There are people who hate the rain. That's probably one explanation why someone invented the umbrella. Maybe because the rain is completely unpredictable; it's the most accurate example of irony. But for Martha Hudson, rain is something people should embrace with arms wide open, and not necessarily naked in the street, but somehow that seems a good idea. Because the rain will eventually go, and might never come back.
Baker Street is located in central London. It's an orphanage managed by Martha Hudson and her best friend Amelia Turner. Both of these lovely women's husbands died fighting for Queen and Country, leaving behind nothing more than their army pensions and childless wives.
The orphanage started when a knock on the door of Baker Street awoke the two ladies in the middle of the night. It was raining cats and dogs when they found a lovely three month old boy sleeping helplessly in his tiny basket with a note tucked in his thin piece of blanket. What happened next is, as they say, history.
"Are you coming, love?" Mrs. Hudson asked her nine year old companion Hamish, who was seated on the stairs of 221B Baker Street, in her softest and sweetest voice.
"No." He said sternly, glaring daggers at Mrs. Hudson.
Hamish reminded her of her boys – now a successful ex-army doctor and detective, respectively – and she knew the addition of little Hamish would be perfect in their adventurous life, especially with the boy's intelligence and his passion for helping people.
'Oh look at him. He's got the pout down perfectly,' she thought. It took four of her strides to reach the stairs where little Hamish was sitting. Slowly her right hand found its way to the boy's chin and she gently lifted his face to meet his eyes. "But why ever not dearie?" asked Mrs. Hudson.
"Because it's raining. I hate how the ground smells. It's always raining!" his furious expression was betrayed by his small squeaky voice. His gaze settled on the rain-streaked window of their flat where the droplets of water pitter-pattered against the glass. "And I don't want to walk in the rain with strangers!" he said in a voice so low that Mrs. Hudson almost didn't catch it.
The old lady sighed, willing her patience to stay. She smiled instead; she knew Hamish was only acting out because he didn't want to leave. He'd miss his friends; Billy especially. "Don't worry," she soothed, "they're both wonderful people. A detective and a doctor - didn't you say you like Dr. Sawyer's job? Besides, you love mysteries."
"Consulting detective," he grumbled.
"How did you-"
Hamish's pout grew longer. "I heard you talking to them…"
Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened, not because the boy had been eavesdropping, but for something else entirely. "They're still strangers," Hamish muttered. "I don't even know their names."
"Well, you said you don't want to know." Feeling defeated and not willing to argue with the boy, she stood, and was about to gently yank him up when her phone chimed.
Sorry Mrs. H, running a bit late. Paperwork at NSY . Tell Hamish will be there soon. –J
With time to spare before letting go of Hamish, Mrs. Hudson decided to stall for a moment and maybe change his perception of the rain instead of arguing with him all afternoon. He was prone to throwing tantrums – God knows, the last time he did, there were firemen outside the building – and so she sat gently beside him, folding her hands neatly on top of her legs. "The rain isn't so bad, dear. We should enjoy it while we can. Because eventually it will end, and we have no guarantees that it will ever come back. Let me tell you a story," she says. "There was once a time when the rain stopped coming. The people were furious; they cursed the Gods for – "
"No." There was an implied 'I don't want to hear your dull story' in the word and Mrs. Hudson, perplexed, wiggled her index finger in his face. It was a motion that she had perfected over the years, one that meant 'not good'.
"Now young man, that is not how you talk to your grandmere," said Mrs. Hudson, exasperated, still looking at the little boy sternly.
"Sorry, grandmere," he murmured, looking down
Once it looked as though Hamish might behave himself, Mrs. Hudson continued with her story. "The people were angry at the Gods, because they waited a year for a rain that never came. Without it, the fields started to wither. The animals, flowers, and even people began to die."
"A year? They must've stank!" Hamish looked up at his grandmother with wide eyes, visibly awed.
Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Yes, dear." She felt lucky to have caught Hamish's interest (no small task with such an intelligent boy), and gave herself a quick pat on the back.
"Did they ever find out why the rain stopped coming?" Hamish pressed.
"We'll get to that. There was a cloud herder named Sherlock. Sherlock was a brilliant god, but the heavens had given him the burden of looking after the humans as a punishment. Still, even though he hated his job, he took it as a challenge and tried very hard to accomplish it, simply because he disliked losing. Sometimes, when he was bored or when he found certain people below annoying and idiotic, he'd gather clouds and make it rain for weeks, with terrible thunder and lightning."
Feeling the cold seep through the walls of their flat, Mrs. Hudson stood up, brushing the backs of her arms. "Do you want some warm milk and cookies?"she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the boy, who was still huddled in the corner.
