A/N: Because, as an idiot, I went and said "Actually, it's stormy nights..." in my last one, and it felt like it needed a companion piece after that. -csf


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The air was heavy and laden with an earthy, metallic scent, reminding Sherlock of good old investigations at the docks; the richness of algae covering stone and concrete structures, the sliminess of cockles and barnacles clinging onto hulls, and the heady scent of rusty water. The thick air spread from the Thames, rising from old basements and sewers running under the familiar streets. Dampness was rising from the overheated ground as the detective trekked at the park. Days earlier filled with luscious green vegetation, it had quickly wilted to straw and hay colours. Formerly majestic trees now sagged, drooping their branches like tired old men. Grass crackled underfoot, too dry to bend, desiccated and shredded, nearly unrecognisable.

Sherlock could feel the build-up in his bones, the brink of the electric storm was so near, the hairs on his arm stood on end. A build-up that was intense, magnificent, like a rampage from an all powerful deity of destruction from a long forgotten temple.

Hurried footsteps kept marching forward in the urban path, their pace quickened to a short jog.

Let there be enough time.

The atmosphere crackled under an invisible electrostatic whip, the barometer steadily dropping; soon, so soon, the apogee of a magnificent thunderstorm, the apex of anger from nature unleashed.

John's nerves will be on edge already.

The steady, solid former soldier is prone to short meltdowns during violent thunderstorms. The sharp clatter and resounding thumps of lightning and thunder easily transporting John's memories straight back to the battlefield, pinning him in a maelstrom of smoke and violence, fighting for his life, and his army buddies lives, under the constant onslaught of pounding enemy shells and the acrid smoke of ammunition fired from both sides. A war song that Sherlock is grateful he has never endured, a haunting orchestra that revives in John's psyche as the first drums of thunder make their theatrical appearance over London's stuffy heat.

John can never know Sherlock knows so much. It'd break him to feel so exposed in his most vulnerable state. He'd see it as a flaw, whereas Sherlock sees only long standing bravery of a soldier fraying at the edges from too much senseless damage.

Contrary to common perception, Sherlock has acquired a modicum of social manners. Mummy was most insistent, Mycroft quickly outdid her further. Insisting on the use of knife and fork to receive nutrition, on the horrible fibres of school uniforms brushing against Sherlock's skin in a constant onslaught of "uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable", or the deadly importance of no shoes on the sofa. Eventually Sherlock had internalised, if not learned, most conventions, but respecting them was altogether different. How easy it would have been for society to still deem long swords the everyday necessary costume item for a man as some professions still enlisted a piece of fabric tied in a near hangman's noose around a man's neck and called it a tie because it was silk and not rope. Sherlock could foresee and participate with conventions, but he never really understood why he shouldn't question them. Too much of an inquisitive mind, his Mummy used to say, brushing his curls affectionately. Attention seeking, refuted his older brother. Sherlock wasn't clever enough to memorise social decorum, was he, he would taunt Sherlock as a child.

Apparently so; Sherlock berated the recollection of a younger Mycroft, as he jumped over the fence of a pub's beer garden and grabbed a handful of peanuts as he swept past the patrons in their drunken stupor of booze and overheat. Nor did they react when Sherlock climbed the outside shed at the back and pulled himself over the fence to the next garden.

Usually Sherlock appreciated a strenuous workout with the fine mind-set of a trained athlete. This day he couldn't focus on the satisfaction of his muscles high performance, the sweet success of their protested overexertion. Time was running out.

In through the back of a dentist's office's waiting room and out to the street again. Almost at John's GP Surgery, tucked away in some politically defined social project that failed to take into consideration the incredibly interesting life stories of the neighbourhood residents. Different voices and accents, the scent of hot spices developed in low heat, the giggle of a child tucked away behind the curtains. Some folks recognising him as the consulting detective, many more as that doctor's friend. Curtains released, suspicious faces easing as recognition set in. John, the caring doctor, was their own sort, as by extension so was Sherlock. The detective couldn't help but smirk to himself.

The first clap of thunder came as a shock to the detective. He berated himself to have slowed down somewhat, set back by the intense heat and the way the high thread Egyptian cotton shirt clung sweat damp against his elbows and armpits, or his tailored as a second skin trousers clung to... other sweaty areas in a way that Mummy would have not approved.

