This piece of derivative fiction is based upon the "Sherlock" universe, for which the copyright is held by the the BBC Wales, Hartswood Films & WGBH.
Dressing Gowns
by Fenkai
John wakes to the lowest morning temperature on record for the month of January. He's only gifted a half-second blink of his grey-lit bedroom before his eyes are shutting tightly against the cold in instinctive revolt; but that fleetingly look is enough to know the fact with certainty. London has never braved a colder morning than this one.
Because his dressing gown is missing from its hook by the bookcase.
Dressing gowns don't ordinarily render themselves absent, and he has a fair idea as to who's had a helping hand in the affair. Sherlock owns four dressing gowns. Yesterday, every one of them had been layered onto the man's lanky frame, making him into some bizarre kind of Babushka doll. That morning, the radio had informed them, both huddled over cups of steaming tea, had been London's second coldest morning recorded, ever.
And today, his dressing gown was missing. It appeared the simultaneous wearing of four cloth robes wasn't going to cut it anymore. And so, infallible logic informed John it must be colder than the second coldest morning in London.
That, and the fact it was bloody freezing.
Emitting a faint gasp at the frigid air as he tossed back the covers, John turned his back on the warmth with what many would consider inhumanly firm resolve (courtesy of the British army), and quickly grabbed a jumper off the back of his chair before his body decided it wasn't worth continuing the fight against the life-sucking cold. Pulling on the rough wool, he wondered briefly how he managed to sleep through the sound of someone entering his room without registering it in the slightest. For an ex-soldier, it was somewhat disquieting. He decided to write it off as Sherlock being an exception to the rule in this particular case (another one), before he hurried down stairs, mind already anticipating the wondrous inventions of tea and modern heating.
The sight that greeted him in the living room was one that was rather unexpected and managed to pull him up short in the middle of the door way. Sherlock, the great and most singular consulting detective, was curled up on the couch, utterly motionless. John couldn't verify his dressing gown theory because Sherlock's body was buried under a mountain of blankets, only the mop of dark brown hair atop it all signifying his presence. There'd been a heavy snowfall of tissues onto the mountain's summit during the night, and they now appeared to be avalanching down its side and onto the floor. A swirling mist of misery hung suspended above the white-capped peak.
"Stop excessively gaping and shut the door. You're letting out all the meagre warmth that pathetic metal contraption has managed to produce."
At the muffled rasp of sound that was currently Sherlock's voice, its fragility frightfully incongruous with its word content, John spared the poor heater sitting in the corner a sympathetic glance. Sherlock had pulled it as close to the couch as possible, its gas tubing stretched taunt behind it all the way to the wall. That couldn't be good for the old girl. Eyes returning to the lump of human melodrama across the room, John acquiesced the command, stepping into the room properly and shutting the door behind himself. But he couldn't stop the grin. It was just a bit too funny.
"And stop smiling, this isn't funny. I am deathly ill."
John blinks at that, surprise crossing his face. Then he's surprised that he can still be surprised by Sherlock. Especially so by the dramatics.
"Deathly? As in, not much longer to be with us? Soon to be departed? Bowing out – "
"Yes, yes, exactly that!"
The mountain shifted huffily. "My sense of smell has been dulled to the point of uselessness by mucous and inflamed nasal passages. I feel as though I've lost a cerebral lobe."
That got an eyebrow raise. Cerebral lobe? Really, now? Smile still playing around his lips, John proceeded to make his way into the kitchen, followed into the little space by, "And bring me a tea."
There was a pause. As he spoons the dried leaves into the old dented pot, John knows there's more coming.
"And my phone."
That's the one.
He brings over the heralded mug, stooping to balance it on the armrest. Then, sitting back in his own chair with a sigh of contentment, he silently watches the long arm emerge from the depths of tangled cloth to collect its prize.
Yes, he was right. Five layers of dressing gown. Five distinct layers, all cocooning the pale limb like striations in quartz, made multicoloured by trapped, diffracted light. And it's his gown making up the first layer. His eyes widen slightly at fluffy black and white check resting snug against translucent skin. Sherlock must have put it on first, then followed with his own four.
John sighs again, but this time it's tinged by equal parts ruefulness and grudging acceptance of the immutable. Of course he did, the insufferable bastard.
With that smile that he can't quite seem to shake this morning still in place, John settles back to weather the coldest January morning in history; minus his dressing gown, but still inexplicably warm.