This little one-shot was inspired by a post on Oatmeals tumblr and I wanted so desperately to make it smutty but it ended up fluffy. Also, Oatmeal has a FANTASTIC Sherlock fic masterpost so make sure you check it out!

http :/ oatmealjumper .tumblr. com /post/ 19082844961 /nothing- says -home- at- 221b- like- suggestive

Minus the gaps, thats the link to the post that inspired this.

As usual, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir ACD own these characters. I just make them into hopeless romantics.

Enjoy!

The night outside the window was a particularly chilly one. Rain fell heavily across the city, leaving every road and pavement glistening with moisture. Inside 221B Baker Street however, things were toasty. The fire was fully stoked eliciting a delicious heat through out the entire flat. John was curled into one corner of the sofa. He had a blanket tucked around his knees, a book in his left hand and a steaming mug of tea balanced on the arm of the sofa, his right hand gently wrapped around it. He'd read the same paragraph four times now, he was beginning to get tired. He blinked hard and upon seeing double the number of paragraphs he should, he snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the coffee table. Sherlock's head swirled around at the sudden noise. He saw John's head roll back as he pinched the bridge of his nose sleepily. He smiled lazily.

"You are allowed to rest John. I don't need babysitting." he spoke quietly from the kitchen table where he was hunched over his microscope. John yawned in response.

"I know. I'm going up soon, just finishing my cuppa."

As if to prove his point, he emptied the dregs into his mouth and flipped the blanket off himself. Sherlock watched as John made his way to the window. The windows were clouded over with condensation. The brash cold of the outside battling to find a way in to quash the cozy heat of the inside. John cleared one of the panes with the back of his hand and looked down to the street. He could see rain was still lightly falling into the puddles below. He was about to turn around when he felt a heated breath on the back of his neck. The hairs there involuntarily raised due to the close proximity of the breaths owner.

"Cold, John?" came a deep purr from behind him. John swallowed hard and reached sideways to set his mug down on the desk. All he could muster was a nod. He felt a pair of long arms snake around him, one tightening across his chest, the other across his stomach. He released a breath he didn't realise he was holding and sank back into the possessive hold. Sherlocks lips and the tip of his nose rested against the nape of Johns neck. Steady, even breaths unfurled repeatedly over the exposed skin. John sighed and covered Sherlocks arms with his own, squeezing gently as he did so.

"Terrible weather." John muttered.

"Quite. Not the kind that one would wish to have to venture out into." replied Sherlock. John could feel the weight of the words rumble through his chest.

"How are you doing with the-. Actually what is it you're doing in there?" John asked, watching as his and Sherlocks combined breaths fogged up the window pane he'd cleared a moment previously.

"Nothing that can't wait." came the rumbling baritone again. Johns posture stiffened as he felt Sherlocks arms untwine themselves from around him and his hands begin to wriggle up under his jumper.

"Sherlock, what-?"

" I said it can wait."

And now Sherlocks long, warm fingers were ghosting up and down Johns sides inside his jumper while his soft, full lips were pressing light kisses to the nape of his neck. Johns eyes fluttered close and he sighed as the tension melted out of his shoulders. He turned around to face Sherlock and smiled as he reached up to brush a few stray dark curls out of his eyes.

"Still cold?" Sherlock had that tell tale smirk playing on his lips.

"Freezing." John winked.

Before John could predict it, Sherlocks lips were against his own. Moving achingly slowly, savouring every sensation and flavour they found on Johns. John kissed back with feverish passion, nipping on Sherlocks bottom lip teasingly. Sherlock pulled back for a fraction of a second before ploughing his lips into Johns again, forcing John back against the window. Sherlock braced himself with a hand on the window either side of Johns head. As the kiss intensified, Sherlock could feel his palms slipping down the icy panes. John was imprisoned in a cage of limbs. Long, thin, pale limbs. Johns tongue darted into Sherlocks mouth. The bitter taste of coffee and the cheeky cigarette that Sherlock didn't think John knew about greeted him. Sherlock growled from somewhere deep in his chest and reached down to capture the frantic hands that were clutching at the front of his shirt. He hauled them up above Johns head and pressed them against the window. The sudden cold and wet of the window against his hands made Johns breath heave as he tried to rake in as much air as he could through his nose. His lips were still working against Sherlocks, the pace beginning to hit its peak. That peak between just a snogging session and being dragged off to Sherlocks bedroom. Just as Johns mind began to wander to that possibility, Sherlock pulled away. Their warm breath pooled in the small space between their faces and they stood, panting. Their eyes were fixed on each other while John was accutely aware that the feeling was beginning to dissipate from his arms which were still pinned above his head. Sherlock lifted his gaze to the knot of hands collected against the condensation soaked window and smiled. He finally released Johns hands and closed the gap between them so they were chest to chest. He circled Johns waist with one arm and reached over Johns right shoulder.
John could hear the squeak of Sherlocks fingertip against the window and he frowned, intrigued as to what he was doing.

"There." Sherlock looked at his work, accomplishment making his chest puff out. John turned in his grip to look at the window. He saw that Sherlock had drawn his own initials, an 'S.H' into the top pane of misted glass. Underneath he had drawn a heart with an arrow stabbed through it and beneath the heart were Johns own initials, 'J.W'. John beamed wide.

"Bit sentimental for you, isn't it?" he giggled.

"In the past it may have been John. But not now."

"What do you mean not now?" John asked as he reached up to make an imprint of his right hand in the glass beside Sherlocks inscription.

"Because now John, you are my warmth on a cold rainy night." Sherlock smiled as he too, reached up and put his left hand print on the opposite side to Johns.

The next morning when John plodded sleepily down the stairs and into the living room, the fire was already blazing. Mrs Hudson had been a darling and come upstairs to stoke it already. As he busied himself making tea, he happened to notice the windows were again misted up. He smiled as his eyes reached the left one and saw the unclear smudges where his and Sherlocks joined hands had scrabbled against the window the previous evening. Then the almost ghostly, faded heart and initials which had been so clear before and then the two handprints. Sherlocks left, not the hand he wrote with but nimble none-the-less when typing. With it's long, slender fingers and huge palm it was well equipped for fighting and had often assisted in cradling the butt of a gun. Then Johns right hand opposite. His right wasn't his writing hand either but it did just fine for cupping a hot mug of tea. Smaller in size than Sherlocks and the fingers slightly stubbier. Robust and hard-working hands. Caring hands, doctors hands. Two hands that John knew fit perfectly when they were intertwined with one another.