The first thunder was immediately followed by another, that palled in comparison, further away. Two connecting eyes to the storm. Oh, a big conflagration to explode over London when the two came together. It was imperative to reach John, reach him fast, remove him from the war-like stimuli, get him to safety.

And, with that, Sherlock rushed inside the local surgery.

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Crouching ahead of the front desk so not to be spotted by the receptionists, only a toddler in the waiting room saw him and cheerfully followed him with feverish eyes. The air conditioning is a fossil fuel consuming blessing to all. Sherlock sneaked past the waiting room, snuck onto the first office with deft swiftness, closing softly the door behind him.

'Are you Doctor Watson?' asked a puzzled man from the client's chair. Superficial red rash blistering his skin, recently arrived to London via Iceland, clearly sluggish from a heat stroke.

And John? Nowhere to be seen. He's gone to take cover already, Sherlock deduces with a cold feeling setting in his stomach.

'Yes, I am Doctor Watson', Sherlock lies smoothly, grabbing John's white lab coat as a prop backup, only to layer it over his folded arm in the last moment. Putting it on wouldn't do, due to the full foot difference in heights between the two flatmates. 'Sorry to keep you waiting. Was delayed by a premature birth, mother and baby are doing fine. Now about your heat stroke...' He quickly fishes out the correct leaflet from a cabinet next to John's desk – the NHS has a leaflet addiction and John is its enabler. 'Drink plenty of fluids, keep cool, don't skimp on the air con in your expensive car but do check the brake oil levels, your seat belt has been bruising your clavicle repeatedly. Thanks, that's all. I'm on lunch break now, you can go!'

'It's ten o'clock in the morning.'

'I like to get an early head start on the things I do.'

Sherlock practically shoved the patient out, slammed the door quickly behind him before one of the receptionists founds the strange new appearance of their favourite doctor – yes, he was, John was always the favourite – and quickly looked around for clues as to John's whereabouts from the empty office.

Tidy, very meticulously organised, no superfluous decor lying around, only the efficient essentials. But John's presence was still felt in the overly structured environment. His lab coat, carrying at the collar the slight scent of chamomile shampoo and spicy aftershave. At the desk, several medical analysis reports suffocating one of John's multiple pocket notebooks abandoned there.

Shamelessly, Sherlock plunges into the secrets of John's private journal.

"Eggs,

Plastic cups,

Rubber bands,

Cotton wool"

Oh, last week's emergency shopping list for Sherlock. The detective flipped the page onto more of the doctor's scrawling writing.

Apparently Harry's trying a new alcohol rehab facility, going by the address she gave her brother. John has already bought a sheet of stamps to keep in touch and tucked it in the folds of the notebook.

A small sketch of a crime scene for Sherlock – the one backstage in a small theatre, where the criminal was a leading actor who disguised himself as an usher to leave the scene and his twin brother took the stage in his place. Premeditated murder, clearly.

Some cryptic notes on the actor's appearance and the wrongfully accused milkmaid from act II.

Another page and a bus ticket. Short, fanciful descriptions of other passengers, disrupted here and there by the brusque brakes near the stops from an incompetent driver. Unfamiliar route for John too, if bus stops kept catching him by surprise as much as they did the driver. Ah, last Thursday afternoon! Lestrade gave John a ride home, with the heavy box of cold cases for Sherlock.

Next page and there was a detailed sketch of a spinal chord from memory, with a eerie artistic appeal. Seriously, John? Is this how you spend your free time?

Nothing after that.

No revelation as to John's current whereabouts.

Sherlock snapped the notebook shut, pocketed it with every intention of eventually returning it to its owner, and left by the back window.

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Bart's morgue had always been cool and welcoming – welcoming to Sherlock, that is; not that the dead bodies complain to the management, leave without paying or anything. But certainly cool. A great hiding place for a struggling army doctor who, by now, must be overlapping sensorial flashbacks of the war with a bit of London sightseeing in his haste to find safety.

Sherlock searched everywhere, even a few empty cold storage drawers, but he did not find John there.

Molly hadn't seen him—

"He's not here, Sherlock. I'm not hiding John, I'm not!"

—Nor Stamford.

"What do you mean you misplaced him?"

"He's not where I left him. Hmm, I hope he hasn't got himself kidnapped again, not on a Wednesday..."

"What's so special about a Wednesday?"

