Perhaps surprisingly in light of the title, this is pure crack.

N.B. This fic is so NOT a post-Reichenbach fic that you'll probably get withdrawal symptoms ... or maybe not. ;-)

WARNING: One spoiler for A Scandal in Belgravia but otherwise nothing related specifically to Season 2.

John Hamish Watson was usually the BAMF-est of BAMFs and didn't let something as ordinary or everyday as rain bother him. However, the last time he had got this soaked in an unexpected downpour was when he had been on his way home and had found Mycroft standing outside Speedy's waiting to tell him about Irene Adler's demise. John had been so surprised to see him standing there smoking a cigarette, he had completely forgotten how wet and cold he was until he was sitting in the café steaming gently, both as a result of the water evaporating off him and because of Mycroft's suggestion that he ought to be the one to break the news to Sherlock.

But today there was nothing to distract him from the torrents of rain that were lashing down and he was cold, miserable, and determined to find and murder in cold blood the presenter who had cheerfully announced in the weather forecast on this morning's breakfast programme that the day would be fine and dry. He was fairly sure he could get away with a plea of justifiable homicide; no jury of his British peers would ever convict him and in fact they would probably award him a medal instead.

There was nowhere nearby that he could stop and take shelter, not a single bus stop or doorway with a porch. He stopped to shake the rain out of his hair and hunched his shoulders in a vain attempt to stop any more water running down his neck. He glowered moodily at the pavement, wondering what the chances were of persuading Sherlock that crime scenes in the south of France would be far more interesting and that they should pack their bags and move there immediately.

And then suddenly he wasn't getting wetter. Suddenly, without any obvious explanation, the rain was still hammering down all around him but no more water was pounding onto his head. For a moment he wondered whether the repeated impact of the rain had completely numbed his skull but then he raised his head and saw what was sheltering him against the downpour. Before he could turn to see who was providing the cover, a warm body pressed itself to his back and began to grind gently against him, rubbing a firm trouser-clad erection against his backside, and a mouth breathed into his left ear and began to hum gently. John smiled and leaned back against his idiotic lover, revelling in both the protection from the rain and the promise of a bloody good shagging once they got out of this ridiculous weather.

"I didn't even know you had one of these," he murmured over his shoulder while looking up at the object which was sheltering him. "Please tell me you didn't just pinch it from a crime scene."

Sherlock momentarily snorted laughter and then wrapped his free hand around John's waist and undulated against him again, resuming his humming. John had assumed he was just producing random notes but now his eyes widened as he began to recognise the tune. He spun around in Sherlock's grip and stared up into his eyes.

"I didn't think you knew any modern songs," he said in surprise. He thought for a second, then added, "Well, it's not that modern, but bloody hell, Sherlock, I wasn't sure you knew any tune that was written in the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first!"

Sherlock gazed at him serenely, still humming the tune while writhing sinuously against him. John's breath began to hitch as he calculated how soon he could get them home and how quickly he could get his sodden jeans and jumper off and then get Sherlock out of his not-so-wet clothes. He leaned closer, stretching up to bring his lips closer to the mouth of the gorgeous man who was pressed against him.

"Sing me the lyrics," he murmured. "Sing me the lyrics and I swear to you, Sherlock Holmes, that I will roger you senseless in every room of the flat one after the other until daybreak. And then I will stop for twenty minutes' sleep and then start all over again."

Sherlock's humming faltered for a moment under the intensity of John's gaze, then he smiled slowly, leaned forward and began to sing breathily into his ear.

"Now that it's raining more than ever,

Know that we'll still have each other ..."

oOoOoOo

A few streets away, a very wet and extremely irritated man glared down the road and waited impatiently for the car which he had just phoned for. He used the time amusing himself by calculating how many different ways he could murder the little brother who had just mugged the British government.

oOoOoOo

Pressed against his heavy-breathing lover in the pouring rain, Sherlock grinned wickedly and deliberately rewrote the next lines:

"... You can stand under My's umb-er-ella,

You can stand under My's umb-er-ella ella ella, eh eh eh ..."

It was only much later, after posting this story, that I realised that not everybody who reads Sherlock fic is quite as obsessed on the series and that not everyone even knows that John's therapist is called Ella. So the joke in the title may have gone right over a lot of heads ... Well done, Ari. *rolls eyes at herself*