Sherlock Rain

**A/N- Basic idea given to me by Quillinx, because she made a drabble like this, and I needed to make it bigger just to gush over it some more! XD**

o0O0o

**Rain**

It was quiet in London. There was a steady, ominous trickle from the sky that forbade the rain showers already forecasted to come, and everyone was either at home, resting after work, or had been resting there all day, not wanting to venture out into what could soon be a rather unpleasant storm.

Storms were nice if you had a warm house to stay in during them. The sound of the water hitting the roof, and watching the rain wet everything in sight, but from the safety, security of a shelter.

It would have been a nice storm.

It would have been quiet, and tranquil for Lestrade. But then again, it couldn't have. He was having a bad day, and bad days didn't get better, he'd figured that out long ago.

The neighboring residents had all been wondering who in the world was shouting. It was a perfectly reasonable evening, and they were all enjoying it with the telly on, or a board game with friends.

And they probably wondered how anyone could be angry at someone else today, of all days.

And who knew what else they were thinking, but at least we know they were wondering about _why_ Mycroft and Lestrade were so angry at each other, and why they had to ruin the perfect peace with their shouting.

But soon the shouting stopped, as one person stalked out of the room, and the other made to follow, and everyone went back to the telly, or board game they had been watching or playing.

The drizzle continued as Lestrade flung the door of his flat open and stormed outside into the steady rain. He honestly could not have cared less if there was a _hurricane_ in the vicinity, much less a simple drizzle of water that made the him shiver slightly, and hug his arms around himself.

Mycroft was soon to follow. He shouted something, but Lestrade couldn't hear it, wouldn't hear it, not over the angry buzzing in his head, just stalked off down the grimy, now-wet streets.

Lestrade turned the corner of the block, and Mycroft would have ran after, but he realized his umbrella wasn't there any longer. His hand reached down to grasp it, and fell into empty space, and he realized that Lestrade had taken it by accident.

And so he didn't run after Lestrade. He just waited a few minutes in the doorway, slowly closed the door so that it was just him and the drizzle.

He waited a bit to give Lestrade some time, and then went and hailed a cab.

He hoped that Lestrade would actually _use_ the umbrella. He knew how staying out in the rain could get you a cold to last you a good week.

o0O0o

Lestrade had been walking for at least a few blocks before he realized he still clutched the umbrella in his hand. He was cold, and shivering, and he really wanted to use it, but he knew it would make it all the more easy for Mycroft to find him.

So he carried on.

Besides, he knew Mycroft would want him to use it, just to keep dry. And he really wanted to annoy Mycroft right now.

He walked a few more blocks until he came to a square. The giant empty space, which would usually be crowded with people, was deserted, only a few people skirting about the edges, trying to get out from the rain.

He sighed, walked to the fountain in the middle and sat down on the edge, considered what he could do.

Going back to the flat? No. He'd have to confront Mycroft, something he wasn't up to right now.

The pub? Maybe. But he had work tomorrow, and he really hated the hangover that came with going there.

Baker Street, and thus 221B? No. Sherlock would deduce the fight immediately and give him a hard time, and John's pity was more than he could bear.

Maybe he'd just sit here for a while, wait for someone, something to happen.

His face was wet, and he wiped his eyes.

It was the _rain_, not because he was crying. Because he _wasn't_, he _wasn't_-

He didn't cry, and he _wasn't crying_. He wasn't-

Of course he wasn't, it was just the rain.

And he can't go home, not now, and he doesn't know when he'll be able to, because-

Because if he does, Mycroft will know, and they'll have to _talk_, and he knows that whenever they talk things out, he's always the one that loses.

And _maybe_ he shouldn't have started shouting, and _maybe_ then Mycroft wouldn't have started shouting either, and _maybe _none of this would have happened, and they could still be enjoying the telly and the rain, and-

Wishing never helped, Lestrade reminded himself. He sat on the fountain, looked at his now-wet hands, ran one through his hair nervously, discovered that he really _was_ starting to get wet, and his hair was all matted and cold.

And he looked over at the umbrella he'd propped up against the side of the fountain to his right.

And the marble of the fountain was cold, and the rain was cold, and maybe he might get a _bit_ warmer if he wasn't _wet_, and-

He wasn't using that umbrella.

Because then Mycroft would find him all the more easily.

And to him, that meant that Mycroft had won, and he couldn't have that. He needed to win at _least_ once, just to show the world he could.

But days like this, he never won, and he wondered if there was any point in trying anyway.

He looked down at the concrete ground of the square, and blinked, and a few of his tears fell instead of streaming down his face like they had been for the past few minutes.

Not _tears,_ because hewasn't _crying._ It was just the rain that had gotten in his eyes, and if he was tearing up a little, it was because of the rather harsh wind blowing into his face.

The rain was thickening.

And he was so cold. It was getting darker, and he didn't have anywhere to _go_, and if he got too cold, too wet, right now, he didn't know what would happen. He was no doctor, after all, just a Detective Inspector.

