John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had always liked one another. It was that simple. Sherlock liked the way that John could make the perfect coffee and John liked the way Sherlock could make him want to smile or smash his head against the wall a few times. They were friends. Plain and simple.
That was until it started.
It was raining that day. Well, they were in central London, and it was the middle of winter; so it always rained. But John liked the rain. He liked the way that the water droplets would splutter down the window or spill slowly like they couldn't decide whether or not to let themselves drop to the ground. He liked how they seemed to have their own little story; even if it was for only a few seconds.
Sherlock hated the rain. He thought that it was a disturbance. It was a disruption to the peace; to his thinking, to his mind palace. The freezing cold weather he could deal with. It was just there. It didn't disrupt his thoughts. But the rain, especially the thunder, he just wanted to get up and shoot at it like he did at the wall. But he suspected that if he did that Mrs Hudson from downstairs would come running up to tell him off like she always did.
That woman, Sherlock thought numbly.
John wasn't sitting in his usual chair today; the one closest to the kitchen and facing the window. But rather he was standing by the window admiring the rain like he usually did. On most days Sherlock would become irritable and make sarcastic remarks at John for standing so dramatically by the window just to watch the rain fall.
'We're in England John, it rains almost every day. If you're going to stand by the window to watch the rain fall every single time that it rains, then I can tell you one thing; your life is going to be extremely un-productive.' Then as an after note he mumbled, 'I mean, not that it's too productive anyway.'
'I heard that.' John replied, though there was nothing harsh to it, he just said it.
That's when Sherlock found himself smiling. Not keeping a straight face at what John would say, but actually smiling. He didn't even smile when he solved one of the many mysteries that were brought to him. At once he tried to think of something witty to say. Something to distract himself, but it wasn't really working. 'Well …'
John turned around. He was leaning casually against the white, Victorian window sill; the pale, blue morning light glistening across his face. His hair was a mess, all tousled and crazy. But it looked good on him. It was different to his usual tamed hair do. He looked happy like that.
John was smirking. He's smirking. He's actually smirking at me, Sherlock thought to himself annoyingly. Ugh.
'Well what, Sherlock?'
And for once, Sherlock Holmes was absolutely speechless. He couldn't even muster himself to sputter 'what,' or 'well.' He just looked at John. He was like a painting standing there: shadows and lines.
John laughed slightly, beginning to turn back to the window.
'Why do you do that?' Sherlock blurted suddenly.
John spun around again, staring Sherlock directly in the eye.
Sherlock hated it when he did that. It meant that he had to do it back, otherwise he felt defeated. John Watson seemed to be the only person that Sherlock knew who could make him feel intimidated. 'That. Why do you always watch the rain Watson?'
'Sherlock you know exactly why.'
'No. No I don't actually. Tell me.'
John smiled. 'Sherlock I'm not going to tell you. Besides, I'm not going to bore you with the poetic details.'
Sherlock suddenly felt a sting of sadness. He didn't realise John thought that when he spoke to Sherlock that John thought he was boring him. That was one thing Sherlock was sure on in life: John Watson could never bore him. Never.
'John,' Sherlock whispered. 'You could never bore me. Never.'
'Yes Sherlock.'
The rain outside began to roar and John turned back to the window.