Chapter Text
The rain poured down the drain. It was a curtain of silver slashing through Baker Street. You stood just outside the steps of 221B, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to your face, and your suit clung heavy against your shoulders.
A stormy London night. Perfect for a lover’s spat to happen. You loathe him for his indifference, his carefully crafted superiority. It is fine if he does not care about you, but unacceptable for John and Sherlock.
“For once in your life—just once—you could care. About something other than your own calculations. ”
Caring is an absolute advantage. You know that if Sherlock is gone, your boss, handler, enemy, something, Mycroft will also be gone, and he does not understand that at all.
He stands dry beneath his umbrella, looking down at you with the expression he often wore as armour: a measured disdain, calm superiority, the faint suggestion that you were a fool for raising your voice in his presence. Not a hair out of place, not a drop of rain daring to touch him.
“And what good,” he asked coolly, “would caring do? Do you imagine sentimentality will save Sherlock? That your shouting at me in the street will alter the course of events already set in motion?”
You fight at him, seethe at him in the London rain. You are soaked beneath it all, and you can barely see his face, hidden under the cover of his umbrella, remaining holy and dry. He knows where it hurts, especially when it comes to you, and the words kill you and you run inside.
Your chest heaves. “I’m not asking you to care about me. God knows I stopped expecting that a long time ago. But him. John . The two of them—don’t you see they’re hanging by a thread? You can’t just—just sit in your bloody palace of indifference and pretend you don’t see what’s happening!”
He tilted his head, an infinitesimal movement. Rain hissed off the umbrella’s taut fabric. “What happens to my brother is none of your concern. And I’ll thank you not to lecture me on duty. Least of all you.”
That last word hits like a lash. Your breath catches, anger surging up, hot as the rain was cold. “Least of all me ? You smug, insufferable bastard . Everything I’ve done—every mission, every goddamn night bled out in the field—it’s been for country, for Crown, for you . And you stand there and—”
“Your attempt to martyr yourself isn’t fooling me,” he cut in, voice rising just enough to silence you for a second. “You’re an asset. A blunt instrument. Nothing more. Don’t mistake usefulness for significance.”
You stare at him, the rain streaking down your face like tears though your eyes burned too hot for them. “Then you wonder why no one can stand you.”
Nothing of him changes.
You flex your neck, disgust roiling in your chest, and turned on your heel. “Fine. Rot in your ivory tower. But when everything comes crashing down, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Your boots splashed through the puddles as you strode off into 221B behind you.
“Don’t you dare walk away,” he snarled after you, his voice cutting through the rain. And then, sharper, harder: “That’s an order. 008 !”
You do not listen. He is white noise to you.
He closes the umbrella with a vicious flick, rain instantly soaking into his immaculate suit, and stalks after you. His hand closes around your wrist with precise force, spinning you back towards him.
The door of 221B slams open under his shove, and suddenly you’re inside, in the dim, suffocating foyer.
You wrench your arm free all vicious. “Get your hands off me.”
“You’re insubordinate,” he shoots back, voice like a blade. “Reckless. You undermine me at every turn—”
“Because you’re wrong!” you shout, stepping into him, finger stabbing against his chest. “Because you’re so busy pretending you’re made of stone that you can’t see the ground cracking beneath your feet. Heartlessness does not make you strong, Mr. Holmes, it makes you blind . Sherlock needs you, but you’d rather let him burn than admit you give a damn!”
You are cornered in the foyer, and he stalks towards you like something awfully akin to a predator. Your eyes dart to the lonely lamp throwing a pool of gold that makes the walls loom over you. Water drips down you in a maddening rhythm, puddling to the carpet, and steam rises against your chilled skin. Everything is here.
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. “You know nothing of what Sherlock needs. Nothing of what I carry. You presume far too much.”
The words don’t register, neither yours nor his. The final words you and him desperately swing at each other for a semblance of control.
