[personal profile] wave_of_sorrow
Title: Through The Rain
Author: [livejournal.com profile] wave_of_sorrow
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Holmes/Watson
Verse: '09!movie
Rating: PG
Word Count: 771
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't claim. No money being made.
Summary: In which the dynamic duo spends a rainy day in bed and German is spoken. Aka pointless fluff.
Spoilers/Warnings: none
A/N: This is for [livejournal.com profile] amaraal who I promised a fic in which Holmes speaks German ages ago. I hope this pleases and makes up for the long wait, dear. <3

The sound of the rain against the window is muted and muffled where it slips through tightly closed curtains as a distant reminder of the outside world, though Holmes barely hears it with his head on Watson’s chest and a steady heartbeat in his ear. He traces errant patterns over Watson’s warm skin with ink-stained fingertips, following shifting shadows to scars and cuts that are nearly invisible in the glow of the fire. Small, random kisses are placed on his neck and upper chest and one on the underside of his chin, and he doesn’t dare speak or move lest he should startle Holmes and break the moment.

Warm lips trace his jaw to the shell of his ear, lingering on particularly enticing spots with the occasional nip, as hands that are usually so restless trace lazy, absentminded circles on his stomach and shoulder. Holmes bumps their noses together, accidentally at first, and then again and more deliberately as he is met with a mirror image of his own grin. Their lips barely brush and Holmes seems content to simply rest his forehead against Watson’s as they push shared breaths back and forth between their mouths.

When they do kiss it is slow and deep, the moment feeling profound like the turn of the Earth and just as inevitable, though infinitely more fragile and it breaks and splinters as lightning cracks the sky and thunder shakes the ground.

They break apart with twin gasps and go still in the tense, apprehensive silence for a moment only to burst into low, breathless laughter when Gladstone keeps snoring and they realize how foolish they must look.

Holmes settles back on Watson’s chest with a smile still crinkling the corners of his eyes and rubs the cold sole of his foot against Watson’s leg, making him shiver and grumble half-heartedly.

Another bolt of lightning forks the sky, though all that reaches them is a quicksilver burst of white light through a small gap in the heavy drapes. The howling wind whips the rain against their windows, drowning out the crackling of the fire and only serving to make the room seem warmer.

“Do you suppose we should see if the world is still standing?” Watson murmurs against the top of Holmes’s head.

Holmes hums and burrows impossibly closer, nearly dislodging a soundly sleeping Gladstone from the top of their little cocoon of blankets in the process.

“Let the world fall,” Holmes says sleepily and with none of the bitterness in his voice that normally accompanies such a statement. “The whole of England can be washed away by this infernal downpour for all I care. I shall be happy to remain here.”

Watson smiles and presses a lingering kiss to Holmes’s temple. “I quite agree,” he whispers with his lips still brushing Holmes’s skin.

They are content to while away the remainder of the afternoon in bed, drowsing and occasionally exchanging kisses or gentle touches with no desire to so much as shift enough to allow a more satisfying contact between their two bodies.

“It’s odd,” Watson muses softly as they watch Gladstone find a comfortable spot closer to the fire.

“What is?” Holmes asks around a barely stifled yawn.

“It’s a perfectly dreadful day,” he says and the rain seems to beat harder against the window, “And yet I wish it wouldn’t end at all.”

Holmes is silent for so long that Watson almost thinks he’s gone to sleep and when he does speak it’s low and hushed and whispered into the warm space between them.

“Das eben ist der Liebe Zaubermacht, dass sie veredelt, was ihr Hauch berührt. Der Sonne ähnlich, deren goldner Strahl Gewitterwolken selbst in Gold verwandelt.”

Watson frowns in confusion even as he smiles and holds Holmes tighter. “German?”

Holmes nods, rubbing his scratchy cheek against Watson’s chest, as a bewildered chuckle escapes Watson, the harsh, jagged sound of that language eerie and unfamiliar to him, used as he is to the liquid, sensual ring of French rolling off Holmes’s tongue.

“What does it mean?” he asks after a while, when Holmes starts to chase shadows across his skin again.

His answer is a kiss, hard and all consuming and robbing him of his breath and then a confession, whispered into his mouth. “Everything I can never say to you.”

When he opens his eyes Holmes has already tucked his head under his chin and is humming a tune he does not recognize in between kisses to Watson’s fingertips.

They say no more as they listen to the crackling of the fire and the rain beating against the windowpane.
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