Rainy Days : A TeenLock Fanfiction

Goodbye, Logic

Life was hardly quiet anymore with John around, and Sherlock didn't mind that one bit.

John had a ton of video games he inherited from his uncle and also bought with his own money, and he and Sherlock would sit around for hours trying to beat each other in Need For Speed. Sherlock didn't bother playing games that required strategy, they where all too easy. Instead, he watched John play them and poked fun at him whenever he failed.

John's Netflix addiction was all too real. He made Sherlock watch all kinds of predictable shows that Sherlock couldn't help but get into. Crime shows, comedies, dramas, horrors, mysteries, you name it. As long as Sherlock was experiencing it with John, it didn't really matter what they did.

There definitely were hard days. It would happen out of nowhere; John would be washing dishes and would suddenly break down and start crying, distraught and guilty for leaving his mother and sister to deal with his father. Sherlock would never speak, just hold John and listen to whatever he needed to get off his chest. Then John would go into his room and be quiet for a long while.

But the days were mostly fun.

John still had school to go to, so while he was away, Sherlock did what he always did before. He adventured out into London, discovering new places and committing the whole thing to memory. He read a lot of books and drank a lot of tea. He must have read "The Rain" about a zillion times. It was high time he wrote Karen Brown a letter.

Sherlock sat down at his desk with pen and paper, determined to write something heartfelt. How does one write something "heartfelt", anyway? What defines the word? He pulled out a dictionary and looked it up.

~

Heart•Felt

1. (of a feeling or its expression) sincere; deeply and strongly felt

~

Sherlock furrowed his brow, then shook his head and got to work.

--------------------

Two whole hours had passed, and Sherlock had gotten nowhere. There were crumpled papers everywhere, the tiny metal wastebasket in the corner completely full. "Shit," he grumbled, running his long fingers through his tangled dark curls.

He gave up. There wasn't anything he could say to describe how the book had saved him. He wrote two simple words and his initials:

Thank you. -SH

He mailed the letter just as John walked up the drive.

--------------------

Sherlock got a reply two weeks later. Mrs. Hudson came in and delivered the envelope. "For you, Sherlock dear."

Sherlock and John were sitting on the couch, sharing a blanket and watching some American show about two handsome brothers who hunted ghosts and spirits and folklore. Sherlock reached out and took the letter, ripping it open as Mrs. Hudson scurried off to deliver the rest of the mail.

Sherlock's heart leaped with joy as he read the words on the page. He stood up to read it over again by the window as John gave him a puzzled look. "What's that?" he inquired, the curiosity leaking from his lips.

John's lips...

Sherlock stood still, pondering what he was about to do and the possible consequences. He gently tossed the letter onto "The Rain", and sat back down next to John. "Ready to continue the show?"

"No."

"Did something happen...?"

Sherlock pressed his knee against John's, leaning forward and grinning like an idiot. "Yes," he beamed. John was about to speak, but the air must've gotten lost on it's way out. Sherlock was so close that his curls tickled John's forehead, and he could smell tea and faint traces of mint when he breathed. Sherlock's airy green eyes glittered with something John hadn't seen before.

Sherlock's right hand found John's, and his left hand had snaked somewhere around John's thigh area. The nervousness emanating from the pair was enough to make their hearts race and their hair to raise.

It was a few moments of heated anticipation later that Sherlock did it.

John's thin lips cautiously moved against Sherlock's full, angular lips. The task was soft, delicate, and careful. It was like they were slowly encouraging each other, reassuring that what was happening was okay with both of them.

Neither of them were virgins. Sherlock, being incredibly attractive, had had his share of run-ins. John went to public school and attended college, so his sexual condition wasn't a mystery.

The kiss wasn't like what the two had had in the past; it wasn't rough or hungry or desperate or driven by lust. It was pure and clean, and they kept their tongues out of the picture. Sherlock leaned forward, sighing into the kiss, as John reached up absentmindedly to stroke his perfectly contoured jaw and tangle his fingers in those intoxicating curls.

Soon Sherlock had John pinned down to the sofa, still kissing him at the same speed and softness.

On the side table behind them sat "The Rain" and the letter that Karen Brown had written back to Sherlock.

You're welcome. -KB