FanFiction

Based off: BBC Sherlock

Written from John's POV

Title: A 221B Christmas

"My love, you knowyou are my best friend.You know that I'd do anything for you.And my love, let nothing come between us.My love for you is strong and true."

-Sarah McLachlan

Chapter 1

I can't feel my fingers. They have turned a ghostly white color, and I keep blowing on them every now and then so they don't completely freeze. Every time I breathe out, a cloud of air protrudes from my mouth into the air in front of me, like I'm a dragon or something. My feet slip slightly under me as I walk my way towards 221B Baker Street.

The streets are almost entirely deserted, except for me and a couple strangers. I find this unusual since it is now two weeks before Christmas. I've been spending almost every second of free time I have out trying to find the perfect present for Sherlock this year. I don't know what I consider "free time," because it seems every morning I'm up and out the door solving yet another case with my best friend. I'm terrible with gifts and shopping, and I tried getting suggestions from Lestrade and Molly, but they were no help either.

So, after the third shopping trip, I am yet again returning home with nothing from a pointless errand. The streets are lit up for the holidays and a thin layer of snow covers the road. The snow is falling from the sky, and soon I have fluffy, white flakes all over myself. I continue walking down the sidewalk; past the stores filled with Christmas decorations, and keeping my head down to avoid snowflakes from entering my eyes. I pick up the pace with my legs, because if I don't get home soon, my fingers will freeze and I won't be able to bend them to open the door.

My hot breath is felt on my fingers once again, and I decide to keep blowing until I simply cannot anymore. I put my hands back in my pockets and hunch my shoulders closer to me so I can stay slightly warmer. I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out my phone. I sent Sherlock a text. Be home in a few. Sorry if I took longer than I said I would. As I turn the corner onto Baker Street, my right foot slips under me on ice and I fall to the ground. My right knee buckles and gives under me, and my left arm bends in an awkward position under my ribs. A burning feeling passes in my entire left arm, and every time I moved it, I felt that same sharp pain. The cold from the ice made my arm feel like it was on fire. My pants soaked and stuck to my legs, I made my way as quickly as I could home, all the while holding my arm to my side in order not to disturb it. I assumed from my experience from being an army doctor that I had just twisted my wrist, which was an accurate prediction.

I finally came to the front door of 221B Baker Street. The lights on the restaurant next door gleam brightly in the night. I open the door, and I feel the wonderful warmth on my entire body even when I take one step in. I can tell Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning recently, because she left a scrub brush on the table at the bottom of the stairs. I am starting to become like Sherlock, because I begin to observe things more closely like he does normally now. I refuse to take my coat off until I get upstairs, just so I can warm up fully before I take off a layer.

Before I completely reach the top of the stairs, I can see Sherlock sitting in his favorite black chair. I try to look normal so he won't think anything is suspicious, but it is too late because he knew I was coming upstairs. I decide it's pointless in moving my arm, and even if I do, I will receive that sharp pain and will cause a scene. But Sherlock knows me, and he can tell from the expression on my face that something is wrong. But he doesn't address it right away.

"You know, I was beginning to worry." He looks down at his phone and just stares at it. It either means he's thinking, or he's looking at something he likes. I say nothing, just wonder and think about what he has just said to me. He doesn't move for at least ten seconds, then his eyebrows lower in confusion and he slowly raises his head. He does his usual and looks at me up and down.

"Something is wrong; I can see it in your face." I sigh and try to swallow the lump in the back of my throat. Words won't come to me now, so I simply nod my head instead. I don't know how, but Sherlock manages to stay calm and rises out of the chair. He takes four strides, and I look up to find him face to face with me.

"That it?" He looks towards my awkwardly bent arm.

I finally manage to get some words out of the back of my brain. "Yes. Slipped on some ice. From the looks and feels of it, I think it might be sprained."

Sherlock doesn't ask, but just reaches for my arm and gently takes it in his hand. "John, you're hand is freezing." He says no more and leads me over to the chair across from his. I feel the pillows on my back as I collapse and sink into the chair. Sherlock adds more wood to the ever-dying fire, which I didn't even notice was there. The flames begin to rise and I can already feel my skin getting warmer. I rest my sprained wrist on my leg and the other on the arm of the chair. I just stare into the flames and hear Sherlock rummaging through things in the kitchen. When he returns, he has a warm towel, a bandage, and a glass of water.

I cringe slightly when he wraps the bandage around my arm, but it is all soon over. He keeps pausing occasionally to look up and see how I'm doing. "There," he says. "Now, just stay still for a bit longer." I look at him and he gives me a small smile. He crouches down next to my chair. He picks up the warm towel and begins to rub it over my face. He rubs smoothly over my cheeks and I already feel much better. He moves it over my forehead and then begins to get the snow out of my hair. My hair sticks to my head and it feels cold on top, but Sherlock warms up my head with the towel.

"Better?" I look into his eyes, smile and nod.

"Thank you," I say. "It's the littlest things that can cheer you up so much." Sherlock gets off his knees and fixes the wrinkles in his shirt. He offers me his hand and helps me get out of the chair. He picks up the glass of water and tells me to get ready to sleep. After all, it is midnight and I had not slept very well the previous night, and I would not be having another nightmare tonight.

I change into my pajamas and get into my warm, cozy bed. I lie on my back, since I'll have to mostly now because of my wrist. I check any last messages on my phone, turn it off and place it on the bedside table. After several minutes, I hear a soft knock on the door and tell Sherlock to come in. He comes into the room and puts the glass of water on the table. I mutter my thanks to him and he smiles. He turns to leave the room, but then stops himself and looks back at me.

"You alright? You don't need anything else?" He pauses and then continues after a couple seconds. " No nightmares tonight ok?" He stutters slightly, but I find it cute.

"I'm fine now. At least, I am now, since I'm here at home with you." Sherlock blushes and bows his head to try and hide it. Before he leaves the room, he places his hand again on my forehead to check that I am finally warm. He walks towards the door, satisfied, and stops in the doorway. He takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh. Then he turns his head and smiles for the last time that night.

"Goodnight John. Sleep well." He flicks the switch to my room, and the light from outside the door gets smaller and smaller as he closes the door. It closes with a click, and I am completely surrounded by darkness. I lie there in the darkness for a while, just thinking to myself; and realizing how much Sherlock really cares for me. I rolled over onto my right shoulder, and just let sleep close in on me as I sunk into the mattress.