Author's Note: I just wanted some fluff, so yeah.


"Why is it that everywhere I go, you are soon to follow?"

She glared at the man before her, trying not to growl as he guided her onto the dance floor, his hand clasped in hers while the other rested on her side.

"Because, Sherlock, I've come to warn you."

"I do not need your assistance, Mycroft. I am at this damned cabin only upon John's request." She scoffed. "He says I require rest. I can't understand why he would think that."

Her brother raised an eyebrow at her. "Perhaps it was the fact that you collapsed in exhaustion from overworking yourself. Even you require food, Sherlock."

"Speaking of food, how's your diet?" She smiled darkly, knowing she hit a sore topic as embarrassment filled his eyes.

"It is fine, Sherlock. Now listen to me; I am not joking in this matter."

"No, of course not. That is not in the manner of my big brother."

"Silence, Sherlock!" he hissed, drawing her back to him after she finished her twirl. He lowered his voice. "Do you not realize what you are getting yourself into?"

She shook her head, and Mycroft could have screamed with how oblivious his sister was being.

"Sherlock, John has taken you to a cabin in the country," he spelled out slowly. "Alone. With his resting in the same room as yourself. You share a lavatory, kitchen, bedroom, and nearly everything except a bed. Do you not see what he is trying to do?"

"No, I do not."

"You may see a friend, but he most likely wishes for something more-" He cut himself off upon seeing the man being discussed appear in the small ballroom. "Just remember what I've said, Sherlock."

With that, he was gone, but his little sister, younger by seven years, did not know what to make of it. She turned and stalked off the dance floor, her long black coat flowing behind her.

Sherlock Holmes was a tad peculiar if there was any one way to describe her. She had an oddly delicate heart-shaped face accented by almost fluorescent icy blue eyes that seemed to change colors depending on her mood. Long, silky black locks cascaded over her shoulders in waves of dark obsidian, perfectly contrasting her milky white skin. She was perfectly formed, having a gorgeous hourglass figure and curves in the waist and chest that could make any man fall at her feet. In fact, that was exactly her problem. She had had too many men asking to court her, whom she always refused, and this had not settled well with any of them which only added to her list of enemies.

"Sherlock, are you ready?"

"Hmm? Ah yes. I suppose so, John."

Doctor John Hamish Watson… He was a marvel in her eyes. He had the kind of smile that was contagious and a laugh that made you want to join in. He never once pressured her to be something she wasn't aside from the occasional tease. She had told him once that she didn't have friends; she only had one. It was the truth. He was the only one that simply let her be who she was. The occasional "dark mood" would possess her, but he never particularly minded unless she was exceptionally more insufferable. He truly was the greatest friend she could ask for.

"John, I don't understand why you chose this place," she muttered beneath her breath, plopping down in front of the fireplace rather ungracefully as she attempted to warm herself. "I do hope you realize there is no appeal in this."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. We can make this work. It's cozy, isn't it?" John questioned with a soft smile as he took the poker and began jabbing absentmindedly at the fire logs.

"Cozy?" She could have laughed. "We are in the middle of the woods in a log cabin rented to you from the owner of this bloody resort. Honestly, I pray we don't encounter the others here, but that's not the point here. John, I don't have my nicotine patches, my cigarettes, a case, my skull-!"

"Relax, Sherlock," he laughed, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly as he eased beside her on the hardwood floors. "It's not the end of the world."

Luckily, he didn't hear the soft mutter, "It could be the end of you, you know."

The first night, she spent mostly by herself, anxiously sitting in front of the fire and tossing random kitchen utensils into the fire to see how long they took to burn and/or melt.

"Sherlock, we now have a total of four forks, three spoons, and six knives, would you please stop?"

Her icy eyes darted to him, and, seeing his disapproving look, she sheepishly handed him the kitchen drawer. "Not good?"

"A bit not good," he chuckled, and she couldn't help but notice that nearly everything she did seemed to make him smile or laugh. It amused her, and she was surprised to feel a small smile pull at the corners of her lips as he continued, "You know, if you wanted, you could actually burn something that's supposed to be burned. Like a log perhaps."

"But there's no intrigue in that, John," she protested quietly, slumping to her back at his feet upon not finding a point to sitting up anymore. "I'm bored."

He set the drawer on the table so he could cross his arms against his chest and look down at her. "Well, what would you like to do?"

She groaned. "Nothing that you would approve of."

"Why don't we just get you in bed instead? Maybe some sleep would do you good."

"I'm not tired."

"Read a book?"

"I read the entire bookcase an hour ago."

"It'll be dark in an hour or so, but I guess we could take a walk if you want."

Her head cocked to the side at that, almost considering the offer. "Do I have the right to rummage through and experiment on any dead remains?"

John sighed, throwing on his coat and moving to pull on his boots as he answered, "Let's cross that bridge when we reach it, shall we?"

'I should have never let him talk me into this,' she mentally cursed, trudging through the snow with little to no grace. She tried to step in his footprints, where the snow was pressed, but it was of no help, and she fell multiple times, and one time she just refused to get up.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's the matter?"

'Oh, he's such a doll to be worried so…' she thought fondly as he immediately came to her side and knelt down beside her.

"Sherlock, come on now. You don't want to lay in the snow. It's cold and wet…" John said, gently placing his glove covered hand on her forehead and stroking the hair away from her face.

She gave him a pointed look. "I know the properties of snow, John. I simply give up."

"Give up? On what?"

"You haven't been aware that I've tripped and fallen face-first at least ten times in the past fifteen minutes?" Sherlock questioned curiously.

He looked shocked and immediately helped her up. "No, I haven't. Are you alright?"

She nodded, unconsciously leaning closer to him as he tossed an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in close to his side so she would feel a bit warmer.

"Let's still head back then. I didn't realize that snow was the one thing that could beat you."

"It didn't beat me," she retorted bitterly, wrapping her arms tighter around herself as they began walking back. "I made a tactical surrender."

He laughed. "Of course you did. Now come on; I'm not carrying you."

"Wouldn't dream of letting you."

When they reached the cabin, John gave her the strict order of a warm bath, one which he even readied for her.

"I am fine, John-"

"I'll have none of that now. You need to get out of those wet clothes and into something warm, and a bath will help you do just that. Here's a pair of pajamas from your case, and I don't want to see you out here until at least twenty minutes have passed…"