A/N Aaand, even more post-Reichenbach angst. Or, well, post-post-Reichenbach angst. It never stops being fun ;3

Thanks to johnsarmylady, ThisDayWillPass, Hummingbird1759

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XXX. Under the Rain

The rain starts out light, as a wispy spray that flecks the sidewalk with bits of wetness, standing out against the expanse of pale grey cement. Even Sherlock can appreciate the washed-out, refreshing scent that fills the air: clean, moist, and carrying hints of springtime in its misted coolness. An invisible layer of water condenses on his face, and he wipes it away impatiently, staining the sleeve of his overcoat and dampening the flop of curls that droops stubbornly into his cold eyes.

Neither he nor John has thought to bring an umbrella, and both suffice to tighten their coats against the increasingly heavy flow of raindrops that threaten them both. The water, pooling on the ground, enters the mass of blood surrounding the murder victim that they're clustered around. The thin, clear liquid merges with the thick, red one, but rather than combining, the two twist around each other, traces of scarlet forming trailing webs of color in the rain puddles.

"I suppose we should call Les-Lestrade…"

Sherlock twitches his gaze up, frowning slightly. John never stutters. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." It's an obvious lie, but the doctor's tight face makes it clear that he wants to avoid such a subject. Sherlock, however, isn't about to allow him that particular desire.

"No, you're not."

"If you have to know…" John lets out a slow, tired sigh. "Last time I saw rain and blood like that… do you realize whose it was?" His eyes suddenly tilt up to meet Sherlock's. They're surprisingly bright, almost daringly so, and the clench of his jaw is unusually stiff. Sherlock's stomach dips with guilt, an emotion that had been foreign to him until the Fall—the Fall, which ripped them apart from one another, only so that they could grow closer than ever upon Sherlock's eventual return.

"Was it bad?" he asks quietly, his voice low and dark. John's eyes flicker around anxiously, but he keeps his own gaze firmly fixed on the doctor.

"Of course it was. Seeing your body lying there… God, sometimes I can't remember how I survived it. I was lost, Sherlock, I…" His voice trails off, and he shakes his head, clearly distraught. "I have no idea that anything could hurt so damn bad."

"I'm sorry."

"You've said that a thousand times, it doesn't mean anything anymore."

It's clear that John wants to change the subject, clear in his tense posture and unsteady eye movements. Sherlock could choose not to acknowledge the obvious signs of nervousness, or he could just shut his mouth, stop being such an insufferably relentless menace.

For some reason, he chooses the latter.

And he stays appropriately silent as John dials up Lestrade, staring blankly at the blood pouring from the corpse's head, just trying to imagine just what he put his flatmate through.

It's impossible, and that terrifies him.