A/N: I wanted to post this much earlier but stupid was crashed all afternoon! Ughhh. Anyways, enjoy, I suppose; I might post a second one later tonight, still not sure. Also, a quick note - thanks for the feedback, guys! I don't know if I've gotten back to all of you personally (I try to, but I'm forgetful!) but I appreciate all of your lovely reviews.

Word Count: 715-ish

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): Really, really shameless fluff and John's mad dancing skills.

The Romanticizing of Rain

It has been nearly five days since Sherlock had come across an interesting case. There had been one crime that he had been called in for, but it had been a disappointment. Sherlock had solved it in less than ten minutes, including the interval where he stopped to insult Anderson for at least two.

The boredom was unbearable. Sherlock had been sitting propped upside down on his couch for over an hour now, watching the rain outside the window and listening to John's breathing as the doctor typed in his blog.

Eventually John, seeming disturbed by Sherlock's silence, closed the laptop. Sherlock looked up at him for only a moment before returning his gaze to the window.

"It's raining pretty hard out there," John said.

Had Sherlock been aware of Captain Obvious jokes, he would have made one then. He wasn't, so what he said was, "Actually, it isn't. Rain isn't any harder than skin or an umbrella, or it would be very dangerous. Hail, for instance, is no good."

John had to force himself not to smile too broadly. "It's an expression."

"Expressions are stupid," said Sherlock, running a hand through his hair with a bored sigh. "People should just say what they mean. I should make a campaign for that; you could make bumper stickers. Promote it on your blog."

John rolled his eyes. "Really that bored?"

"So bored." Sherlock groaned, sliding partially off the couch so that his head was pressed to the floor. "Nothing to doooooo..."

"There's always something," John said, and he put his laptop down on the coffee table. Sherlock gave him a doubtful look.

"What do you suggest?"

"I don't know," said John. He stared out at the rain and smiled a bit. "We could dance."

Sherlock, caught off guard for once, readjusted himself into a normal sitting position. "Dance?" he asked, sounding as if John had just suggested they go out and play ping pong against Barrack Obama and Madonna. Notably, Sherlock hadn't a clue who either of them were. John chuckled.

"Come on." John hopped to his feet, his expression giving away nothing as he offered a hand to his flat mate. Sherlock stared at the hand like it was an alien. John sighed. "Please? Indulge me." Sherlock hesitated only a moment longer before taking his hand and allowing himself to be dragged unexpectedly up to the rooftop.

John had dropped his hand at the top of the stairs and Sherlock lingered distrustfully under the overhang. Still, his resolve to stay dry dissolved significantly as he watched John launch himself into the rain, a stunningly uncharacteristic expression of glee on his face. The doctor was soaked before he ran to retrieve Sherlock, all dripping and smiles.

"Come on," John insisted, offering his hand once more. "For me."

"For you, then." Sherlock took his hand and was led into the pouring rain. He was immediately soaked to the bone and was quickly reminded just how see through dress shirts could be. John grinned.

"And now we dance."

"I can't dance, John."

"Good. Neither can I."

John wasn't kidding about the dancing. They were both incredibly bad, jigging and spinning and falling over one another in a sopping mess. It wasn't long before they were both in fits of giggles, clutching each other as they stumbled about, getting increasingly soaked as they did.

Eventually they were both worn out and slumped beneath the rooftop's small overhang. Once the dancing had ceased it became clear just how chilly it was outside, but neither seemed to mind as long as they were sitting close to one another.

"That certainly wasn't boring," Sherlock mused. John nodded, still grinning giddily.

"No kidding," he replied, scooting somehow closer to the detective. Sherlock was hyper aware of their position - John with his head against Sherlocks chest and his arm slid almost protectively around Sherlock's waist; Sherlock's legs tangled with John's; Sherlock's hand twined with the one John didn't have resting on his thigh - and found that he rather liked it.

"This is nice," Sherlock said, after a while. "The dancing."

John nodded. "It's nice," he agreed, and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "It's all nice."

And they sat there, enjoying the comfortable silence and watching the downpour and wondering how long it could last.

Reviews would be fantastic.