The Simple Things
On rare occasions, Sherlock would allow himself to enjoy the simpler things of life.
One such thing was the soft rains of London. On those days when the rains came down easily, with a soft shushing, if he had no case to occupy his mind, he would sometimes find himself enjoying the weather. It had the strange capacity to soothe his racing thoughts. He could be at peace on such a day, if only for a while.
At times, he called peace hateful. But, this was only because there was peace all around him in which he had no part. While all else was quiet, his mind continued to claw desperately in search of some problem, some question to latch onto, to search for an answer to. This was not the case on those rare, rainy days.
For these reasons, Sherlock Holmes stood just outside 221B Baker Street one foggy, rainy day in London with his face turned to the sky and his eyes closed.
A part of his mind continued to work as he stood, dissecting the sounds that came his way. The soft patter of rain. The low voices of the few passersby. The click of their shoes on the pavement.
Among those steps was one particular, familiar gait which caught his attention. The steps drew near, then ceased.
Sherlock did not open his eyes, did not turn his head. "John," he said, by way of greeting.
"What are you doing?" was the reply.
Grey-green eyes opened. The head rolled slowly to the right, a small smirk tugging at the lips. "It would seem…obvious."
John rolled his eyes even as a smile spread over his own face. He had come to hate that word at times. But, only at times.
"Ok then, why are you standing in the rain?"
The face had turned back to the rain. The eyes had closed once more. "Because I want to."
It was another clear sign that they didn't have a case at the moment. When on a case, Sherlock never did anything without a reason.
"Well, you're likely to catch a cold," John persisted. "And where does that leave me? Having to do everything for you." He paused, then added, "As if I don't do that already half the time."
Sherlock swiveled easily on his heel and made for the door to 221B. John caught a glimpse of the tall man's face. His smirk was widening.
Holmes threw the door open and strode inside with customary grace and fluidity. His soggy coat left a trail of water droplets in his wake.
"When have you ever known me to get sick?" Sherlock asked as he blew into the living room in a swish of dripping coat.
'Showoff,' John thought. Nevertheless, the man was right. In the months that they had shared the flat, Holmes had never once come down with so much as a sniffle.
The consulting detective threw his coat carelessly onto the tile kitchen floor. The fabric squished and John absently wondered what the thing was worth.
Sherlock curled up in his usual chair and closed his eyes once more. John could see it. He wasn't sure how, but he could. If they didn't get another case soon, some new holes might appear in the wall.
John made his way to the kitchen, steered around the lump of coat, and asked, "Tea?"
That was what passed for a yes with Sherlock.
Soon, John returned to the front room with two cups. Setting these on the nearby table, atop a stack of old papers that Sherlock was too lazy to throw away, the doctor settled into his own chair.
The man across from him was, to employ a pun, a mystery. He could go for days without food or sleep. He could run about in the rain and never get sick.
As if on cue, Sherlock sneezed.
The pale eyes sprang open. For an instant, some emotion flickered there. Surprise, perhaps?
John rolled his eyes.