, the face he had admired from a distance. Always fighting the urge to touch it, kiss it.
"Sherlock?" the name was only a whisper, barely loud enough for himself to hear. First he thought the taller man hadn't heard him, but then Sherlock, his Sherlock, his living, breathing, brilliant Sherlock nodded. They just stood there for a moment, the detective trying to say something, apologize maybe, but before he could find the right words John's fist hit him straight at the jaw. The taller man was taken by surprise and fell backwards onto the pavement.
"You!" John wasn't happy to find himself screaming in public, but all the feelings he had been hiding during the years Sherlock had been gone needed to get out in some way. Screaming seemed like a good way.
"You're gone for years and then, and then, you just show up! Like you've just been on vacation! You've been alive this whole time I guess? And not even a word! Not even" but John couldn't continue, his mouth was to full of consulting detective. Sherlock's wet hair was cool on his forehead as the detectives mouth found his. John bend his head backwards to join Sherlock. There, in the rain on the empty street the dreams he had had since the first time he'd seen Sherlock came true.
He reached up to run his fingers through Sherlock's black hair. He opened his eyes, not aware that they had been closed until he saw the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.
The consulting detective's pale face surrounded by raindrops, and straight behind him the sunset's red colours made the rain look like it was on fire. He closed his eyes again, the picture saved on the insides of his eyes, as he finally touched Sherlock beautiful face.
