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What he remembered most from that day was the rain. Not hard but pervasive, so that his thick hair was weighted down against his head, dripping bitter droplets down his neck. An umbrella was useless against the insistent dampness, hands buried in the pockets somehow became cold and water-wrinkled. Raindrops streaked down cheeks, along the sides of noses, where perhaps real tears may have been, for some, if not for the shock.
The Thames was the same colour as the sky, and there was no demarcation between the two. On the other side of the river, invisible through the mist and haze, were the words "Traitor's Gate" painted in glaring white on the walls of the river. No longer an opening, but the lines of it were still easily visible when one was close enough.
On this side of the river, in this private area of the rain, a group of them, staring down at the body whose blank eyes sought the sky but could not find it. Moisture pooled on dead skin, replacing her tears as well, sitting in perfect, round bubbles along her eyelashes, on her blue lips.
A vivid splash of red across her chest had been muted by the river's rage.
But what he remembered most was the rain.
And John, throwing up.
"She's been in there less than a day," the doctor managed, unable to look up, unwilling to stand.
"We may still be able to get something from forensics, then," Lestrade sighed.
"We know who did this," Sherlock said shortly. "No matter what you find on her, it will come back to him."
Lestrade gave him a hard look, but Sherlock looked back levelly.
"Why her?" the inspector asked, giving up the silent battle after only a moment.
"He's sending us a message. He's sending me a message."
"That was not nice, Sherlock!" John had snapped. It had gone unremarked upon until much later.
"Why not?"
"She was trying to get your attention."
"Whatever for?"
A long, tired look from a former army doctor. It seemed centuries old, that look.
"How can someone so perceptive be so blind?" he demanded, throwing his hands in the air. "She's in love with you, Sherlock."
That had been unexpected, certainly.
He turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" Lestrade demanded.
"You don't need me," he tossed over his shoulder. "James Moriarty killed her, and dumped her in the river yesterday, as John said. Wherever he did this, he won't have left anything on her to tell us."
He turned away again, then paused. Something was different this time, something missing, or not quite right. His fingertips were starting to feel numb now and he wished for a cup of tea to warm them.
Sherlock turned back again. Nothing seemed to have changed. Molly's body lay on the nearly frozen, muddy ground, mist curling over too-white skin. Lestrade was standing over her, as if this could somehow protect her, even now. A police detective he didn't know was staring down at the body, crouched down, balanced on the balls of her feet, her radio in one hand, but silent. John had his head in his hands, unmoving.
"John," Sherlock said carefully, crouching down next to his colleague. "Are you all right?"
"Why did you throw up?"
John Watson started from sleep.
"What?" he managed.
"Why did you throw up?"
His brain scrambled to both wake up and catch up at the same time. He screwed his eyes shut, wondering if he were dreaming, then opened them again, trying to see through the darkness. Dimly, he could decipher the outline of another body, perched on the edge of his bed.
"Sherlock?" he asked, still trying to grasp the situation.
"Yes, of course. I'm the only other person who lives here. Who else would be in your room in the middle of the night?"
John pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.
"Why are you in my room in the middle of the night?" he asked. The fuzziness of sleep still clung to his voice and he yawned, trying to shake if off.
"I couldn't sleep. Why did you throw up?"
"What in the world are you talking about? I didn't throw up. I'm fine. Or I would be, if you had left me to sleep."
"When we pulled Molly Hooper's body out of the Thames," Sherlock said. "You threw up. I've been trying to figure out why, but it's left me stumped. You were an army doctor; you've seen far worse. Did you throw up every time you saw a patient die in Afghanistan? I asked myself that, too, but came to the conclusion that you couldn't have, or else you'd get no work done. After all, a doctor must lose some patients, even a good doctor. You didn't throw up when Sarah split from you, did you? You weren't emotionally attached to Molly, nor did you know her particularly well. I suppose it could have been the connection to Moriarty, and a reminder of the time he tried to kill you."
John fell back on his pillow, covering his eyes with his hands.
"Oh my lord," he moaned. "You really are a sociopath. Sherlock, that was over two months ago. Why are you asking me this now?"
"I've failed to come to a conclusion regarding your actions. And I couldn't sleep."
"God, what time is it?" John groaned.
"One-oh-three."
"If I tell you, will you leave me alone?" he asked.
"What if I still can't sleep after you've given me your answer? Your explanations are often insufficient, John. I may need more information."
"You are not making any friends here," John muttered, rolling onto his side, burying his face in his pillow.
"I've already established that you're my friend. You are exceedingly loyal, to a fault. That isn't in question. Why did you throw up?"
John groaned again, giving up.
"Because it was upsetting, Sherlock. Yes, I've seen worse. That was not the first time seeing someone die has made me throw up. But she didn't do anything. He murdered her because he could, to taunt you, because he knew she liked you, but that you didn't really think about her at all. He killed her because he thought it was funny."
Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then shifted in the darkness, becoming another series of lines, long legs drawn up on the side of the bed, elbows clasped loosely about his knees.
"That is true," he said quietly.
