It was raining outside.
It had been earlier, too. Not that pathetic little drizzle that has been going on for weeks in London, but a proper downpour, flooding the gutters and washing away all of the debree littering the streets. The rain was darkly beautiful. The sky had been grey and darkening, but light in a dim way, rather like the day was fighting the night for dominance, a civil war between two aspects of nature. The dry heat that had been engulfing the area was combating the rain, resulting in a stuffy humidity that was making it hard for John to breathe. The rain pouring against the windows in 221B was blurring the outside world from his vision. John just wanted to go outside and stand in it, as mad at it seemed. He wanted the winds tousling his hair. The wanted the ache in his shoulder and in his leg to ground him, to bring him back to reality. He wanted the currents to lift his admittedly small frame and carry him away from himself. No, that was contradictory. Which did he want? What a cock up. You can't decide, Watson, pull yourself together.
He wanted the rain to wash away every part of him, he decided. He wanted to be cleaned of his past, of his haunting, of curly, dark hair, and multicoloured eyes, and tall frames, and trenchcoats, and cheekbones. He wanted to fade, to slowly disintegrate like a pebble into sand, until he was no more. He couldn't be John Watson without Sherlock Holmes anymore.
