A/N Wow, we really are getting close to the end, aren't we?

Thanks to 666BloodyHell666, starrysummernights, ThisDayWillPass, johnsarmylady, Song of Grey Lemons, and Rain Hamish Holmes

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

XCVI. Through the Storm

He hates the rainy days, because they remind him of the Fall.

It was raining that day, raining on the sidewalk—not heavily, not like now. Just light drops, tentative, brushing along the cold pavement and flecking it with deeper grey, like ruffled doves' feathers. Enough to chill John's neck, send physical shivers down his spine, as if the ice gripping his heart wasn't enough, as if—

No.

No, he's not going to relive that, because he already has a thousand times, a thousand nights would up in his bed sheets, shaking, fists pressed to his eyes and jaw clenched tight to keep the strangled sobs from leaking out. He's out in public now, for God's sake, and he can't let it consume him—it being the pain, the hurt, the utter agony—

There it is again, finding its way into his mind, and he takes a deep breath of the moist autumn air, shoves those thoughts to the back of his mind. It's been well over six months now. He should be well on the road to recovery.

He's not, but he chooses not to think about it, because doing so will doubtless cast him into one of those dark spirals, of the type that find him at night and tear him apart.

His feet move along the sidewalk, one ahead of the other, the brown tops of his shoes slowly darkening as the curtains of rain swoop down over them. He didn't bring a raincoat, nor an umbrella, but the gale is fierce enough that it would have managed to soak through them, anyways. He keeps his head down, listening to the rhythm of his own lungs, focusing on the pattern and trying not to think about the storm. As soon as he gets home, he tells himself, he'll close the curtains, make a cup of tea and let it burn his tongue, pretend that there's no rain at all, and maybe that'll be enough to ever-so-slightly lessen the pressure on his heart.

Inevitably, that will mean that he feels the loneliness more vividly than ever, but there's no need to think about that. No need to think about anything.

He pauses outside the door, his hand hovering over the knob, and spares a glance over his shoulder.

For a moment, he can almost see him.

A shadow in the rain, nothing more, but a slim, dark shape, curved in the shape of his coat, tall and strong among the waves of grey.

He blinks, and the mirage vanishes, but he's not disappointed. He's used to the visions disappearing. It's all they ever do.