This idea has been with me for a few days so I finally gave in and wrote it out.
I do not own them therefore I do not profit.
Many thanks to MapleLeafCameo (You really should read her work!) for looking this over for me.
Cup of tea in hand, John watched the storm from his chair. It had begun nearly half an hour before, just after he had made it home from his shift at the surgery, and he was glad to be indoors instead of caught in the heavy rain.
It had been almost two years since Sherlock's fall, and only a year since John had moved back into 221B Baker Street. No violin or gunshots filled the air. Experiment equipment and clothing had been donated. All that remained of the genius was his violin, great coat and scarf. The instrument was kept safely in John's bedroom and the dry cleaned pieces of outerwear hung on their usual hook by the door.
The doctor had refused to play the martyr and after a time of mourning had resumed living as he knew his best friend would have wanted him to. There was work, nights when he would meet friends at the pub and the occasional date. Yet he knew, no matter his efforts, something would always be missing.
At first John had been amazed by how little things would remind him of Sherlock; a glimpse of someone filled with confidence striding by, an arrogant scoff from a nearby table in the pub and one time in particular John briefly stopped walking when he had seen a tall man with dark curly hair just ahead of him. There were times when even the weather could suggest the gangly genius.
Such as now when a severe thunderstorm had chosen to descend upon London.
Each raindrop as it hit the window pane held a hint of Sherlock's voice as he would think out loud about every clue, trying to find the connection that would make the pieces fall into place. Many taps seemed to say: Why? Stupid! No! Clever! Other drops would copy the rhythm of Sherlock's violin as he would pluck it in a distracted manner while thinking, or ignoring his brother.
When the lightening arrived, the doctor always smiled as he imagined it was attempting to replicate the brilliance and energy of Sherlock Holmes. The moment when he suddenly realized how each part fit. Being human, there were times John allowed himself to feel just the tiniest bit sorry for himself and when flashes of light filled the sky he allowed his mind to replay what Sherlock had said when they had been helping Henry Knight. You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable!
Of course the thunder always followed the light much as John had shadowed Sherlock. Most nights, as it did tonight, the rumbles would remind John of the arguments his friend would have with Anderson, Donovan and at times, Lestrade. Back and forth they would go: Idiot! Freak! You see but you do not observe! Enough! Each word, even the cutting ones, kept safely in his mind, waiting for recovery when needed.
Thunderstorms might scare others when they rolled over the city but John Watson would always welcome them. For this was when he would gaze outside and remember.