AN - Thank you very much for the prompt, lovely. It was exam week at my school (if you're confused, it doesn't really matter. If you really, really want to know, my ask it open) when I was writing this - I spent the time between exams when I should have been revising writing. Much more interesting. I was never good at maths anyway. Please, please, please send in some more prompts, especially for other ships. The post about the ships I'm writing for and all that jazz is here (you kinda need to read it). This one's kind of a fluffy drabble thing, so it's not much. Hope you enjoy it all the same.

Tea ~ scarletshamrock

England being England, and London being Lonon, the volume of water pouring over the city was not as atrocious or surprising as it might otherwise have been. It was practically expected - a whole six days had gone by without so much as a drop falling on some unfortunate pedestrian's head, it was only natural that the clouds should empty themselves in volumes approximately equal to that of the Thames. No, the existence of, and indeed copious amounts of rain wasn't at all surprising to the inhabitants of London. However, British people being British, the expected downfall was generally the first topic that came up after greeting somebody.

"Oh, good evening, John dear."

"Evening, Mrs Hudson." John offered the landlady a pleasant smile, closing the door to the rain and running a hand through his hair to get rid of some of the water. "Sherlock in?"

"No, dear," Mrs Hudson replied with a sigh, gazing past John to the door. "He went out a couple of hours ago. Didn't take an umbrella with him, silly boy. I did tell him to but, well, you know Sherlock."

John grinned. "Yes, I do. I wouldn't be surprised if at least part of his distain of umbrellas is because they remind him of Mycroft."

Mrs Hudson hummed her ascent, disapproval written on her face, but not without a touch of her usual fondness in her eye, and John wondered if Sherlock's mother used to get the same look a lot when she was commenting to his father about how Sherlock's gone off to try to collect insects to look at under his microscope again, but he's not brought those gloves and he's going to get stung again, silly boy.

"And the rain's only got heavier since," Mrs Hudson added, shaking her head.

Just as John made to leave, she cast her glance over him properly. "Oh, John, you're soaked! Why don't you come in for a cuppa, eh? Kettle's just boiled."

"Well, I'll just pop upstairs and change first," John replied, shivering slightly as a couple of drops of water sneaked under his collar. "And I might give Sherlock a quick ring - normally he tells me about cases and the like, even if I am at work."

"Oh, yes, dear, you go ahead. I'll make the tea and call you down when it's ready."

"Thanks." John nodded a little, and trotted up the stairs.

Once in the safety of 221B, he peeled off his coat and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Home. Why aren't you? -JW

On his way to the bedroom, John pressed the button for the water to heat. The boiler hissed into life upstairs, and John continued to the bedroom. Throwing the phone on the bed, he began to strip off his shirt.

Case. -SH

His shirt in the washing basket, John typed his reply.

Guessed as much. Why didn't you tell me?

You were at work.

Doesn't normally stop you.

Had to be quick, and you wouldn't be.

Good to know you have so much faith in me.

It's raining, heavily, and you were at work. You'd be reluctant at least, for obvious reasons. I wouldn't resent you for being so either.

Time was of the essence.

But it's not anymore?

No, silence is of the essence now.

Which I assume means I shouldn't bother asking where you are so I can catch up?

Yes.

You're freezing cold, soaked, and Mrs H has invited you to have tea. You don't want to come back out, anyway.

True. But I would.

You'd have to put a shirt on first.

Can you see me?

So you are shirtless.

You are such an idiot.

Don't get in that bath without me.

Wouldn't dream of it. When will you be home?

Soonish.

That the most accurate you can give me?

Sherlock?

Okay. Don't get yourself injured. See you when you get home.

Once comfortably dressed in a jumper and some jeans, John took himself back downstairs to 221A, where Mrs Hudson was just putting some homemade biscuits on a plate.

"Hello, love," she smiled, setting the plate down next to be teapot. "Did you speak to him?"

With a slight sigh, John seated himself in his usual place at Mrs Hudson's little table. "Case. Didn't tell me because it was time pressured."

"I see." Mrs Hudson poured the tea and sat herself down. "I hope he's found some shelter. This rain really isn't letting up. They're lemon," she added as John took a biscuit.

"Thanks. And I don't suppose he has, Sherlock being Sherlock."

"Hmm."

Two cups of tea and several biscuits later, John received a peck on the cheek from Mrs Hudson and the freedom to retire back to 221B. As had been explored thoroughly in the conversation, the rain was most certainly not letting up. By now, the streets were practically flooded, and it was with a slight twinge of nervousness that John peered out onto the darkening street. No sign of a soaking detective making his way home. John bit the inside of his lip slightly, and wandered into the kitchen.

He was just stir frying the chicken, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Found - one very wet, very disgruntled detective. Think it might be yours? -GL

John smirked a little.

Put it in a taxi and direct it to Baker Street - I'm cooking at the moment. -JW

I assume he didn't catch the guy?

Afraid not. You ready to hear a lot of grumbling?

Don't I always have to be?

With Sherlock, I suppose so.

You suppose correctly.

