Title: Cold
By: Endgegner07
Rating: K+
Summary: The thoughts of a cold detective and a doctor with a cold. Their musings are different, yet focused on the same thing and they wonder what the other one thinks.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.
A/N: My third piece of fiction. A really big THANK YOU to my beta-reader Zant. You are simply the best! Keep in mind English isn't my native language, thank you.
Well, here we go!

Cold

I stare out of the window. It is snowing. No surprise really; it is in the middle of December after all.

Cold days, cold nights. It is snowing. I can see the snowflakes, each one unique and singular in its form.

Snow is a strange thing. To think that simple frozen water can appear so purely white and be so soft to the touch, yet so cold and deadly for those who can´t protect themselves against it. I can feel the ache my wounds, but they don't pain me as much as in recent years.

Winter has its disadvantages. I hate to see the poor and ragged on the streets suffer because they have no home to go to. I don't like the fact that so many people become ill. Many people can die in only one cold and merciless night.

It may seem strange, but other than that I like the cold.

Afghanistan was a hot hell filled with desperation, anguish, death and hate.

I hated the sands, it was everywhere.
I hated the dry smell of the desert, it made me feel as if I was suffocating.
I hated the hot days in the field hospital that caused those already suffering from injury and fever even more pain.
I hated the noise of the battle and the screams of the dying.
I hated the feelings of agony and heat when I lay ill after Maiwand.

I hated the heat and being hot in general. That taught me the values of winter.

I like the snow glittering on the streets. Snow glittering in the sun is one of the most wonderful sights I have ever seen.
It shimmers and reflects the light. The white of the snow is absolute and unflawed, not stained with blood of men, as the sands in Afghanistan were. I like the clear dry air, it makes me feel alive, no matter how tiring the day. I like the clear and sunny days. I like the peace and quiet of the nights when it is winter.

When I was but a child, I loved winter mostly because of Christmas. I loved the warm feelings I assosiated with Christmas.
The whole family would come together and talk in the evening before the roaring fire in the fireplace of the mantle.
There would be presents and sweets and that magnificient Christmas tree, standing green and tall.

I vividly remember the way it was decorated, with red and green balls of glass. That stopped when my mother died. She died in the middle of summer because of a fever – no one was able help her. I remember the hot day and the way the doctors talked to my father. I think after that I decided to become a physician.

Another bad experience I associate with heat. Christmas has never been the same for me.

I can hear steps on the stair. It is Holmes; he has been out all morning and noon. His face is flushed red because of the cold, he looks quite different with his red ears and the colour in his cheeks.
Not the usual paleness of his skin, that makes him look unhealthy and ill. His hair is slightly wet and out of order because of the snow, it is falling into his eyes. He greets me and goes into his room to change into something more comfortable.

I wonder, what does he think about the winter and the cold?

I could imagine that he hates it. There are not many cases for him to solve in winter. It is much too cold for criminals to commit crimes. He is forced into inactivity and he hates it.

Luckily, he is busy with a case now. Some strange murder has been commited that has Scotland Yard once again baffled.
I am not helping him with the case. I have caught a slight cold.

Ironic.

I'm sitting here and thinking about the benefits of winter while being ill.

Holmes is adamant that I rest and get well and I don't want to argue with him. I'm glad he has got a case.

He comes out of his room, he is wearing his old grey dressing gown and his hair is no longer damp and disordered. He crosses to the mantle to select a pipe.

He fills it, lights it, throws me a quick glance and crosses to the window to look out into
the snowflakes swirling past our window.

I wonder what he is thinking.