"John is missing, potentially being tortured by a gang of criminals, and you're worried about Wednesdays habitual threat levels?"

Sherlock left with a contemptuous huff, banging the door shut after him.

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Scotland Yard was familiar ground, safe and a staple for law and authority. Sherlock quickly texted Lestrade, but Lestrade assured him he hasn't seen John since last Thursday.

The detective pondered if Lestrade was observant enough for his information to be trusted, but his thoughts and calculations were interrupted by:

'Have you tried texting John?'

Preposterous! Hint at John about the concern Sherlock's currently experiencing? Utterly despicable!

'No, of course, you haven't,' Lestrade quickly surmises, with a long suffering sigh. 'Let me do that for you.'

'If you must,' Sherlock accepts through gritted teeth.

'Oh, I know I must...'

Sixty three nail-biting seconds later and Lestrade rings again to inform John did not pick up the call.

It's as Sherlock suspected. John has gone over to the other side.

Only Sherlock knows this. Only Sherlock can help.

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'Mrs Hudson, have you checked thoroughly John's room? Are you sure he's not there? Have you checked the dust for footprints?... I understand. No, no, I'm sure it's nothing at all... Yes, not my housekeeper nor my secretary, of course not, Mrs H.'

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Twirling the pocket book from hand to hand absent-mindedly, Sherlock is at a loss and finally admits this to himself. Sweat pools down the back of his shirt, his fair milky white skin is burnt red by solar ultraviolet radiation, his curls hang limp over his damp forehead. Sherlock is back at the carpark in front of John's workplace, wondering would John take himself, where would he seek comfort and refuge.

A constant drizzle has settled in, welcomed but not enough. The rain drops are lukewarm and flat as they pound the pavement, releasing an alkaline scent. Overhead the clouds are dense as mercury and the same colour, just duller, without shine or interest. Electric discharges split the sky a few seconds apart, but in the daylight they are easily missed, and not cathartic at all.

John. I'm sorry, John. I should be there with you.

Anger and guilt simmers inside Sherlock, twinning venomously. He should know where to find John. He's the good doctor's best friend, John said so, and Sherlock's eidetic memory will never erase it.

Yet he's failing him.

A deep rumble of thunder threatens to tremble the whole neighbourhood. Sherlock kicks a loose pebble on the pavement. A fleeting blue light catches Sherlock's eye. A van door slams – no, ambulance, five years old model, gas tank a third full – and a familiar voice enquires:

'Sherlock? What are you doing out here?'

And it's John. Smiling, carefree John, amused at Sherlock, clearly brooding at something in front of his workplace.

The detective blinks, opens his mouth, but his words are overwritten by a deep, rolling thunder. To this John recoils, looking absolutely shocked for the world to see. His gaze hardens, he becomes guarded, tense in every muscle and sinew in his body. Sherlock knows his cue and immediately jumps into action.

'John,' and he grabs his arm, not without a firm, solid grip.

Connection established, lifeline cast and accepted.

He can feel John's fast heartbeat at the axillary artery through the coarse cotton shirt.

'The storm has broken,' John comments, clipped.

'It's easing out, it's been at least an hour already.'

'Really? But...'

'Where were you, John?'

'Covering a paramedic shift, stuck in the back of an ambulance for the last two hours. I... didn't hear a thing,' he notices, then suddenly giggles. 'I didn't notice, Sherlock.'

'You didn't notice,' the detective repeats after him.

'It's quite noisy in an ambulance, and we were trying to save lives,' John tries to excuse himself, still chuckling. Another thunder claps and the former soldier tenses, but rides it out. Sherlock's eyes soften to a watery shade as he positions himself by John's shoulder, slightly behind his friend, as they set off home together. Silently, Sherlock has John's back. John bites down a thankful, bashful smile.

John has won this battle, he has fought and saved lives, his blood-thirsty demons are appeased. The two men head back to Baker Street as the rain suddenly intensifies to a cold shower level. Sherlock thinks to himself the rain is absolutely brilliant, but he doesn't say it out loud. Mummy wouldn't think it appropriate to voice such contrary opinions. John, however, is the only one who would probably understand.

'John. The rain is brilliant.'

John smiles, an innocent, expansive grin that is effortless and takes all the muscles in his honest face. Even his ears smile to Sherlock's perceptive observations.

'Yes, Sherlock. It really is.'

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