The rain was coming down harder and harder. It was almost painful to dart through. How Sherlock had forgotten his umbrella at home would forever remain a mystery. When the two had arrived at Baker Street, they were soaked to the bone.

"Mrs. Hudson..!" Sherlock called, "Can you bring us some towels?"

Mrs. Hudson came into the front walkway and gasped when she saw that Sherlock had brought someone home. She dashed into the bathroom, brought out two fluffy white towels, and draped them over the boys' heads. "I didn't know you'd be bringing a friend..." she mumbled. Sherlock's cheeks grew hot, thank goodness the towel was covering his face. He scrubbed his head dry and he could hear John shuffling beside him, removing his shoes, socks, and coat and handing them off to Mrs. Hudson to be washed. Sherlock soon did the same.

"You're more than welcome to use the shower, John."

"Oh, no, I couldn't -- "

"Don't worry about it. It's not a burden. Just follow me."

Sherlock trudged up the stairs, John following close behind. "Just down the hall and through the last door on your left. Take all the time you need." He waited for John to go in and shut the door, and then stalked into his bedroom. He eagerly peeled off his sopping wet clothes with a grimace.

--------------------

"Your home is...quaint." John remarked. Sherlock nodded and pursed his lips, his pale eyes scanning across his own flat. Some walls were red, some were green, one was black and white, some were yellow...it was cluttered and had a lot of comfy furniture everywhere. Sherlock liked it, even though it was dysfunctional. John cleared his throat. "And your parents don't mind me staying here?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I live alone, have for a few months now. Don't pay rent, don't put up with my snobby brother, don't respond to anyone, don't conform to any rules. It's bliss." He took a long gulp of his tea. John nodded silently, rubbing the outside of his mug subtly, never taking a drink. Sherlock watched him intently out of the corners of his eyes. "You're welcome to stay the night. Based on the temperature, the estimated density of the clouds, the size of the raindrops, and the volume of the thunder, the rain won't let up until tomorrow at noon. There will surely be floods."

John stared at Sherlock once again, quietly for a few moments. And then at last, his heavenly smile cracked across his face and a single "heh" rumbled from his throat. "You're brilliant."

"You seem very keen on letting me know that fact almost every time I open my mouth." Sherlock squinted, but then grinned with those thick lips of his. "Well, you're too modest, I think," John sat his mug down onto the side table next to him,  licking his lips. Sherlock looked him over.

"You're still so nervous. Uncomfortable."

"I'm not nervous or uncomfortable."

"Oh please, you haven't touched the drink Mrs. Hudson made for you, you're completely still -- you fidget when you're comfortable --  your eyes keep flickering behind you, et cetera et cetera..." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's okay to be comfortable here. You're staying the night, might as well be."

John was quiet, thinking. He licked his lips again. Sherlock noticed John physically relax, sinking into the big red chair and exhaling inaudibly, then taking the mug in his hands and taking a drink. Sherlock felt better, but didn't say anything. He didn't want to get John upset again. He tossed John the remote and gave him the okay to watch the television, which he happily obliged to, and Sherlock opened his own book to begin reading.

He caved in and bought "The Rain" by Karen Brown. It was so sentimental that Sherlock could practically hang himself. It was a hardback with an ashy blue and gray cover, with strange surreal shapes that were supposed to be raindrops. Perhaps something else, too? Sherlock bit his lip and opened the cover.

A quote was engraved in eloquent silver writing.

"From the rain, flowers are born. We give these flowers to other people. And from that, love is born. -Unknown"

Sherlock glanced over at John. He continued turning the pages.

He had the book done within an hour. To summarize, it starts out with a woman who's sitting alone on a park bench during a downpour. It's never specified why she was sitting there, she just was. A man approaches her and sits down next to her. She doesn't notice him for hours. And still he waits with her. When she finally looks to her left, the man smiles at her. She smiles back. Then they part ways. The man and woman meet accidentally everywhere after that day. They felt some unexplainable force pull them to one spot, and they both share laughs and coffee and book reviews and sob stories. It ends with the man giving the woman a kiss on the cheek, on the same bench, in a similar downpour. She cries, and kisses him back.

Sherlock wasn't the least bit moved. He read it again. And again. And again. It was frustrating not to know what the whole damn thing meant. Four hours having passed, Sherlock noticed that John was lulling to sleep. He was watching a cooking show ; a woman in a powdery apron was decorating a lemon cake with mint leaves and sugar.

"John," Sherlock whispered, jolting the blonde awake. "Blanket." He tossed John a folded up red blanket, then stalked off to his bedroom to grab his quilt. He'd never had a slumber party before, and he was just a teensy bit excited. He sprawled out on the couch, rolling over, and quickly falling asleep.

--------------------

It was raining. The droplets were falling upside down, in slow motion. Sherlock could reach out and touch them, and they shattered into billions of tiny, icy dewdrops. He was standing, but wasn't, falling, but wasn't. Gravity had no place. He was suspended in an endless cloudy grey void. His breath erupted bubbles from his throat and mouth. It was fun, but also scary. He worried about doing this forever, never waking, never standing on a dirty London sidewalk again. He closed his eyes, breathing cautiously.

--------------------

Soft whimpering.

Sherlock sat up and looked over at the chair John was laying in.

"Stop. S-stopitt..no...you've no right... get your hands off...her.."

Sherlock watched John's face contort in agony and sorrow. He had no idea what to do. He'd never had to comfort someone in his life. John grumbled and shifted. If he was having a nightmare, shouldn't he be woken? Sherlock sat, wringing his hands nervously for a few minutes. John's upset noises grew louder. It was time to something, anything.

Sherlock stood and tiptoed over to John. He couldn't believe he was doing this...

He bent over John's chair, gently running a hand through his bangs, and then gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead. John immediately relaxed, his expression turning soft and blissful.

Sherlock lie back down, gently lulling off to sleep. John didn't toss or moan for the remainder of the night.