The door swept open quietly as Sherlock strode in, Belstaff swirling around his legs. A frown slanted his lips as he saw John sitting exactly where he had left him- sitting in his armchair, which was positioned before the rain-streaked window.
“Have you even moved since I left?” he demanded, setting down his dripping umbrella.
“May I ask why?”
“I like watching the rain,” John replied simply.
“Dull,” Sherlock dismissed. Silence settled over the flat until—
John smiled slightly at the command. “It just…feels…clean. I knew there was crime in London. I’d have to be really thick not to know that. But I was never a part of it…until now. Now I’m chasing criminals through the streets with you every other night, and…the city feels tainted, Sherlock. Toxic. And the only thing that can clear it up is rain. Then everything is okay again.” He gave a self-conscious laugh, turning to look at the detective. “Sometimes, I just want to run out there and get drenched. Just to feel clean again. But that would be foolish, wouldn’t it?” he added with a wistful smile.
Sherlock was silent for a moment before suddenly crossing the room and stepping into an old pair of Wellingtons. He looked at John closely, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “Put on your boots.”