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The sun rarely shines in London. Most of the time it was all dark, overcast skies and gloomy weather.
It was something that a creature of the city--which Sherlock Holmes was--should be used to.
His reactions were a subtle thing, barely noticeable to the untrained observer, but John Watson was no untrained observer; he was the consulting detective’s best friend. A childish pout or an hour spent too long poring over case files about murders that happened fifty years ago was enough to tell the doctor that something was amiss.
Today however, it wasn't a pout or another session with Annie Chapman's files or injecting the latest chemical compound he created into the neighbor's cat. Today, it was a gun.
Bang! The sound of gunshot echoed like thunder inside the small flat as Sherlock blew a new hole into their wall. John flinched, but otherwise didn't give any indication that he was aware of what his friend was doing.
Bang! John turned a page in his newspaper.
Bang! "Will you stop that?" John demanded.
Bang! Sherlock didn't even bother glancing at him.
"Bored."
John rubbed his temples in an effort to head-off the migraine that was starting to burn a path across the side of his head. "You know maybe you should try calling her, instead of shooting holes in the bloody wall!"
"Who?" Sherlock asked lazily, taking aim once again.
"You know who I mean," John said impatiently. "She's late and you're upset about it."
"I'm not upset, I'm bored," the detective insisted.
Bang!
"Oh God, you know what? Use my mobile." John retrieved the phone from his pocket and tossed it to his friend. It fell on Sherlock's lap, where it lay ignored.
Bang!
John could only shake his head woefully to himself and look at the clock. If you didn't drop by soon, there was a very real chance that the good doctor would wrest the gun out of Sherlock's grip and--
"Dude, I left my keys back at my apartment, can anyone open this door for me?!"
John all but tripped over his own feet in his mad dash for the door.
The relief in his face was obvious as he beheld you, smiling up at him from the steps. Your hair was clumped together in wet tendrils and your face flushed from the cold, but he had never seen anything so stress-relieving.
"Sorry I'm late, I got hung up at work. I've been trying to call but Sherlock wasn't answering his cell," you explained. "How is he, anyway?"
"BORED!" came the voice from the living room.
BANG!
You giggled. "He been like that all day?"
"Yes," John groaned. "He's been unbearable."
Bang!
"Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?" John asked over the noise.
"Coffee would be great, thanks!" You beamed up at him.
Bang! John hurriedly escaped to the kitchen to make some coffee, where he was promptly greeted by ten severed fingers stored in the microwave.
Amidst John's "Oh bloody--!" and Sherlock's rampage, you managed to struggle out of your wet coat and hang it up.
"Hey," you murmured as you approached the consulting detective. You ran a gentle hand along his arm and though you did not notice it, he stiffened at your touch.
Click. The gun's chamber was empty.
"Heard that you've been giving John a rough time."
"I'm bored."
"So you decided to redecorate the walls?"
"There are no good cases today."
"Well, maybe a good murder will turn up tomorrow."
"Maybe." Sherlock sounded doubtful.
"If not," you whispered, "We can always do...other things."
Though he didn't say anything, his eyes said it all; you had his attention. The sight of those clear blue eyes fixed unwaveringly made electricity shoot down your spine and wildfire pool in your belly.
"Other things?" he asked.
"C'mon Sherlock, you're a smart guy, you can deduce what I meant."
He lifted his hand to brush it against your cheek and you leaned against his touch. "I missed you," you said softly.
Sherlock didn't say anything but you knew he missed you too. One of the many reasons why your relationship managed to survive this long was that you knew how to read the space between the words, you learned how to hear the sentences that we left unsaid.
You risked a quick peek at the kitchen before stooping down to kiss your lover. As always, his lips were cold but they were soft and welcoming. You were briefly aware of the sound of Sherlock's gun clattering to the floor, but you paid it no heed.
The consulting detective's long fingers tangled in your hair, gently but insistently pulling you closer..
God, you missed this. It had only been a few hours since you last saw Sherlock Holmes but it was clear that both of you hungered for the other.
His hands left your hair to roam your body; your skin burned where he touched it.
Dimly, you heard the clink of cups as John prepared the tray and you knew that you had to pull away from Sherlock. You did so regretfully and with his hands insistently trying to pull you back.
"John's coming back," you told your lover. The quirk of his mouth told you everything you needed to know: it's not like he cared whether or not John saw you two kissing. You did, though.
So with that in mind, you straightened up and combed your hair with your fingers, trying to mold it into some sort of shape.
John came back holding a tray laden with cups and teapots and sandwiches.
"Wow, John, thanks! That is so sweet of you! Here, let me help you with that," you exclaimed, taking the tray from him.
"Thank you," John said politely, addressing you, but his eyes were on Sherlock who had leaned back in his chair with the air of a cat who had just eaten a bowl of clotted cream; content, relaxed and sated.
Though he didn't know what happened between you and Sherlock, he could see the effect you had on him. He wasn't as surly as he was on normal rainy days nor was he prone to his childish fits.
The sun rarely shines in London.
But it did shine a lot in 221B.
Or at least, it did when you were around.