"Yes, please," he said, playing with his shoes. "Why was he punished?" he asked after a moment, raising his voice a little louder for his grandmother, who was patiently waiting for her kettle to boil.
"Because, dear, when Sherlock was a god he was rude and cold, and the heavens thought it would do him good if they sent him to look after us." She slowly walked towards the door and leaned. "So don't be a child, dearie. The heavens might punish you."
"But I am a child..." he grumbled. "So how do you know that he was bored? And how do you know that thunder and lightning are his way of punishment?"
Mrs. Hudson laughed, because the boy was right. He was still a child; part of her wished for him to stay that way for a little longer. "Well, that's what the Babaylan said." She walked back to the kitchen to make her tea and Hamish's warm milk and cookie.
"And what happened next?" he asked, reaching for the cup Mrs. Hudson offered with his right hand and the cookie with his left. "Did the babaylan tell you why Sherlock stopped making rain?"
Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Yes."
"Hello, little brother,"said Mycroft.
"Go away, Mycroft. I'm busy." Sherlock waved his hand to call on the puffs of small cumulus clouds.
"I see. So I take it that you have come to enjoy your duty as a cloud herder?" He teased as he watched his brother create a big thunder cloud.
Slowly the cloud started releasing raindrops, and the people below them started running, looking for shelter. "Shut up, Mycroft! Don't you have duties to tend to? Like, I don't know, listening to souls and all that crap?" he spat, the last words grinding out through gritted teeth.
With the water vapor in the clouds and raindrops rubbing against each other, a big spark of lightning surged downwards, followed by a loud and condemning roar of thunder echoing across the vast sky and through the ears of every child.
Mycroft took it as a signal to stop meddling with his brother's life. For the meantime. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he bid.
One night sometime later, Sherlock was busy molding thunder clouds. He was gathering the necessary cloud parts and mixing them when he heard a voice coming from behind him.
"That's one beautiful cloud," the voice said. The voice, considering its distance from the herder, was big and strong, and full of adoration and awe. To Sherlock's ears it was haunting, and so beautiful that the sound of thunder seemed small.
He glanced over his shoulder to find a star shining ever so brightly, with eyes so honest and luminous that lightning couldn't compare.
"You think so?" Sherlock replied, completely taken aback that a beautiful being like the star could find beauty in what most would call frightening.
"Yes, of course! It's brilliant. Just fantastic." The star said, beaming more and brighter, almost impossibly brighter. Sherlock found it fascinating.
"That's not what the humans usually call it." Sherlock found himself smiling like he hadn't in years.
"What do the humans call it?"
"Disastrous." Sherlock said, and the star's smile widened until he burst into giggles. Sherlock should have found it ridiculous, but the star was radiating the most warm and gorgeous light that he couldn't help but join him.
"The name's Sherlock. I'm a cloud herder," he said as the giggles subsided, and offered his hand.
"Hi," the star replied, taking Sherlock's hand. "John, the name's John."
John, should be boring. He sits in the centre of the galaxy, like every other billion star there is. He should be dull, because his light is only visible at night. But John is not anywhere near boring. He accompanied Sherlock through the night and Sherlock would show and tell him about the different types of clouds.
One day, just when the sun was about to kiss the horizon, John dipped down early to witness Sherlock covering the whole sky with Cirrostratus. After months of being with Sherlock, he could identify the clouds and use them to figure out Sherlock's mood. And by looking at the thin layer of cloud he was forming, it ws clear that his friend was in a good mood.
John lowered his head. "That's beautiful. It's like you're tucking London into bed," he said, but Sherlock wasn't looking at him.
"Someday," Sherlock says, and another thin sheet of white fluff was added. "Someday, I'll show you something more beautiful that this." And another cloud finds its way.
John had received many compliments on how pretty his light was when contrasting with the darkness, but he'd never really known what that meant... until he met Sherlock, who was like beautiful debris within an enigmatic whirlwind. He loved Sherlock's works: Stratus, Cirrus, Cumulus, Cumulonimbus, Nimbostratus... they're all as breathtaking as life and death and when he looks at Sherlock, there's lightning inside him that he can't help, until he's a blazing, like an incandescent ball.
"I think I've seen it already," John whispers, his gaze lingering too long on his friend's sun-lit face until the sun disappeared, letting the moon and stars take the stage. He knew it was wrong to feel that way. It was wrong and there would be consequences but he was certain that in every universe where he and Sherlock existed, whatever form and shape they took, hewould always take the risk.
