The rain prattled on outside the windows of the stranded car. The thick drops burst open against the ground. Small rushes of water collected together, lifting the mud from the road around the tires, making it impossible for the car to move. Not like that would do any good, seeing as the engine had died. Inside the rapidly cooling vehicle sat two young men, anywhere between 17 and 25, that resembled each other in no way at all. One was leaning casually toward the other, a smirk playing on his cat-like face. A damp mop of wavy dark brown hair was frizzling from the humidity. His once impeccably pressed dress shirt was soaked through. The other man, sitting in the passenger side, looked older, more mature, and more distressed. His lightly tanned skin wrinkled between his light flaxen eyebrows, and as his mouth moved in dialogue, he almost grimaced. He was trying to subtly back away from the other man, his cheek pressing against his palm as he stared out the window in horror and disbelief. He shivered in his drenched sweater. Thunder clapped, miles away, but it made the older man jump, his eyes wide in terror. He looked over at the darker haired fellow, and spoke.
"Sorry," he began.
"Don't be embarrassed. I used to be afraid of extraterrestrials."
"You're not, still?"
"..."
The blonde shook his head.
"Stupid question."
"There are no stupid questions," the paler one said with a serious tone. The other raised his eyebrows slightly. "Only inquisitive idiots."
This made the blonde sigh as if in desperation.
"You always know what to say to make me feel better, don't you," he said while rolling his eyes.
"I don't see why I would have to make you feel better. You always seem so anxious around me. Why is that?"
"What? Anxious? Me? Around you? Why would I feel intimidated?"
"I never said, 'intimidated.' I said, 'anxious.'" He said this with a flash of what only could be described as a challenge. He was interested in the other man's peculiar behavior.
There was silence as the blonde glared furiously at his knees, the stress of the situation showing in the pursing of his lips.
"Could it be, John Watson, that you have developed what some would call a 'crush' on me?"
The blood surged all through his body. He felt incredibly warm. His skin burned and he felt like he had been struck by lightning.
"I'm just try-"
"No need to make excuses. I can tell when you're lying. Besides. It would be better if you got your feelings out into the open rather than letting yourself obsess over them."
"Sherlock," John couldn't look into his face. "We have been friends for some time now, and-"
"Four months, three weeks, and six days."
"...Right. And, um, I've realized that.. um. Well, I've realized that..." Again he paused. He chewed tenaciously at his bottom lip, furrowing his eyebrows even further.
"You have realized what, exactly?" Sherlock had started to lean closer, placing his hand on the arm rest between them. John hesitated and then looked up, slightly startled to see Sherlock closer than before. He fumbled over his words, each one sounding like a different sentence.
"I've been thinking about, um, us, and, um, as a, you know, as a," he cleared his throat.
"...Couple?" Sherlock was inching even closer now. The rising intonation of the word gave away his excitement.
"Couple.." John let the word roll out of his mouth. It tasted interesting. Like he didn't know what it meant, but like he knew what it implied.
The two had shifted so close together now that the heat from their burning cheeks bounced off each other. One looked into the other's eyes, and the other glanced down at the lips that were suspended in the area between them, edging nearer, asking for something. Then they kissed. And all the heat from within them burst into the car, melting together. They twisted their hands and pulled each other in, erasing the emptiness that kept them apart. Their mouths moved together as both of them craved more. They tasted the cold. They tasted the flesh and blood. One hummed in appreciation and desire. The other chuckled and smiled, and began to push himself to lower them down onto the seats. By now, the collective moisture of their heavy breathing had fogged up the windows, battling the cold rain on the other side. Sherlock, who had perched himself on top of John, ravaged on. He attacked his neck and shoulder with his teeth and tongue, leaving tiny spots where capillaries had burst. He moved down and tore off the drying sweater, exposing John's skin to the cool air. John made a little whimpering sound at the sudden temperature change, making Sherlock giggle with delight.
By the end of the rainstorm, the two had exhausted themselves, their skin sticky, their lips blistered and almost bleeding, and their hearts beating savagely inside their chests.