A/N Set during the first season. Enjoy.
Fearless
Umbrellas opening up like flower blossoms alongside and in front of, before gliding determinedly out into the night, each regally proud in the knowledge that the rain could not help but part before it.
John regretted his own lack of one, but that was the price he paid. It seemed quite incredible really. A normal person on receiving a text from their roommate with the name of a street and the words 'come quickly' would grab their money, jacket and umbrella. John grabbed his gun. Incredible.
Now he stood in the doorway of the restaurant knowing he was about to get drenched.
"Something has annoyed you."
John turned and glared at Sherlock who stood, hands in pockets, gazing out on the rain.
"Really? I wonder what," John muttered, trying to work out the quickest route home with the most shelter.
"Well I can only presume," Sherlock responded with a complete disregard to the sarcasm, "that you object to getting wet. An objection I really cannot fathom. It won't hurt you."
John glanced down at his jumper dolefully, knowing full well just how much water it could soak up and how heavy it got.
"Maybe so, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it," John responded.
Sherlock rolled his eyes derisively, "The fearless Doctor Watson afraid of a little liquid precipitation."
John chose to ignore him, instead opting to squint through the rain in the hope of spotting a taxi. He decided to not point out that the current downpour could hardly be described as 'a little' anything.
Sherlock watched him for a moment longer, slowly gathering impatience before finally declaring, "For goodness sake, come on," and grabbing the doctor's arm wrenched him out into the onslaught. It took a moment for John to register the full impact of the rain, and then it hit him like a tonne of bricks.
"I'm going to bloody kill you Sherlock!" John yelled over the roar that suddenly enveloped him. In seconds he was soaked. The harsh pelts stung his skin until he was so wet he could no longer feel them.
"There. That wasn't so bad was it?"
John had to swipe a hand across his eyes so that he could look at, and suitably glare at, the detective. Sherlock was standing just as drenched as John imagined he was, but he wore the 'I practically fell in a river' look much better. The rain was so thick that it was as though a thin grey veil of gauze separated them.
Suddenly the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched in a barely suppressed smile.
"What?" John demanded.
The smile became less suppressed.
"There's an expression that you remind me of. I think it's 'looking like a drowned rat'."
John glared at Sherlock before glancing down at himself and plucking at the drenched fabric of his jumper so it peeled away, before settling back with a wet slap. He met the laughing eyes of the man who had got him into this mess, and felt an echoing smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
He pointed a finger at Sherlock, "It's not funny," he said firmly, as much to himself. "It's not."
"No," agreed Sherlock as a grin escaped. John felt a grin on his own face in answer and suddenly they were laughing in the rain like giddy children.
When they eventually staggered into 221B, shoes squelching and water making puddles on the floor, Mrs Hudson gave an exclamation and proceeded to tell them off whilst burying them in swathes of towels. Sherlock tried to shrug her off, exclaiming that he didn't need all these towels and he could dry his own hair, before being subjected to the full brunt of a scolding that left him sat meekly in his armchair, glaring at her back as she bustled into the kitchen to make some tea.
John smiled to himself, savouring his moment of revenge, as he muttered just loud enough for the detective to hear, "The fearless Sherlock Holmes afraid of a little landlady?"
In retrospect he probably shouldn't have said it when Mrs Hudson was stood right behind him with a cup of very hot tea.