“I know enough,” you hiss harder, voice trembling with fury. “I know he’ll hurt before you lift a finger. I know you’d rather bury yourself in secrets than admit to caring about anyone. I know you’re a coward, Mycroft Holmes.”
It is a kiss you feel then. His hand at your jaw. Bruising to the core. His mouth crashing down at yours before you can draw your furious words and sword.
Your head hits the wall. The wallpaper is cool and damp beneath your soaked hair.
You meant to shove him off. Meant to slap him, scream at him. But your body betrays you, melting before your mind could catch up. Your mouth opened under his, and then there was tongue, teeth, a clash more than a kiss, all anger and desperation.
The heat of him is overwhelming. He’s dry, warm, pressed against your drenched self, and every nerve in you screams at the difference, the electric shock of his mouth moving against yours while water drips down your collarbones. His hand braces against the wall beside your head, caging you in, and you let yourself fall into it, into him, because fighting him suddenly feels impossible.
You clutch at his lapels, dragging him closer, tasting the heat of his breath, the sting of teeth as he bites against your lower lip. You moan against him, hating yourself for it, hating him for pulling it from you. The kiss is war, but it’s also near unconditional surrender.
Your soaked clothes cling between you, but he is all tailored lines and heat, every inch of him pressed against you. You arch into him, into him, devouring his mouth as though you haven’t just been screaming at each other. His tongue sweeps against yours and you meet it, furious, hungry, until the foyer echoes with the wet sounds of both of you.
It’s obscene, and you don’t care.
You want more .
Want him closer, hotter, want to burn the cold rain out of your bones in his impossible, infuriating warmth. You are entirely selfish .
The kiss drags on, deepens, turns from an attack into something unintelligible, something that makes your knees weaken even as your fists stay knotted in his coat. He groans low in his throat, a sound he’s never meant anyone to hear, and you swallow it down like victory.
When you finally tear apart, it’s only for breath. Your foreheads almost touch, both panting, his lips red and swollen, your chest heaving. Water still drips from your hair, running down between you, but his body is a furnace against yours, dry and searing and too much.
You stare up at him, lips trembling from the aftershock, eyes blazing. The sight of him flushed to the ears invades you.
He stares right back, and in the stormy, jagged, grey of his gaze, you find absolution.
"That’s the problem with you. You care too much." He leans into your mouth, not giving you the satisfaction of touch, "And for all your fire, you’ll burn for me first."
*
The next morning, Sherlock observed a slight indentation on the wall. The woman, taller end of five feet, had evidently been pressed back by a larger man with significant force. The wet patch beneath the mark suggested she had been soaked, rainwater dripping from her hair and coat. The man, by contrast, was clean and dry. Erratic scuffing of footprints, one in black oxfords, the other in heels, crisscrossed the foyer. Moisture patterns were inconsistent with last night's storm. And, worst of all, a faintly displaced lamp.
This paired with the unmistakable signs of… intimate activity, the evidence left little to the imagination. One, he was irritated because purging upholstery of, he shudders, fluids, takes too damn long. This was human fluids. Yuck. Sherlock’s gaze swept the room, piecing together the chaotic evidence with ruthless logic. Who could have—? In his foyer, of all places. A place he rarely allowed anyone of that sort.
"John." He calls out, to no one in particular, because his flatmate was upstairs. No answer came. If it had been one of his fleeting flings, he’d already devised nine suitable punishments. But John is five-foot-seven on a good day, hardly capable of producing a dent at this height. The physics ruled him out. Which meant—
He has never been hit by a truck. Sherlock imagined the force of realisation hitting him would be something like that. The full picture crystallises in insidious detail, and he reels back in horror.
"ohforgod'sSAKE,MYCROFT!"
Mrs. Hudson’s voice floated from the kitchen: “What happened dear?”
“Nothing!” Sherlock snapped, then whirled back to the wall, glaring at the faint watermark.
His voice dropped into a whisper: “I’ll have to torch the entire place. It's the only way."