Thunderstorms did not happen enough.

Sometimes, there were storms. Sometimes, there were storms so violent that they shook all of London, dumping inches upon inches of water on her, the warnings loud and clear on the television before the power flickered and went out. John and Mrs Hudson would sit on the sofa, and Sherlock would sit in the armchair and just watch the window, hoping that nothing blew in or blew out or damaged anything of importance.

But not often enough were the storms soft and rolling, where the thunder rolled its baritone lullaby through the town, and the lightning illuminated the skyline of their great city, and the rain fell enough so that puddles would remain in the morning, but that was all.

But, as Sherlock flopped into bed with a heavy sigh and the thunder rumbled in the distance, it was one of those nights tonight.

After the extreme idiocy he had had to put up at the Yard today, the thunderstorm was a pleasant distraction, and just the thing he needed to drop off into a restful sleep without much turmoil.

The thunder rolled outside the window, and Sherlock longed for the view from the sitting room. The vibrant flashes that could light all of Baker Street. From his bedroom, the lightning could only shine onto the back of the buildings in the alley; there was no spectacular view to be had there.

But he'd just gotten to bed. Going to watch the storm would kind of defeat the purpose. So, he rolled over and stared towards the window, where the wispy curtains had already been drawn, and awaited the blinding flash that would inevitably come.

God, he loved thunderstorms.

He watched the lightning flash, and then let his eyes dip closed again. He would love to stay awake, love to watch the storm... but it was harder and harder to keep his eyes open each time, even if-

Jumping a little bit as the thunder cracked outside, Sherlock laughed slightly at his own self. Silly. Ridiculous. Just as he'd been saying... how much he loved the storm...

Sherlock yawned as lightning cracked, touching down somewhere. That should have been a tiny bit worrying, possibly... it wasn't, blunted down by sleepiness and contentedness.

The raindrops beat down on the rooftop and, for a tired moment, Sherlock envied John his upstairs bedroom. The consistent pounding directly above his head... from his vantage on the first floor, it was nice, but from John's floor? A thousand tiny drums, nature's musical instruments playing a lullaby to all of London's sleeping inhabitants.

The detective yawned again, tugged his blankets a little closer around his body. These were the perfect sleeping conditions. Wind whistling down the winding roads, rain rattling against their windowpane. Thunder as unpredictable as black stallion riding through the night, lightning brighter than any star in the sky. Well-worn blankets smelling of his (and John's) laundry detergent tucked warmly around his shoulders, the smooth glide of his skin over the cool pillowcase.

The storm wouldn't last long, and neither would Sherlock's consciousness.


A/N: I realise this is a very short chapter, but there's only so much you can do with no character interaction and a thunderstorm. Needless to say, I did enjoy this one, though. Imagery is fun to write, and hopefully I managed enough. I have one more scenario on my list of where to have Sherlock fall asleep so after Chapter Seventeen, it's going to be up in the air depending on any ideas I get. If you have any and want to share, do feel free to PM me. I do take suggestions. :3

I still do not own Sherlock. If I did, there'd be a lot more of Sherl falling asleep on screen. Thanks for reading! Stay tuned!