Chapter Text
London’s rainy autumn weather had been irritating for Sherlock Holmes. Mrs Hudson had forbidden Sherlock and John to leave the flat for cases, because she knew after a few hours they will come back dripping with rain, mud and probably mud ruining her 6th door mat.
“Ugh!” Sherlock shouted as he threw the magazine John had been reading across the room on the wall. He had been lying on the couch for two and a half hours starting from eight o’clock in the evenings, when he was sure that he heard the sound of someone leaving the flat.
“Bored!”
“Well, you’re certainly not getting un-bored by chasing criminals until the rain stops young man!” Came Mrs Hudson’s reply from downstairs. Sherlock dragged himself to the window, watching people who got caught in the rain running on the streets.
“John!” He called, half-expecting that he would compromise to play a game of cluedo with him. “John’s off to his girlfriend’s,” Mrs Hudson said as she came upstairs, worrying for her new wallpaper. “He said he won’t be home until tomorrow. I’m going to bed so don’t you dare start playing the bloody violin again, Sherlock Holmes, or you’ll be sleeping on the streets tonight.”
“Why was HE allowed out and I’m not?” Queried the detective, his brows tied into a knot.
“Well he’s much more caring for my walls and carpets than you, and he doesn’t harpoon pigs when he’s out.”
“I-”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock knew he shouldn’t say more, so he only sighed, four rain days in a row and now John wasn’t home. He was planning his escape route already, he plans to leave the flat after Mrs Hudson had gone to sleep and the rain gets smaller.
***
He regrets his choice. He left Baker Street minutes before midnight, he was heading Scotland Yard’s way, assuming that there would be at least one Inspector on duty. But now he was half a mile away from Baker Street and not one cab could be seen through the thick Soup Fog. The raindrops were growing larger and larger that it felt like hail on the detective’s head. The downpour was turning into an untimely flood by the time Sherlock found shelter. It was under the extended roof of a closed cafe.
“This really couldn’t get any worse...” He muttered, staring into the dense layer of rain, hoping to catch sight of a cab. He was wet all over, the temperature had been unkind too – Sherlock thought that he would freeze solid.
Just then, a figure with their coat above their head came running towards the identifiable shelter. Sherlock couldn’t possibly know the figure better.
It was James Moriarty, his nemesis.