John hated the rain.

For one thing, it made navigating London an utter nightmare. Walking anywhere meant being soaked to the bone and left with a chill that never quite went away, and hailing a cab became next to impossible. Even Sherlock, who apparently had some sort of cab-finding superpower on top of his absurd genius, found it difficult to flag one down when the rain really started to pour in London. This left the Tube, which was even more of a disaster than usual, and by the time John got to work he was already frustrated and tired before his work day had even begun.

For another thing, nothing made his shoulder ache worse than the persistent damp of a long London rainstorm. While it was true that extensive physical therapy and regular exercise had brought back most of the lost movement and banished the stabbing pain of his old injury, a rainstorm that lasted any longer than a day caused his shoulder to seize right back up. Not wanting to be pitied or seen as weak, he did his best to hide his pain from his friends and struggled through as best he could.

But there was another reason that John hated the rain, one that he would never, ever admit to anyone. He barely even admitted it to himself, because doing so would mean facing a lot of uncomfortable truths about himself that he wasn't quite ready for. But if he were to be truly honest, John would have to say that he hated the rain because of what it did to Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and one of the greatest minds in recent history, did not own an umbrella. John thought there were several possible reasons for this, ranging from unpleasant brotherly associations to the function of umbrellas having been deleted from that ridiculous brain of his, but whatever the reason the point still stood that Sherlock had not once used an umbrella in the entire time that John had known him. And this meant that every time it started raining heavily and Sherlock was off haring about London, John knew that he would be faced with the same dilemma. Sherlock, in all his gorgeous Byronic glory, soaking wet and utterly unapologetic.

The first time it had happened, John had nearly keeled over from shock. He had been sitting in his armchair, drinking tea, reading the latest copy of his favorite medical journal, and resolutely trying to ignore the ache that was creeping into his shoulder. It had not been a bad day, despite the pain, since Sherlock was occupied with some triple murder and John had been able to enjoy the rare peace that fell over the flat when the detective was gone. The spell was soon broken by the bang of the downstairs door opening however, and John sighed to himself. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

"John! You won't believe what I found!"

John could tell by the tone of Sherlock's voice that he was excited by something to do with the murders, and he smiled to himself as he put the journal down. I'm not sure if I should be happy or worried when he gets like this…oh.

Sherlock had burst into the sitting room with his usual flurry of ridiculously long limbs and a dramatic swirl of his coat, but this time his entrance had nearly caused John to choke on his tea. Because Sherlock, who was normally impeccably dressed and put together within an inch of his life, was absolutely soaked. His hair, usually perfectly groomed and sculpted into place, was hanging in sopping wet curls and lay plastered against his forehead where the wind had blown it. His suit, as John was made painfully aware as Sherlock peeled off his heavy wool coat, was soaked through and clung with obscene tightness to every long limb on his body. And his shirt, which looked as though it was about to burst open under the strain on the best of days, was rendered both skin tight and completely see-through by the water.

John felt like he was going to pass out.

Yes, he may have in passing perhaps noticed once or twice (from a purely aesthetic standpoint, mind you) that his flatmate was rather attractive. But that was from an entirely academic point of view, of course. Sherlock had made his feelings about relationships quite clear the very first night they met, and John Watson was not a man to push a losing situation. While he might have stolen a sideways glance now and then, he had been quite careful to never let on just how often his thoughts strayed over to his friend. Or how brilliant it would be to kiss those gorgeous lips…

But now? John simply couldn't look away. He could feel his face flushing a dark red and knew that soon his exact thoughts would be very, very obvious to anyone who happened to glance at his trousers. He needed to get away, and get away fast.

"Uh, excuse me. I need to, um, take care of something." It was quite possibly the worst excuse in the history of excuses, but it was all his startled brain could come up with. He rushed past Sherlock, making very sure not to touch any part of the sopping wet detective, and hurried up the stairs to his room as fast as his legs would take him.

Shit. Bugger. Fuck. Shitbuggerfuck damn it all to hell why is this happening to me?

The next rainstorm was no better.

Sherlock had been investigating what at first appeared to be an ordinary burglary case, but had in fact turned out to be part of a larger network of extortion, money laundering, and trading of black-market goods. This of course thrilled Sherlock to no end, but it meant that John was left chasing after him for days trying to keep him from getting killed while they attempted to round up everyone involved in the whole mess. Which had been perfectly fine of course. Until it started raining.

The rain didn't let up once for two days, and John was fairly sure that he had forgotten what dryness felt like. He could barely move his right arm and he hadn't slept properly in what felt like weeks. And to top it all off, he had been forced to pretend that he was not even slightly affected by the excited, brilliant, sopping wet detective he called his friend. By the time the rain had stopped and both men had finally dried out, John had decided that it would be perfectly fine with him if it never, ever rained in London again, droughts be damned.

