A/N: This is for Guxionlover87. Hugs and stuff for a rough week:(. Go and read her lovely work! Go! Right now! This will be here later:D She gave me window, iridescent, lace; a power outage/rained or snowed in; Johnlock (of course!)

In my hurry to publish this I have not had it looked at – I am sure I have missed stuff:D Please kindly let me know if you find something terribly obnoxious!

A Cascade of Rain and a Heap of Boredom

Sherlock drew back the lace curtain and peered out the window. There it was in all its wet repentance.

Rain. Nothing but bucketsful of an unrelenting, horrendous deluge. He squinted, but there was nothing to be seen. Not a fit night for man or beast or murder or theft or embezzlement. Nothing. Great screaming, echoing emptiness. He was so bored he was becoming hyperbolic in spades in order to compensate. Don't go down that road. It just leads to excessive wafts of embellishment.

He sighed.

John continued to read whatever useless piece of espionage rubbish he was currently perusing, John Clancy or Todd le Carré or some such inanely named writer of drivel. But then John would. He was easily entertained. His handsome head certainly did not contain a finely tuned engine of a mind. It didn't need to.

So he sighed again. A little louder with a touch more petulance, a soupçon of apathy and more than a dash of 'John! Look at me! Notice me! I'm going out of my mind with boredom! I'm soooo bored!' thrown in for good measure. He could run a master class in such oral sound bites. Oral! Sherlock groaned and ran an impatient hand through his artfully tousled curls.

John's response was to turn a page of that literary nightmare and scratch at the back of his head. A long, slow scratch with blunt fingers nails trimmed short so as not to catch on…things and hurt. Sherlock licked his lips and sighed again, a little bit louder with a smallish huff at the end.

John didn't even glance up, but there may, possibly, have been a microscopic lifting of one corner of that lovely, lovely mouth. Speaking of oral. There was acknowledgement that yes, John had heard, but he was deliberately ignoring him. Sherlock. His partner. Him!

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"Jawn?" Long and drawn out with way too many syllables for a one-syllable word.

It was John's turn to sigh, resigned, but not irritated. More like 'I hear your sigh and I raise you an inquiry, but I refuse to notice your petulant behavior.'

"I'm not petulant."

"I never said you were, love."

"You sighed it."

"O…kay." John's delectable eyebrows bent toward each other, in a fetching, come-kiss-me, come-lick-at-my-adorable eyebrows, come-fuck-me way, questioning Sherlock's sanity. Sherlock recognized the look as John regularly questioned his sanity, on a daily basis. Let's not even go there, John. Your ability to make sound rational decisions is more on the line than mine. You are the one who follows me around.

Sherlock turned and pounced onto the bed where John was stationed. The bed in the pleasant B & B they had stopped, holed up together, resting for god's sake, waiting for the rain to stop. Of course now all traces from the crime scene would be washed away in the downpour, but still…

He crawled up the bed in what was meant to be a slow prowl rife with oozing sexuality but must have looked more like a lurching crab if John's twinkle and smirk could be read accurately. His pout quotient increased.

"Fine!"

"Fine what?" puzzled and decidedly confused, John frowned as Sherlock turned and huddled on the end of the bed.

Sherlock muttered something.

John put the book down and scooted over to where Sherlock sat curled into a lump of snark.

"Sherlock?" The lump sat there, glowering, so John poked it. Nothing.

"Sherlock, what is it? Ah, you are bored, aren't you? Come here." And John tugged and pulled and dragged Sherlock until he was reluctantly squashed up against his chest. He stroked the long, lanky back and arms, entwined his fingers in his hair and whispered words of love and devotion into his beloved's ear. Sherlock's snark gradually disentangled itself and he slowly melted into the warm strength of John's love and chest. His arms, which he had kept tight at his side, unwound and wrapped around John's solid frame, sneaking in, octopus style, under his back and cuddling up against him.

"There, there, love. I am sorry you are bored and out of sorts."

Sherlock breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of John, a scent that put him at ease and helped to smooth his torturous thoughts and mood.