A Detective Inspector, which, Mycroft had just told him, was pretty common compared to a politician, and could be _replaced_.

And maybe he could be replaced, (He'd always known _that_.) but he'd actually _liked_ living under the delusion that he was special, even if it wasn't always the way he wanted.

And then of course, that blessed illusion had been destroyed.

And the rain was getting worse, and he was so cold, and he was going to fail anyway, and there was no way he could _win_ this, and the umbrella was _right there_.

The people passing him, running for cover, wondered for a long time why there was a man in the middle of a rain storm with an umbrella right next to him, but neither putting it up, nor going for shelter.

Lestrade put his head in his hands, massaged his face, tried to think things out.

Not the flat.

Not Baker Street.

Not the Pub.

Maybe he could rent a room in a hotel somewhere?

But no. He'd left his wallet behind in the flat, along with his badge, and so he really _did_ have no resources whatsoever.

Well, he did have the umbrella.

But he wasn't going to use it, he wouldn't use it, not until either Mycroft somehow _made_ him (Which he had no doubt Mycroft could do.) or until he got so cold he felt he was going to die.

And he _was_ pretty cold, and wet.

But he could tough it out. He _would_ tough it out, and he didn't honestly _care_ if he got a cold in the process, because Mycroft had made it perfectly clear the world would keep turning without him, and-

And the water on his face was _water_, not _tears_-

And he was out here simply because he didn't have anywhere to _go_, not because he was _afraid_ of what would happen if he _did_ go home-

And he was resting his head in his hands, and covering his face because he was _tired_, and he was simply propping his head up-

And the sobs racking his body were simply him shifting to find a better position, even though there _wasn't _one on the cold, hard marble slabs of the fountain-

And it was so cold, and he'd doubted he could win anyway, and Lestrade looked down at the umbrella propped up to the side, and he felt like something inside of him shattered, that bit that might have been _happy_ just crumbled, because here he was-

And he'd come _this_ far, and yet-

He couldn't even continue the course of action he'd started in the first place? Was he really so wretched that some of the things Mycroft had said had been justified?

And he held the umbrella in both hands, looking very odd, just sitting there, holding the umbrella like it was something dangerous, and then he put it back down, but this time on his lap, just in case-

But he wouldn't use it. It was there just in case, _just in case_, and he wouldn't _need_ it anyway.

And the water streamed down in rivulets, collecting where he sat, and showering him in a million cold wet kisses, and the _sound_ of it, the roar of the water, that collective noise of a zillion rain drops hitting, plummeting down and striking the ground, the roofs, the square, the plants, the fountain, hitting other water.

The collective noise was giant, overwhelming, just like he was overwhelmed as to what to do, and it was a beautiful noise, and it helped soothe him a bit.

Only a bit. The water collected, and Lestrade realized he wasn't so much _cold_, as just _lonely_, but he _was_ wet, and he _could_ get sick from staying out here.

But where else could he go?

He'd just wait.

And what came would come,

And he'd roll with it. He always did.

His hands were shaking, and he put his face in them again, rubbed his eyes hard, tried to get the tears away-

Not tears. Just water.

And the shivers permeating the very center of his being were because he was _cold_, not because he was _afraid_, and _lonely_, and feeling altogether like he was at the bottom of a pit with no way out-

He was shivering because he was cold.

And he was out here, without using the umbrella in his lap because he _didn't want to_, and he thought he must be going insane.

Perhaps he'd been insane to think that he was special in the first place.

But the illusions were over. He was spent, worthless, and altogether lost in the middle of the rain, and he didn't _know_ what to do, he didn't _know_ if he'd survive, or get past this, and he didn't _know_ what his life was for, if all he ever seemed to do was nothing special.

And so he sat there, in the rain, for what seemed like forever, long past the time that would give someone a cold, and he was going to pay for it, he knew, but he honestly didn't care.

The umbrella sat there on his lap. He felt slightly guilty having not used it. But why? Why should he feel guilty? He was in charge of himself, wasn't he? He wasn't disobeying anyone except himself, he wasn't letting anyone down but himself.

Except maybe Mycroft.

But he doubted it.

He welcomed the rain, sat there looking down, as if trying to avoid getting it on his face, but really he welcomed it. It fell, hit him gently, not being a particularly _bad_ storm, just a storm.

The raindrops fell, hit, fell, hit, fell, hit. Struck his shoulders and plastered his hair to his head, and the water streamed into his face.

The water kissed him, clung to his skin and was absorbed into his clothes. It was so calm, and it cooled his off from his hurried walk away from the flat to here.

Maybe if it rained long enough, he'd feel better. The rain seemed to help him, it was soft and seemed to try to comfort him.

But it couldn't erase the fight from his mind like it could a footprint from the dirt. No. It just couldn't, not with everything it offered.

It could help distract him, but it could never _heal_ him.

Only the person who'd hurt him in the _first place_ could heal him. And that wouldn't happen; who hurt someone, just to regret it, and fix them up again?

