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The wind gusts and dry leaves swirl around their feet as they walk. A shadow falls across Regent’s Park as the temperature drops and the chlorine smell of ozone signals the approaching storm.
“We’d better get back,” John says, looking up at the dark clouds roiling above them.
“No, let’s stay,” Sherlock says, tightening his grip on John’s hand.
“Are you crazy? It’s going to rain, we’ll be drenched.”
“I know.”
All around them, people are hurrying to exit the park.
“But...”
“I’ve always loved rain, John, especially the petrichor.”
“The what?”
“The smell of raindrops liberating organic molecules from the grooves and pores in rock or cement, it’s called petrichor, and it’s my favourite smell. Well, my favourite after the smell of you.”
John smiles at this, and as he does, the first raindrops fall, and there is a gentle rumble of thunder. They stop on the path and look up at the sky as the cool rain pelts their faces. They are alone now and are indeed getting drenched as they stand together in the pouring rain, listening to the sound of it hitting the pavement and the summer-green leaves of the trees. Patter patter.
Sherlock takes John’s wet face in his hands and bends to him. As their lips meet, lightning illuminates the sky with a jagged blaze.