Sometimes, when darkness ate the whole sky, John fell into his nightly routine, sinking a little lower than allowed. They would watch the people and Sherlock, with knowledge gained from all his time spent as a cloud herder, would tell John who was who and what they did.
For example, on the night Jennifer Wilson was murdered, Sherlock pointed out a man with greying hair who was stepping out of a paddy wagon. "That's Detector Inspector Lestrade. He works with New Scotland Yard with those two useless idiots," he grumbled as he pointed at a woman and a man, clearly younger than the DI, who were standing nearby.
John chuckled and asked, "Who are they and what crime have they committed to drive you to ire?"
Sherlock balled his fist and said, "Obvious. That's Anderson; he's on forensics. I don't know where he trained but God, he's as blind as a badgermole!" He threw his hands up in the air in irritation. "The evidence is right there under his nose yet he still can't see it! And they wonder why it takes months to solve a simple murder!" he screamed, attracting a small black waft of clouds. If it were possible to stomp his feet while sitting in a cloud, he would. Anderson had yet again missed the most important bit of evidence, despite it sitting right there glaring at him.
John sighed; at this point it would be impossible to get Sherlock to arrange the clear sky that the police would need to finish the investigation. "Calm down." Then he pointed at the woman beside Anderson. "Who's that?"
"That's Donovan. All my herding life, I've seen her with that incompetent waste of space. I don't know what she sees in him. She seems decent enough yet she settles for second place."
"What do you mean?" John asked, clearly confused.
Sherlock looked at him with an implied oh come on! in his face that John found a tad adorable and a lot annoying. "Anderson's married, and Donovan is the mistress. Really, I don't know what those women see in him!" Then he grumbled profanities that even Satan would rather not hear.
The investigation took longer than expected. At first, Sherlock didn't want to bother with it because it would involve seeing Anderson's face, and God knows what that would do to the weather. But seeing John's enthusiasm for the mystery the case has to offer, Sherlock jumped on the bandwagon, solving on his own for the sake of entertaining John (and because when Sherlock said something remarkable, John would shine and say 'brilliant' or 'wonderful' or 'amazing' - it made Sherlock feel all warm, like there was something blooming and growing inside and it's wonderful and he shudders every time). Not to mention that within that period of time, John managed to call Sherlock every single flattering adjective, verb, and noun possible in the English language.
"How, on earth – I mean, how did you know all that?!" asked John, still trying to digest the information Sherlock had provided about the latest murder victim.
Sherlock sighed, "Of course I know what happened. I herd clouds every single day. I see people all the time, not just at night." John could almost hear the unspoken don't be such an idiot, John in his voice.
"You're the most…" John stopped a moment thinking deeply before finishing, "prodigiosus being I've ever known!"
"Prodigiosus?" Sherlock asked.
"Prodigiosus means amazing in Latin."
"I know what prodigiosus means, John!" Sherlock cried, brows meeting and lips pressing together to form a thin line.
"Oh. I, uh, well, I ran… out of words to- to describe you in English." John managed to find voice but his words came out stuttered and his face flushed a bright shade of red from cheeks to ears. He did his best to avoid eye contact and Sherlock could only smile because in that moment, he could read John as clearly as an altrostatus. Sherlock soon realized that his palms were damp, his chest loud, and there seemed to be a butterfly trapped inside his stomach. Then he realized that this was how he felt every time he was with John – the only difference was that every day it had escalated to a new level of intensity. It hurt. And he couldn't be happier.
Suddenly the whole situation was awkward and Sherlock, for the first time in his existence, was out of his depth and out of words. Until…
Anderson slipped because of a banana peel and soon they were laughing and John's light was covering the darkness of the sky and everything was perfect.
(Of course, now he owed Anderson.)
The first time they touched, it was an accident. John was pointing at a run away cloud when Sherlock accidentaly brushed John's forearm with his own. He didn't mind it at first, but the friction he felt, where the part of their bodies met was like a small volt of lightning and it felt nice. Good even.
From then on, the desperation to touch John spiraled out of control until his curiousity ate even his way of work. He would form a cloud with John's frame at the morning piecing small bits and large ones precisely when he knew John was far away from sight.
Will it be soft if I touched him longer?
Will his body flutter under my touch?
Or would he glow and burn my hand?
... Or would he run away and break apart?
Suddenly, it felt too much and the desperation became caution - He started avoiding John.
A/N : Thanks for my betas Jill and Sarah ( jillandsarah | tumblr )
P.S, I'm sorry I forgot to mention, this is actually a fill from ineffableboyfriends' prompt at tumblr
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2nd chapter soon!