So no, he couldn't heal it, not without time. Time helped, just like the rain helped, a slower, less efficient antidote, but an antidote nonetheless.

Time would sort things out. He rubbed the tears-

-_Water_-

-From his eyes, and then surveyed the square. It was still primarily empty, just the casual passerby. He was glad. He looked back at the ground again, and put his head in his hands once more.

How long had it been? The rain remained, the water remained, the fountain remained, and his shattered heart lingered on in the growing dark.

The street lights went on. He sat, wondered if he'll have to worry about the night life.

He almost put the umbrella up, almost, but he didn't.

He was still crying. Not crying-

Okay, crying. But they were tears of anger, not of sadness, or of grief and sorrow, not crying because he was sorry he yelled, and because he felt there was no way out.

Not crying because no one came to help him, like he thought they would, (Who was _they_?) even though he didn't think it consciously.

And perhaps he stopped crying after a bit, just sat there, empty, feeling dead inside.

Maybe he can just sit here forever, or at least until it's over.

He noticed a black cab pull up at the side of the square. It pulled up just at the point of the square behind him, so he wouldn't see it, but he saw it anyway.

He looked away from it fast, down toward the ground, like a dog would react to a disappointed owner.

He was glad his tears stopped. It would make it easier to look collected, even though he really wasn't.

He saw Mycroft step out of the cab experimentally, just to see if it was raining, and then realized that the most of the storm had past. There was still some drizzle. But not much, not enough to bother with an umbrella anyway.

Mycroft walked up to him, a face that might have concern, maybe even a bit of regret etched on it, but he wasn't sure. He sat next to Lestrade, the fountain mostly dry by now.

"You didn't use it." He said quietly. "You might get a cold, you know." He took the umbrella from Lestrade's lap, and opened it up, a black canvas above both of their heads for a moment, and then closed it again, tied it up until it was as perfect and orderly as usual.

"I know." Lestrade answered, also quiet. He looked down to his hands, which were resting on his lap.

They both sat there. There really wasn't much to say. What could be said? They were both sorry? They both were, obviously, but neither wanted to break the quiet.

So they just sat for a while. Lestrade looking down, and Mycroft looking ahead, at the stores and shops.

But after a while, Mycroft reached over and took one of Lestrade's hands. "I'm sorry." He said simply, held Lestrade's hand in his, which was odd, since Mycroft wasn't one to know when someone needed human contact.

Maybe _Mycroft_ needed the contact?

No, that wasn't it. Couldn't be it.

Lestrade's head buzzed a little, nervous, and thankful at being forgiven, and still a bit angry, and the same thought kept swirling around in his head: _I'm sorry_.

It kept going. _I'msorryi'msorryi'msorryi'msorry._

He managed out a simple sentence. "I'm sorry too." He was still looking down. He wondered if he'd ever manage to look up again.

"You were very hard to find." Mycroft went on, as if they were just talking like normal. "I thought to look all the other places you go, and not the place that you were heading toward in the beginning."

Lestrade still looked down, feeling a bit hollow, a bit empty still. He looked over at his hand, holding Mycroft's, and he realized that they were both gripping so tight, and his knuckles are white from being clenched so much.

It was like they were both holding on for dear life.

But that couldn't be right. It shouldn't be right, and it wasn't. Lestrade reminded himself again.

Maybe _he_ was holding on tightly. But not Mycroft. Mycroft wasn't a person prone to emotions, he wouldn't care, _shouldn't_ care-

Why should he care? It was obvious he did, the clenched hands, how he came after Lestrade, how he seemed in actually distress when he found him.

It didn't make sense. Didn't, and shouldn't, and Lestrade really couldn't make anything out of it.

He jerked back to reality, out of his thoughts, when he felt Mycroft's hand slip out of his, and he saw the politician look away.

Mycroft closed his eyes. "You know I didn't mean to say any of that?" He asked. "None of it's true."

Lestrade nodded. "I know. I didn't really mean anything I said either."

Mycroft looked back at him. "Then why don't you forgive me?" He asked, voice sounding a bit like it was clenched into place, so as to not show any emotion.

Lestrade's heart jumped. "Of course I forgive you!" He replied, choked the next bit, "I- I just thought you wouldn't- didn't- forgive _me_."

Mycroft looked back at him. "It's hard not to," He said, the sarcasm inevitably entering his voice, "You looked so pitiful out here, it was hard not to feel guilty."

But despite the sarcasm, the pause was still there. They were both sorry. They both forgave each other. But there was still a pause, neither wanted to reach out to the other, lest they pull away.

Lestrade took Mycroft's hand again. "We'd better get going." He said, looked up at the sky. "Just in case the rain starts back up again."

**A/N- I actually wrote this a while ago, but never really got up the courage to post it. However, my friend Quillinx decided to make me **_**promise**_ **to, so here you go! XD**

**Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Reviews are love!**

**-Misty**


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Sherlock, Angst, Romance