The wind was blowing hard against the windows, and a few of the glass panes were threatening to shatter and leave the room open to the cold. The whistling sound could be heard from every room in the house, even with the radio on. This wasn't typical British weather, this was something far worse than that.
Sherlock Holmes had made a fort with a few blankets, chairs and his sofa, and was drinking hot chocolate with his teeth clanking against the mug. Heart racing, he stroked the carpet underneath him absent mindedly. When would John get home? Although he'd never admit it, Sherlock had never wanted company more than he did now. Normally, he could take or leave humans, but this was different.
He cursed himself for being so childish. Here he was, supposedly the greatest detective of all time, and afraid of a little thunderstorm. Surely he could take his mind off it if he could just get out from under these blankets and get John's laptop – BANG.
A loud, sudden clap of thunder caused him to yelp and cower even further against the sofa, his long legs curled up to his chin. "John," he whimpered.
Almost in reply, the door opened. He heard heavy footsteps clumping up the stairs, but they didn't belong to John. John's footsteps were heavy, yet graceful and swift. No, these were the footsteps of an older, less gentle man.
"Sherlock! We need you at the Yard, please come," begged the inspector, before looking round in bemusement. "Sherlock?"
"Fuck off!" groaned the young man from underneath the blankets.
"Sherlock?"
"FUCK OFF!"
Lestrade sighed and clambered back down the stairs, wondering what caused Sherlock to become so snappy. He was sarcastic and unpredictable at the best of times, but he only shouted when he was really angry... or scared? But what could Sherlock possibly have been scared of at that moment?
Sherlock heard the door bang shut, and buried his face into a cushion. "Oh, very eloquent," he scolded himself angrily.
More footsteps. If this was Lestrade trying to convince him to go back down to the yard again, Sherlock swore he would murder him. Oh, the irony.
"Sherlock?" John's voice bellowed from the hallway. "They only had semi-skimmed milk, is that -"
John's words were stopped by a pair of lips smashed passionately onto his own. John put his arms around his boyfriend's waist, and whispered softly in his ear. "I'm sorry I had to leave you, darling. I love you. Shh, it's okay. I'm here now. More hot chocolate?"
Sherlock nodded.