"We ought to turn our steps towards shelter," Sherlock Holmes said.
"I know," his friend John Watson replied, but he didn't move. They were standing near the edge of the cliff side, and the waves crashed violently below them as wind whipped wildly around. A storm was coming in from the sea, and this relative calm would not last long.
"Watson," Holmes prompted, and he took his friend's arm, gripping it just tightly enough to convey they needed to move. He'd agreed to come on a walk before the storm hit, but he had no wish to be caught in the rain and wind while in the unfamiliar area. He wouldn't have minded so much, of course, if he'd been alone, but having a friend with him made the situation different.
Watson looked over at him, grinning almost mischievously. "Don't you like it?" he asked, his words loud enough to be heard through the wind.
"Walk now, philosophize later!" Holmes shouted back, and he tugged on Watson's arm, finally getting his friend to move after one look back at the crashing sea. They hurried down the unfamiliar path to their rented cabin just as the first rain began to fall.
It seemed like it was only moments after the first wet splats against the windowsill that the heavens opened and rain began to pour in great sheets, the noise thundering around them and drowning out the sounds of the fire that kept them warm inside and of Holmes making tea in the kitchen while Watson sat in the window seat, gazing out at the storm. Holmes joined him when the tea was ready, squinting to see through the torrent. Watson thanked him distractedly, making a bland comment about how the housekeeper they'd hired for the week certainly wouldn't be coming anytime today.
"I'm glad we were not caught in that," Holmes commented.
"Yes, yes," Watson murmured. "I can hear the 'no thanks to you' that you've left unsaid, and I apologize. You must admit, though, it was a nice spot to linger."
"Sometimes, John Watson, you have a more morbid imagination than I do," Holmes murmured.
"Oh? The science of deduction can even tell you my thoughts as I stand with nothing more to look at than the ocean?"
"No, but by now I suppose you would agree with me that I have a fairly good knowledge of my friend Watson."
"I suppose so, yes. Tell me then: what was I thinking of?"
"You were thinking, of course, about the impending storm."
"Ha! Anyone could have guessed that for anyone would have thought of it. What else?"
"Inevitability. You were thinking of how nature will take her course and the winds will blow to and fro, and there is nothing man may do to prevent it. Your thoughts turned to ships at sea, to the lives lost just on this coast let alone the rest of the world, lives of men who knew they could never master the waves yet made the attempt to cross them anyway."
"Hmm," Watson hummed as an affirmative, gratefully sipping his tea.
"Surely, then, your thoughts would have turned to the inevitable destiny of all life," Holmes continued. "You would have thought about how vain our attempts to make anything permanent are, that one day even London will fall and pyramids will be razed to the ground and everything we strive for and hold so dear during our fleeting lives will be stripped from us and we will be as powerless to stop it as we are to stop these rains from coming. As powerless as we would be if nature were indeed to send her full force after us this very moment and send this cottage crumbling to its foundations."
"Now whose imaginings are morbid?" Watson asked with a smirk. "I assure you, dear sir, that nowhere in my mind did I think of you and I being brutally and tragically crushed to death while on holiday."
"Of course not," Holmes conceded, "but I imagine I am not quite off base with the others."
"No," Watson murmured. "Not quite off base. Ah, Holmes, there's nothing like a good storm to bring a man down a peg or two. And there's no feeling quite like standing before it, knowing it will come, feeling how small you really are, but for the moment safe. Don't you agree?"
"Not safe for long," Holmes grumbled.
"That's why I have you," Watson replied, and sipped his tea again to hide his grin.
Holmes watched the rain for a long minute, then finally looked back over at Watson. "Yes," he answered softly.
"Hmm? Yes to what?"
"Yes, I agree there's nothing quite like the feeling of calm before the storm, and few feelings able to humble one before nature quite as thoroughly. Just don't make a habit of it, hmm?"
"Ha! Very well, then. As you say, safety first, philosophizing second."
"Yes, speaking of, I've taken some of our leisure time here to read some, which ought to please you as it was you who insisted I ought to read the Republic. Finishing it will make for a worthy distraction from the storm, and so I will beg your indulgence as I do so."
"Of course," Watson murmured.
Holmes left the window for a comfortable chair by the fire, then, but Watson stayed watching the storm until darkness had fallen and the rain once again was nothing but a slight, rhythmic splashing against the window.
For the prompt from W. Y. Traveller: The calm before the storm.
Rejected/unedited version I wrote while sick:
"Watson? Watson!" The wind was whipping, and Sherlock Holmes' words were lost to it. He found his friend standing near the cliffs and looking over the ocean as the waves crashed violently below. "Watson! It's time to come in!"
His friend finally turned, then, and saw him. He stood still as Holmes approached, grabbing his arm.
"We need to go!" he insisted. Watson had gone out for a short walk in the calm before the coming storm and hadn't come back for a worryingly long time until Holmes had finally gone out after him.
Watson nodded, letting his friend lead him away back towards their rented cabin.
"What were you thinking?" Holmes berated him, shouting to be heard over the wind. "The storm's about to break!"
Watson didn't answer him, instead simply allowing himself to be led away. Holmes was rougher with his friend than he meant to be, pulling his arm hard to escape the rain as it began to fall. The calm before the storm was over, and it was time to get inside. He was breathing heavily by the time he reached the rented cabin, and he pulled Watson inside, slamming the door against the rain. He turned his back against it, seeing Watson standing in the entryway. He was dripping wet, his hair was plastered against his head, his arms were folded against his chest, and his head was down.
Holmes took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. He shed his coat and shook the rain out of his own hair. "Watson," he said gently, "uncross your arms." He pushed on them gently, until he could pull the coat off of his friend's shoulders, hanging it to dry. Then, he grabbed some blankets, using one to scrub away the water from his own hair and then Watson's before tossing it away. New blankets went over Watson's shoulders then his, and he took his friend by the arm, pushing him to sit down before pulling off his boots.
He hesitated, then, seeing the faraway, vacant look in his friend's eyes. It wasn't often that Watson got like this, but it did happen occasionally, just usually while he was already safely indoors. In not too long of a time he'd come back to his own normal self. He wouldn't talk about it and he'd be a bit shaken, but he'd be alright.
Holmes wondered what had caused it; the holiday was mostly for him. He'd been down lately: he'd lost a patient, his old wounds were agitated, and worst of all he still carried the pain of his wife's death keenly though it had been over a year. Holmes missed her, too, but he never said so, not wanting his friend to feel the burden of his grief as well. There could also be older wounds affecting him: the memories of his time in the army, old patients he'd lost, even Holmes' own supposed death. Holmes had no idea where his friend's mind wandered during times like this, and he didn't want to.
He didn't quite know what to do, finally deciding to simply stay close. The rain was lashing the windows, and so he went around making sure they were all locked before stoking the fire high. It would have been cozy if the storm outside wasn't so severe, but Holmes wasn't worried and stretched himself out on the couch, watching the fire and listening to the rain and slowly moving his eyes from watching the rain to checking on Watson and back again.
It didn't take too long for Watson to come back to himself. Holmes said nothing, nor did he observe him, but he did breathe a soft sigh of relief, closing his eyes.
"Thank you," Watson said, his voice just loud enough Holmes could hear it through the rain. He didn't open his eyes, just waved a hand through the air in acknowledgement. The storm outside was raging, but it seemed the storm inside had finally calmed.