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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."

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Martin doesn't much fancy the prospect of fumbling his way back through the dark with a blanket big enough to trip on, but John is quick to come to his rescue, lighting their way with his phone. Martin takes it gratefully, handing off the blanket, but before he can start back to the relative comfort of the couch, John pulls him in for a much overdue hug. Martin lets out a soft murmur of surprise before wrapping his arms around John's middle and eagerly pressing close.

"It's ridiculous," he agrees with a little grin, tipping his head to the side so he can more comfortably rest against John's chest, listening to his heartbeat. They can't stay like this for long — he needs to conserve his phone's battery, if nothing else — but it's worth just a few extra moments.

"My hero," he says, unable to keep a straight face as he looks up at John with a cheeky smirk. He's been moving nonstop since John arrived, so focused on helping him get comfortable that he hadn't even realized how much he'd missed the usual opportunity to just appreciate his return. Now, his smile softens and he leans up to kiss him gently, steadfastly refusing to flinch even as the storm continues its onslaught.

Despite all the fussing and pampering, it isn't until Martin's arms are around him that John feels as if he's actually arrived home. The tension he'd been carrying finally eases, knots loosening in his shoulders and back, and he hums softly against Martin's lips. The next clap of thunder still jangles his nerves, but he manages not to physically start at the sound (though it does prompt him to break the kiss, slow and gentle, to avoid tempting fate).

"I suppose we should grab some candles as well, since we're in the neighborhood," he says, scanning the shelves in the indirect glow of Martin's phone light. They aren't in the habit of burning candles often, but this just means they've amassed a small but respectable collection that have yet to be used up, both of the 'romantic dinner' variety and the 'seasonally scented behemoths with at least two wicks' subtype. He reaches for one of the latter and hefts it long enough to read the label: Mulled Cider, apparently. "Here's one for the kitchen," he says, pressing one last kiss to Martin's hair before exiting the closet and picking his way towards the slightly brighter gloom of the living room with the blanket bunched under his arm and the candle clutched against his chest.