Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Thunder (Part 1)

Requested by benedict_snape Happy birthday for the 29th :-)

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CONTEXT:

Sherlock never knew that his flatmate Y/N----whom he's developed quite a crush on---is afraid of thunderstorms. 

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"Cause I knew I was in love with you

When we sat in silence"

- 'Silence', by Before You Exit

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The air had been heavy and thick with moisture all day, so it came as no surprise when a mass of cumulonimbus clouds rolled around at about mid-afternoon. Like a tsunami of concrete, they had smothered the pleasant September sunshine by three, and hardened into a hefty wall of moody grey by four.

Then the rain began.

And it didn't stop.

Sherlock watched with mild amusement as chaos ensued.

He'd been called out of his comfortable, dry apartment by Lestrade to solve a case said man had claimed to be 'unsolvable'. Predictably, the case turned out to be very solvable---or it would have been, had half the evidence not just been washed away into a storm drain. 

Sherlock could have been at home right now, playing a board game with Y/N, or doing a science experiment with Y/N, or making ginger snaps with Y/N and then eating them---

But he's not, and as a pellet of rain wriggled its way down his neck, Sherlock still feels---understandably---a little nettled. At Greg Lestrade for dragging him out here, and at the idiocy that is Scotland Yard for needing him to be dragged out here.

Not that he turned out to be much use.

The corner of his lip quirked as he regarded one of the technicians chasing a flock of evidence labels down the street. The little yellow cards were being whisked away by a torrent of water that was rapidly becoming a small stream down one side of the road.

Another technician, or it might have been someone from forensics---it's hard to tell when everyone's dressed in sodden disposable overalls---was desperately trying to cover what was left of the scene with a sheet of tarpaulin.

Sherlock almost regretted refusing to don one of those suits himself; the wearable plastic-bags looked ridiculous, but would have kept the rain off. He can already feel it seeping into the wool of his coat, the moisture probably flushing his shirt with dark bruises as if he'd been thoroughly beaten up.

The man attempting to save what little was left of the evidence looked young, despite his screwed-up frown of anguish ageing him ten or so years. Probably a trainee, or some sort of student, Sherlock guessed lazily. The trainee-or-perhaps-student stopped to wipe his plastered-down hair from his face with the back of his hand, then resumed spreading out the tarp with admirable determination. The wind kept whipping up the corners, though, the weather trying to bunch the whole thing up like a sheet of paper and hurl it down the street.

Sherlock almost pitied him, and would have helped had he not known the exercise to be futile; they might as well just summon the bioremediation specialists and call it a day.