Chapter Text
The midnight rain falls with a purposeful force to it, as if the clouds have conspired to cover up the beautiful half-moon and its luminous romance.
The sheer volume of the weather is almost deafening. The sky’s roaring pellets spatter the unfortunately expensive shoes of Doctor Watson when they peek out from under his umbrella with every step forward in his struggle to defeat the weather. His coat does little to keep him warm considering its soaked state, and the chilling wind makes him shiver. It is cold and dark, and he is alone in a storm that is frightening and diabolic. John Watson was grateful for his soldier's-nerves that help him trudge on even as lightning cracks fissures into the deep sky. Watson is not scared, but he is incredibly uncomfortable as a chill sets into his bones; a sensation that can likely make even the most murderous Ghazis tremble, yet one that the average Londoner is unfortunately accustomed to. The great cesspool spares no man.
Jupiter's rage had been sudden; that afternoon had granted no light drizzle to foretell this great mess. It had been perfectly sunny when he’d begun his peppy strut down Baker Street, foolishly unaware of the fate that would soon ruin his perfectly gelled hair. Sherlock Holmes had warned him it would rain, but childlike eagerness to meet with Publisher Leonard Whitely had compromised Watson’s sense of reason. He could not bring himself to postpone the release of his sensational novel ‘The Study in Scarlet,’ so he had made a dismissive remark on the topic of precipitation and left his flat hoping for the best.
In spite of himself, he smiles as he pictures the boastfully smug, yet well meaning reprimand he would likely be issued by his flat-mate upon his arrival. He amuses himself with his imagination of the scenario: Holmes would hear my drenched shoes against the staircase, and be rather pleased with himself upon being correct in his prediction which I had naively dismissed. He would deny feeling proud, but the twinkle in his eye that always shines brighter when he proves to be correct would not escape me. It is then that he would notice the mess of my state, and would quickly become sheepish at not displaying concern for my comfort first.
Watson can’t help chuckling to himself at his sketch of his bizarre new companion, about whom he still knew so little. The breeze relents ever so slightly, and over the thunder, Watson hears the unmistakable clopping of hooves getting louder with each passing second. The glow of a lamp penetrates the dense fog like the glowing halo of an angel driving a divine chariot, and a cab miraculously halts right by the shivering man.
“There you are Watson.”
A thin hand plunges out of the darkness within the carriage and grabs onto Watson’s wet coat sleeve and immediately, warmth blooms at the point of contact. It is Holmes.
The horses neigh impatiently at the cab man, who seems less than happy to be out in a storm. John absently wonders what persuasive fee Sherlock Holmes might have paid the cabbie to go out in search of him as he hurries into the vehicle, momentarily struggling with his umbrella. Inside, Holmes gives him a towel.
His friend’s face glowing in candlelight is the only visible feature of the vehicle as the late-night darkness seeps it’s way in through the windows. “Holmes. What are you doing out here in his weather?”
“Rescuing you, it appears,” comes a cheeky reply, followed by an amused laugh at the Doctor’s pout. “There’s no shame in needing to be saved by me Doctor Watson. You must accept it as a part of your daily life if you are to live with me comfortably. Do not permit such gestures to emasculate you, for it is an annoying habit of mine to pry into other’s business, and to skillfully solve their problems.
Watson sulks the whole way home.
Returning home feels like being hugged by his mother. Inside, a soft shadow envelops every corner of the living room, as if the furniture is playing hide-and-seek with the fire. The fireplace glows golden and orange and turns the storm outside into nothing but a soft and pleasant hum. Holmes lights a cigar, laying sprawled across his armchair. Languid.
Watson takes longer than usual in the bath, carefully scrubbing his legs of every fleck of mud that inexplicably splashed with a trajectory which bypassed his trousers. He only became renter of this flat very recently, yet he feels a sense of home in a manner that war had made him forget. Upon the waves of bathwater, he is (in spirit) transported back in time, when he had feared that stomach fear would condemn him to the dark pit which agents of war were signed off to. It had been a dark time, and dreadful depression had never ceased to remind the doctor of the massacres he had witnessed. The memory of death had followed him back to Blighty.
He climbs out of the tub feeling reborn as his horror trickles down the drain.
“What is on your mind, dear doctor?” The words diffuse and lazily mingle with the smoke turning the room’s Aurum tint to a weighted blanket of Argentum that travels from the detective’s cigar to wrap around Watson’s mind and soul. Through the haze, he has only the vaguest image of Holmes coiled up upon his throne.
“Just that you ought to stop calling me by title of my profession dear detective.” The response is raspy as the fumes of the strong coarse tobacco takes Watson by the throat and sets him coughing.
“Caught a cold from the rain, have you Watson?” says Holmes, drawing out the syllables of his friend’s name in a similar manner to how he so often took long drags from his black clay pipe or cigar.
“No, it’s this poisonous atmosphere.”
“I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it.”
“Thick! It is intolerable.”
“Open the window then.”
“And invite in the storm?” Watson argues. “You must be more considerate of my poor constitution Holmes!”
“I apologise, Watson,” says Holmes, tossing the remnant of his cigar into the fireplace. He sits up straight and extends one thin arm towards his flatmate. “If you might pass over my violin, I shall make it up to you with some Gustav Mahler. Whichever symphony you request.”
As Watson stretches himself out on the sofa, his artist begins to play a low, dreamy, melodious air. His gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and fall of his bow, all ease the tired doctor into dream-land, where he continues to float peacefully upon the soft sea of sound.