After the third time that Sherlock had come into John's practice soaking wet and grinning, John was convinced that he was doing it deliberately.There just can't be that many more murders that happen when it's raining. Can there?

Whatever the case, John was fast developing a reputation for becoming quite tetchy the moment the sky started to turn dark. He let his friends and coworkers believe that it was due to the awful travel conditions – anything was better than someone catching onto the truth.

I can't do this much longer.

It's dark, it's cold, and it's pouring. Sherlock and John had been called into the scene of a particularly nasty murder across London, and something inside John feels perilously close to breaking. While there had thankfully been tents set up over the body and surrounding area, Sherlock had breezed through the area snapping out deductions about the poor girl's life in under two minutes flat. Now they were on a hunt for some mysterious clue (John hadn't quite caught what they were looking for as Sherlock ran by him) and John was soaked. More the point, and much more to John's dismay, Sherlock was soaked. And bending over every ten seconds to examine the ground. In his skin-tight, clingy, soaking wet trousers.

It should not be possible for someone that skinny to have such a gorgeous arse. It just shouldn't.

"John! Are you even listening to me?" John started guiltily and looked up at Sherlock's face, praying to some nameless power that the consulting detective had somehow missed the ogling that John had been doing.

"Of course I'm listening, go on." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and paused his inspection of the ground to stare at John. Shit. John smiled and did his best to look anything but guilty, but it's no good. He knows that he's an open book to Sherlock, and his heart fell into his shoes as Sherlock grinned like a cat that's gotten into the cream.

"Problem, John?" The smile did nothing to help John's current state, and he cleared his throat roughly in an attempt to sound even close to normal.

"No, no problem. What were you saying about footprints?" But it's no use. An errant curl has fallen into Sherlock's eye, and water has begun to steadily drip into the perfect cupid's bow formed by his upper lip. Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, and John felt his knees go weak. This is knows. Oh God he knows and he'll be disgusted and leave just because I couldn't control my damn feelings damn it John Watson…

But Sherlock spoke before John's thoughts could go much further. "I know why you hate the rain, John." His voice is quiet, and somehow lower than usual. John is entranced. "It's not the cabs, and it's not the shoulder that you so pointedly grumble about." Sherlock steps closer, and John's heart feels like it's going to beat right out of his chest. "Did you really think I didn't notice how reacted that first time I came home wet? Me, not notice how you flushed and couldn't take your eyes off of me?"

"Sherlock, please." In any other situation, John would be horrified to hear himself whisper hoarsely like this. Right now, it's all he can manage.

"Why do you think I've started taking so many cases when it's raining? Why do you think I drag you along when you're so obviously not needed?" Sherlock is right up against John now, and John can feel the heat of the other man's breath on his cheek. "Well, John?"

"I – but I thought it was just transport. You're married to your work…" Even in his own ears John's words sound feeble, and Sherlock huffed out a quiet laugh.

"John, you are unbelievably stupid sometimes."

And then without any warning, Sherlock's lips were on his and a spidery hand was buried in his wet hair. John nearly froze in shock, but his body soon took over and he responded eagerly. For all the time he had devoted to fantasizing about this moment, John had never imagined that it would be like this. It had never occurred to him that Sherlock would kiss deeply and passionately, or that he would wind a strong arm around John's waist to pull him closer. He had never imagined that Sherlock would groan quietly when John gently bit his full lower lip, or that he would be able to feel the heat of Sherlock's body through their soaked clothing. When they finally broke for air, John looked up at Sherlock with what was surely a truly hilarious expression of surprise and shock on his face. But Sherlock smiled back down at him, and it's a real smile, not one of those plastic things he drags out for suspects and witnesses. Something warm exploded inside of John's chest, and he suddenly finds that he doesn't care one bit about all the potential problems that come with snogging your best friend and flatmate.

"Oi, you two!" The moment was broken somewhat by Lestrade calling to them through the darkness. John tried to start away, but Sherlock simply tightened his grip around John's waist and kept him close. "When you're quite finished snogging over there, try to remember that we have a case to solve please?" The DI hurried back under the tent, and John groaned as he buried his head in Sherlock's chest. But Sherlock only chuckled, causing John to look up at him curiously.

"They're all convinced that we're dating anyway, John. Now come on, as the Detective Inspector was so kind to remind us, there's a case to solve." Sherlock ducked his head down and gave John a shorter, but still tender kiss. Before he pulls away completely though, he whispers gruffly in John's ear, "Besides, the faster we get this case solved, the faster I can finally get these wet clothes off you."

The rain, John decides, might not be so bad after all.