Sherlock Holmes kept thinking about the small encounter with John Watson, doctor in training. There was something about the way that man's eyes lit up when Sherlock deduced him. The way his skin crinkled when he grinned. People didn't normally smile like that at Sherlock. Thinking back on it, he couldn't remember a time it had happened. His family was fake about it, applauding their child simply because he was a child and not because they saw his achievements as worthwhile. And no one at his school even looked at him, besides the stares he would get from all the stupid girls.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room holding a tray of biscuits and two teacups filled with white tea to find Sherlock laying face down on the couch, groaning to himself. "Sherlock, darling, whatever's the matter?" she cooed, sitting down in one of the chairs. Sherlock mumbled something indecipherable and then switched positions to lay on his back. She sipped at her tea patiently. Sherlock chewed his lip in thought.

"What does it mean when you can't stop thinking about an event that happened a little over a week ago?"

A smile tugged at Mrs. Hudson's lips, but she quickly hid it. "What kind of 'event'?"

Sherlock groaned again and put a pillow over his face. He had to go back. He needed to, right this second. Something was gnawing at the back of his mind, a nervous nagging in his chest. "I'm going out."

This happened every single day for an entire month. Sherlock would anxiously lay around the house, worrying that he might miss something. Someone? It was so annoying to not know the difference. Secretly he knew what he was missing. He just rejected the notion.

He would then go out to that same bookstore, at the same hour, wait around for the same amount of time, and then sit at the bus stop for as long as he felt suitable. Every day he would ask the clerk if the man from before was there. John Watson. If she had seen him. She would always blush and tell him that she hadn't seen the man since that day. But still, for an entire month, Sherlock would wait.

He was being ridiculous.

He would never see John Watson again. It was useless trying. Sherlock stood up to leave the store. However, on his way out, a book caught his eye. It wasn't on the proper shelf. He picked it up and looked at it carefully, examining the cover art of the rather peculiar piece of fiction in his hands.

"The Rain" by Karen Brown.

And suddenly Sherlock was aware of the pitter patter of water on the shop windows. It steadily grew in volume, he could hear the wind whipping violently against the glass, he could see the size of the enormous raindrops hitting the windows like stones, he could feel the thunder's deep growl in his chest and beneath his feet. He gave a subtle chill.

He turned his attention back to the book in his hand. Ironic it be about rain in such weather.

The door behind him opened, the bell atop it tinkling sweetly. "He's here..." it seemed to beam. Startled by the biting cold, Sherlock whipped around to the idiot that opened the door. He stopped before he could accidentally say anything rude, for he was too entranced and flabbergasted as to who had barged in.

The man's choppy blonde hair was dripping with crystalline droplets, his coffee brown eyes scanning his surroundings, his round nose and cheeks a soft hue of pink, his laugh lines crinkling as he grinned despite being chilled to the bone.

It was John Watson.

Had Sherlock not picked up that book, he'd have missed him. Funny how things worked.

"Hello! Bloody freezing out there! Where the hell'd that even come from??" Watson slipped off his wet coat and used it to dry his hair by the door. The clerk smiled and giggled. "Dunno. I wonder when it's going to let up..."

Watson then saw Sherlock. He smiled and waved. Sherlock glanced away in a hurry. This entire time, he never once thought about what he would do once he found John. Kiss him? Throw his arms around him? What was he even planning? It was then that John approached Sherlock. "I don't think I caught your name last time we met." he rubbed the back of his damp head. "The name's Sherlock Holmes. And you're John Watson." Sherlock immediately regretted that last bit.

John simply smiled. "Thanks again for the textbook. It helped a million. How can I repay you?"

Sherlock was quiet. Not a single thing crossed his mind. He glanced over at the clerk, who was pretending not to look. She knew that Sherlock had been looking for the man for an entire month. He directed his attention back to Watson.

"Nothing, really."

John's shoulders fell, but he hid his disappointment immediately and efficiently. "Ah, well. That's fine, I suppose."

For the next hour, John browsed the store. Sherlock watched from a small table by a window in the back. The way John moved implied he was an athlete. He probably worked out every day. Watching him and observing him made Sherlock feel like he was prying into his business. For the first time in his life, Sherlock didn't want to deduce a person. Already he was being changed. He stopped reluctantly and his mind began to wander. Thoughts of murder mysteries danced before his eyes. And suddenly he was yanked from his fantasies by the sound of a paper cup being sat down in front of him. 

John Watson had given him a cup of coffee the same color as his eyes. He smiled politely and sat down across from Sherlock, taking a swig from his own cup. "Christ, this rain still hasn't let up. It's been over an hour by now." he chuckled, trying to make small talk. Sherlock hadn't realized that much time had passed. "Where's the coffee from?" he furrowed his brow, but immediately shook his head and answered his own question. "Never mind, they have a coffeepot in the back, the clerk must've given you some or something. Though that's rather odd. No, no, she's just using this as an excuse to make me notice her." 

John looked quizzically Sherlock. "How did you..?"

"You're probably going to ask how I know. I don't know. I observe. The only reason I knew you were going to ask that was because everyone does." Sherlock tasted his coffee. Too sweet. 

"What can you observe about me today, hmm? I remember last time you did something really cool." John took another gulp from his cup.

Sherlock looked him over, gathered his data, and then relayed it. 

"Something's troubling you. I can tell because you keep reaching for your cell phone which is tucked away in your pocket, your left eye slightly twitches sometimes, you keep checking your watch, and the corners of your eyes are just barely red." John shifted in his seat upon hearing this, but Sherlock continued.

"You're a college student. First year, as it seems, because you've put on the legendary 'freshman fifteen' and all of your school books are for beginners' classes. I could go on, but you have more questions." 

"Who even are you?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, yes..."

"How else can I describe myself?"

John chewed his lip, examining Sherlock's face with those liquid brown eyes of his. 

"I have a website," Sherlock muttered, gazing out the window beside him. "I'm the world's first and only consulting detective. Or at least I plan to be, once I get a case..." The rain was growing heavier yet, if that was even possible. He heard muffled chuckling, and he turned to look at Watson. " 'Consulting Detective', right," John cleared his throat, "Sherlock, the world isn't like that. You can't intend to just make up a profession like that." John's tone grew darker, and he spoke more to himself than to Sherlock. "Nothing's that easy, nothing can be achieved like that...society isn't kind. You'll have to get a real, boring job like the rest of us." He took another drink of coffee, grimacing like it was alcohol. 

Sherlock was quiet. He looked into John's eyes gravely. 

John cleared his throat again, quickly changing the subject. "I best be off," he smiled, reaching his hand into his pocket. "I was hoping to wait out the storm, but I should go before it gets worse..." His voice trailed off, a look of worry crossing his face. Sherlock furrowed his brow. John checked his other pocket, and then another, and finally another. Then he rummaged through his bag. He chuckled nervously. "You've got to be kidding."

"What's wrong?"

"I've lost my keys."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Lost his keys? Could he be given any better an opportunity? He piped up and spoke. "My flat is on Baker Street, the next road over. I know a shortcut. You could stay and get dry if you would like, maybe call someone." Sherlock stood up and wrapped his scarf around his neck, then shrugged into his dark navy peacoat. John did the same with his own damp coat. "No, no, I can't trouble you any further."

"Please, John."

John looked up at Sherlock. He stood there in silence, searching Sherlock's pale green eyes. There was something desperate there, lonely. John exhaled quietly through parted lips, exasperated.

"O-okay."