They lay like that, cocooned in the heat of each other, listening to the rattle of the window and the rain as it spattered against the sill. Just as John was about to suggest that perhaps they go and get a bite of something there was a large crash of thunder and the light flickered once, twice, out.

"Now what?" John shuffled Sherlock a little and sat up a bit to look out the window. The sky, which had been grey from cloud and storm, was much darker and it was difficult to see anything in the gloom.

He looked down into Sherlock's iridescent eyes; they glared up at him. John decided that a simple cuddling was not going to cut it.

Scooting off of the bed, he went to the fireplace. They had upgraded to a slightly more posh room upon arriving and discovering there was one with additional amenities. Wood was already laid in, ready to be set alight.

Quickly warmth stole into the room, shooing out the chill and the glow was a sight better than the creeping darkness and murk of earlier. John wished he'd thought of it sooner.

He made his way back to the bed where he climbed onto the still form lying there. He shuffled and squirmed until he had Sherlock on his back and he was sitting pertly on Sherlock's hips.

He reached forward and began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, slowly, deliberately, letting his finger brush against the pale skin underneath. He pulled the shirt away revealing the skin underneath which had been turning a pleasing shade of pink due to John's attention. John bent forward, slowly kissed and adored each freckle and beauty mark on the porcelain exterior.

Sherlock gasped and whined as he moved beneath John's touch. His hands came up and tugged at John's jumper until finally, with enough force, he maneuvered John into sitting up long enough to have it removed and thrown across the room. A shirt and a vest soon flew after.

"Seriously John, you have too many layers!" John shut his mouth with a deep, long and dead sexy kiss, empowering all of his many talents in the use of tongue, lips and teeth.

Sherlock, still sitting up from taking John's clothes off, let his hands skim up John's sides and caress his back. He wrapped his arms around John and pulled him forward, the friction of the two bodies rubbed against each other in the most intimate manner, sent sparks off across his closed eyes. He groaned into John's mouth.

With a playful shove, John pushed Sherlock back down onto the bed and his clever fingers teased and pressed against the hard bulge as he removed Sherlock's trousers and pants. John's own trousers remained on and the sensation of cloth on his cock was almost too much he grabbed at John's zip until he lifted the pale hands away. Before setting them down and out of the way, John spent some considerable time kissing and sucking on the long, shapely fingers. Sherlock's hips pressed up and he begged him with his impossibly coloured eyes.

"Patience," John smiled at him.

After removed his pants, John returned to kissing Sherlock's chest. With each kiss he travelled lower until he was kissing and tasting the iliac crest. His nose brushed lightly against Sherlock's erect penis and then,

"Oh John! John!" he chanted into the air, loud enough that surely the elderly owners could hear him in the private section of the B & B. The things John's magnificently talented mouth was doing to him. 'Oh god, John! Songs! Poems, pleas and prayers should be written about your mouth!' He thought he said it out loud but really all that came out was "Joooooohhhhnnnn! Ungahwaskadoo!"

He let his hands roam until they were clutching at the soft hair on John's head as he pushed and pulled, pleading silently with his fingers for John to continue doing what he was doing with incredible ability. And then those fingers with their short, shapely nails breached, one at a time slowly and maddeningly until,

"Oh John! Oh My God! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Use those fingers! That's it! Right there! Oh Fuuucckkk! Yes!" Sherlock panted. Surely the old dears would not be in any doubt about the shenanigans happening in this room.

With a lusty mew, Sherlock collapsed back; his chest heaving with exertion as John hovered over him, wicked grin firmly in place. John bent forward and teased his mouth open so Sherlock could taste himself upon John's tongue and lips.

Sherlock settled back onto the pillows with a sigh that was now saying, 'Oh my god! You incredible man! You are mine and now one else's! I love you more than murder!' in its many tones and variations, but with a hand ready to help John reach his own completion.

After in the glow of the fire the two kissed and stroked and worshipped.

It was a fine way to spend a wet and rainy day. Sherlock lay there watching the light of the fire play on John's skin, and he thought with a smirk at least he wasn't bored.

For now.