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John had thought that he was prepared for this. It's not unusual for muggy days to give way to stormy evenings, and he keeps a small umbrella in his bag in case the skies should open while he's en route from the Observatory to the Bramford. The arguable romance of getting caught in an unexpected downpour need not apply when one is alone, after all — and it's easier to recover himself after the fact if he can at least keep his head dry.
But this isn't just an unexpected downpour, and the deluge quickly grows beyond anything his little umbrella was designed to handle. The wind kicks up, forcing him to make some hasty adjustments to keep it from turning inside out or being whisked out of his hands — adjustments that don't really take keeping his head dry into consideration. Moments later, a flash of lightning and an almost immediate crack of thunder leave him questioning not just the umbrella's utility, but the wisdom of continuing to hold a metal implement over his head. He'd probably survive getting struck by lightning, but Christ, that doesn't mean he feels like extending it a bloody invitation.
Fuck it. He closes the umbrella and clutches his bag to his chest, hunching forward a little to try and shield it with his body, and breaks into an embarrassed (and increasingly waterlogged) shuffling trot.
By the time he reaches the Bramford, he's shivering, miserable, and hauling what feels like an additional stone of bloody water weight in every stitch of his clothes. Probably looks like he's just emerged from the goddamn ocean, too. He wrestles the front door open, then squelches down the hall, half-blinded by the rainwater still coursing out of his hair. He has to pick out the flat key and cram it into the lock by feel, and the doorknob squeaks under his hand as he wrestles it open.
"Ugh," he announces as he finally steps inside and then stops in his tracks, doing his best to contain his dripping to the little island of their welcome mat. "It's fucking sheeting."
But this isn't just an unexpected downpour, and the deluge quickly grows beyond anything his little umbrella was designed to handle. The wind kicks up, forcing him to make some hasty adjustments to keep it from turning inside out or being whisked out of his hands — adjustments that don't really take keeping his head dry into consideration. Moments later, a flash of lightning and an almost immediate crack of thunder leave him questioning not just the umbrella's utility, but the wisdom of continuing to hold a metal implement over his head. He'd probably survive getting struck by lightning, but Christ, that doesn't mean he feels like extending it a bloody invitation.
Fuck it. He closes the umbrella and clutches his bag to his chest, hunching forward a little to try and shield it with his body, and breaks into an embarrassed (and increasingly waterlogged) shuffling trot.
By the time he reaches the Bramford, he's shivering, miserable, and hauling what feels like an additional stone of bloody water weight in every stitch of his clothes. Probably looks like he's just emerged from the goddamn ocean, too. He wrestles the front door open, then squelches down the hall, half-blinded by the rainwater still coursing out of his hair. He has to pick out the flat key and cram it into the lock by feel, and the doorknob squeaks under his hand as he wrestles it open.
"Ugh," he announces as he finally steps inside and then stops in his tracks, doing his best to contain his dripping to the little island of their welcome mat. "It's fucking sheeting."