What was the case, anyway?

Theft. He's been working on it as a background case for a little while, actually.

Oh, the guy with one leg?

That's the one. Well, he nearly caught him - predicted his next target, time of attack, all of it. He was right, of course. What he didn't predict was how apparently aware of his surrounding this guy is. He heard him in the house and got away.

Sherlock couldn't catch up with him?

He's a Paralympic runner who owns a motorbike. No, Sherlock couldn't.

Oh, he is going to be pissed, isn't he?

Yeah, he is.

He in a taxi?

He'll be with you in about five.

Thanks Greg.

See you tomorrow to finish this?

Undoubtedly.

As predicted, Sherlock was back in about five minutes, still thoroughly soaked and utterly irritated at the world in general. Still, John smiled warmly at him as he entered.

"I am well aware of how much rainwater my clothes and hair have absorbed."

John moved over to him, still smiling - almost smirking - and began to pull his coat off him.

"I didn't say anything," he said quietly, hanging up the drenched coat.

"You were going to."

"No, Mrs Hudson would be going to." John began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking your clothes off, what did you think I was doing?"

"Why?"

"Because of how much water they've absorbed."

"We're in the kitchen."

"Excellent observation. You are so clever. I knew there was a reason I-"

"Oh do shut up."

John smirked up at Sherlock, before planting a small kiss on his lips. "Sorry."

Sherlock stared down at him blandly.

"Go and get changed into something dry," John ordered, pushing Sherlock towards the bedroom.

"I thought we were having a bath," Sherlock replied, hovering in the doorway. Admittedly, a lot of the irritation had dropped from him on returning home.

"We are, but we're eating first."

Sherlock cast a glance over the bowls of steaming rice and stir fry on the counter. "I'm not hungry."

"Never mind, you're eating it anyway." John siled, and gave Sherlock another playful shove. "Change."

Sighing, Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom.

Jumper, jeans, loose-fitting t-shirt and pyjama trousers - all had been discarded, somewhat lazily, on the floor of the steamy bathroom in 221B. Sherlock had never quite fitted comfortably in their bath, and he fitted even less with two, but he made no complaint as he lay back against John's chest, and John found it sweetly amusing that Sherlock always managed to squeeze his ridiculously long limbs into the bath, and generally seemed quite content to do so, so long as John was also there. As a general rule, when alone, Sherlock favoured showers. Although showers when not alone certainly weren't rejected.

John sighed a little, and pressed a contented kiss to Sherlock's ear, receiving a gentle hum in return. All trace of cold had disappeared long ago, and the heat of the water and Sherlock's body resting against him was enough to send John into an utterly relaxed, and very welcome sleep. He wasn't entirely sure whether Sherlock was still awake, either.

He'd emerged, still slightly damp, but comfortably dressed, in about two minutes. He'd grumbled about the case and the utterly unnecessary amount of rain, but John had managed to get him to eat with minimal disagreement, and only one sigh and 'It's been a long day, Sherlock, and I made this for you so can you please just eat it? For me.'

So now they had satisfied stomachs, and a wonderfully warm bath, and a relaxing, lazy night ahead of them. Sighing contentedly, John lowered his lips to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock hummed a little, and tilted his head to one side.

The rain remained relentless, slamming against the windows of the steamy bathroom, reminding its occupants that the cold, harsh world was mere feet away. Outside, London moved through the sheets of water falling from the sky as the Thames spread out to the surrounding roads. People shivered in cars and doorways, wishing themselves home, to a warm house and a warm meal. Downstairs, Mrs Hudson shivered slightly, and wondered whether it was worth turning on the central heating. In the bathroom, John lazily pulled his lips from Sherlock's neck, and poured some shampoo onto his hands, before running his fingers through his partner's dark curls.

The world outside could be as miserable as it pleased. John was content, Sherlock was content, and, right now, life was good.

England being England, and London being London, no one was surprised by the sheer volume of water that was being emptied over the city. It was expected, even seen as necessary by some. The previous dry days were not without a trace of cloud, nor were they particularly warm, but rain was rain and rain was never far from this dreary little country.

In 221B Baker Street, two warm, still ever so slightly damp men settled onto the sofa with an episode of Classic Who on the telly and cups of tea in hand, one curly brown head resting against the blonde's shoulder.

"We'll get him tomorrow," John sighed, taking a sip.

"Hmm."

The TARDIS door slammed shut, trapping a bit of the Doctor's scarf.

"It'll be sunny tomorrow, too," Sherlock added, refraining from making a comment about how many things were wrong with this ridiculous programme.

"Hmm."

The evening wore on into night. The tea was finished and the mugs abandoned. The episode ended and the next was replaced with a good deal of snogging. They took themselves off to the bedroom, and were asleep in minutes, limbs tangled together beneath the blankets.

The following morning dawned clear and bright, fully equipped with an expanse of blue sky and, later, a solved and closed case. Despite the horrendous downpour of the previous day, John dared to suppose that summer might actually be coming.

And it was.

But, of course, not without a few more downpours. And a few more comforting cups of tea.