One shots (johnlock fluff mostly)

Rain

They were racing, turning corners suddenly but not enough to ever lose sight of each other, perfectly choreographed, Sherlock pinned him down, John holding him at gunpoint till the police arrived, the rain came down heavier, feet slapping on the pavement, drenched through to the bone by the time they were back in 221b.

They pulled open the flat door, still full of adrenaline and practically skipped up the stairs, they pulled off their drenched coats and hung them to dry and then went to their separate rooms to pull on pajamas and throw their drenched clothes into the wash.

John was already settled in the kitchen making them both tea, and then Sherlock walked in still choreographed and in sync with john as he opened cupboards and John moved about the kitchen, not missing a beat to their own dance, like morcambe and wise during their breakfast, they were silly and childish but lost in their own perfect domesticity. John brought out the tea, Sherlock carrying a separate plate of biscuits and some sort of sandwich he'd made for them to share, they sat on the sofa together, Sherlock reaching an arm down the back and pulling out a blanket and pulling it over them so they were both reveling in its warmth, the cold weather that bit at their skin now only visible through the window, light sparkling off the street lights, splintering in the raindrops against the window making everything look magical and impossible.

They'd huddled up on the sofa together drinking tea, completely lost in their own little world of knowledge and peace, the calm waters that balanced out the storm but could both change roles whenever they let each other see their true sides that no one else could see, the warm side of Sherlock, the caring side that broke down to tears so easily when home but was as cold as ice at work.

They turned on the tv and watched it together, not really paying attention to the documentaries or films that came on the screen, only focusing their true thoughts on each other, Sherlock began to drift off and fall against the back of the chair, head killing uncomfortably against his chest, John gently pulled him to lay his head on his lap so that Sherlock could rest lying down, blanket still covering him on his makeshift bed.

John raised a hand and lay it protectively over Sherlock, another hand gently stroking back his curls and they were peaceful that night, Sherlock fell asleep in Johns arms, unconsciously grabbing balls of Johns jumper in his fist that were now gently holding on like a child, not bloodied up from where he'd interrogated someone who'd put John in danger. The usual dirt stained clothes replaced by soft oversized pajamas and long blue nightgowns that showed the child side to the sociopath, he wasn't a sociopath it was just a defense he said when threatened with emotions, something to convince them to give up what they said because they believed it wouldn't affect him in the way it did.

And that was the rainy night at 221b, and that was every rainy day, John the stronger one, the one who cared for him, whilst the detective let down his walls and became a child again, emotions running through his eyes almost as clear as if he spoke them if not clearer and John always saw.