Sherlock advent drabbles :D
Today's word is: Nimbose
Three hours. They've been up on this godforsaken hill in the middle of nowhere for three bloody hours. And all John has is Sherlock and a bush for company. He's starting to think that the bush is the more interesting of the two.
Sherlock watches the road through a pair of binoculars. John's left to do nothing; sit in the cover of the bush and wait, apparently. Because, of course, John hasn't been told why he's here too, and, of course, he's got to keep still so he won't give their position away, and, of course, when he tries complaining about any of this he receives a dismissive remark about patience.
Slowly, above their heads, the sky goes dark. John doesn't notice it until it's too late.
"Sherlock," he says, looking up at the heavy clouds, "Sherlock, I think we should..."
"Stop moving, John," is the hissed reply.
One drop. Two drops. Three. Fourfivesix. The rapidity with which the rain increases is alarming. Suddenly raindrops are drumming down all around them and the bush makes for pitiful shelter.
"Sherlock," John huddles in on himself, "we're going to get soaked if we..."
"Quiet, John; it's not important. I think I can see the car."
Water is already dripping from the tip of John's nose. "I hate you," he grumbles. "I think I actually hate you."
But Sherlock's not listening; he's already started scrambling down the hill to the road.
Later, as they're sitting, sodden, on the train home. John can't stop laughing. He's not sure he's ever been this wet before. All his clothes are dank and heavy, sticking to him in the most uncomfortable ways. There's already a puddle on the floor by his feet, and there's probably one on his seat too.
Sherlock, though. Sherlock looks like a drowned rat. His hair is plastered to his forehead and he keeps having to wipe away trails of water as they run down into his eyes. He's beaming like a lunatic.
"I told you it'd be fun," Sherlock says.
"No you didn't," says John, grinning. "In fact, you didn't explain anything at all. Especially not the bit where you jumped onto the bonnet."
"No," Sherlock kicks his feet out in front of him and crosses one sodden ankle over the other, "I don't think the driver was expecting that either."
He looks at John. John looks back. And together they dissolve into giggles.