John rolled onto his back again, passing a hand over his eyes.
"Is my answer satisfactory?" he asked, but Sherlock paid no heed to the wryness in his voice.
"More succinct than usual," he replied.
"Thanks," John muttered. "Now, can I sleep?"
"I suppose so, yes," Sherlock said, and shifted again, stretching out beside him, unbidden. John sat up halfway.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Trying to sleep. I could not get to sleep in my own bed, so a change of scenery may be required."
"What about the couch?" John sighed. He knew he had lost the argument already, and had long ago grown used to his flatmate's eccentricities. In Afghanistan, he'd certainly had less comfortable sleeping arrangements than this, too. When he thought about it, he was surprised Sherlock hadn't tried it before, on some previous sleepless night. Maybe he'd just give him this damn bed and buy a new one.
"I despise that couch," Sherlock replied. "We need a new one."
"Fine," John muttered. "But later." He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, practicing the deep breathing techniques he'd been taught so long ago, that helped him get back to sleep after some of the worst of the nightmares following combat. After a few minutes, Sherlock's breathing matched his own, then slowed even more, until the other man was asleep. John lay in the darkness, trying to keep his jaw from tightening, but he could feel the ache creeping into his shoulder. The faint patter of rain on the window told him why.
He tried not to shift; it wouldn't help. Painkillers might, but often didn't when the weather changed suddenly. If Sherlock hadn't woken him, he might have slept through it.
Dammit, he sighed to himself. Keep breathing. John counted his breaths, ten counts per inhale, hold for ten, ten counts per exhale. It kept the worst of the growing pain at bay, but he couldn't say for how long.
"Why are you still awake?" a voice muttered in the darkness.
John opened one eye.
"I thought you were asleep."
"I told you, I can't sleep."
John shifted then, groaning again, this time, not at Sherlock. The other man heard the distinction and rolled over quickly.
"What is it?" he demanded.
"My shoulder," John sighed.
"Ah yes. The barometer is dropping. The storm they predicted is early."
"I can tell," John muttered. He pressed his right hand over his eyes as the clatter of winter raindrops on the window grew louder. Beside him, Sherlock shifted again, and John felt a hand close very gently over his left shoulder. The touch was light at first, but gradually increased in pressure.
"What?" he asked.
"Is it helping?" Sherlock replied. John was silent for a moment, then nodded into the darkness.
"Yes, actually." He could feel some of the ache drain away under the heel of Sherlock's hand. Vaguely, he wondered why he'd never considered trying something like this before.
"I'm assuming the same principal as applying pressure to a knotted muscle. Scar tissue can also be broken down the routine and consistent application of pressure, which is some patients receive massage therapy after an injury or surgery."
"Now how did you know that?" John muttered sleepily.
"I looked up the treatment of traumatic injuries after meeting you."
"Of course you did," John sighed.
"Do you think you could sleep now?"
"I sure hope so," John muttered. He closed his eyes again. The feel of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, just short of the point of clasping too tightly, was like a balm. John took a slow deep breath and let out even more slowly. The rain rattled against the window even harder, joined by the wind. Winter's first real storm. He listened to it, lulled somewhere between consciousness and semi-consciousness.
"Are you asleep yet?" Sherlock whispered after long minutes. "Because I'm not certain how much longer I can keep this up."
John drifted awake again, a smile tugging on his lips, and he began to laugh, quietly. He could feel Sherlock prop himself on his free arm, his grip on John's shoulder relaxing somewhat. The ache grew again, but this time, John was less aware of it.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
John chuckled and tapped the pillow beside him.
"Lie down, Sherlock," he said. After a moment, Sherlock did so, peering at him through the darkness, one hand still on John's left shoulder. "Do you know what your brother asked me about your last time I saw him?"
"My brother is a complete ass and you should ignore him."
John ignored this, instead.
"He asked me if we were sleeping together. I think next time, I may tell him yes. Except that you won't let me sleep."
Sherlock chuckled and John turned his head to face his friend, aware suddenly of how close they were, of the warmth radiating from his friend's body. He felt the pressure on his shoulder ease and vanish, then Sherlock's hand brush his cheek. John reached up and took that hand, turning his face slightly so he could kiss Sherlock's palm. The quiet gasp of surprise was rewarding.
He turned his head back, weaving a hand into Sherlock's dark hair and kissing him lightly. He felt a moment's hesitation, out of surprise, and the hint of dryness on Sherlock's lips that told of the encroaching winter. He smiled, then kissed Sherlock again, more deeply.
"I was right. For someone so perceptive, you really can be quite blind," John murmured. "Even your brother called this one before you saw it. What on Earth took you so long?"
Sherlock touched John's face lightly with his fingertips, and John closed his eyes, relishing the sensation, following its every detail. Outside, the storm had grown, so that the wind cried outside, outlining the windows with cold air. The rain hammered on the roof and on the glass, as if pleading to be let in.
"I'm not sure," Sherlock said. John blinked, surprised to hear those words, and even more surprised to hear Sherlock admit to them. "I think I was waiting."
"For what?"
"For the rain."