Sheets poured over the windows, spilling urban waterfalls into gutters and streams. The quick irregular tapping of John's laptop was barely audible over the roaring rain. He lowered himself onto the far edge of the sofa, impatient fingers drumming on his knees. From the corner of his eye John saw his limbs extend and shift toward him. An elbow knocked against his ribs was registered with barely a grunt; John remained intently focused on his screen. Long cold fingers wrapped around a jumper-clad forearm, squishing the soft material to find his bones, to make sure he was really there.
You could almost hear the muscles in Sherlock's jaw clenching to stop his teeth chattering, unsuccessfully. His almost skeletal frame was not ideal for this weather. John raised an eyebrow quizzically at his shivering friend, whose lips were beginning to turn blue. The hand wrapped around his wrist tugged his free and was promptly stuck inside his jumper sleeve. He winced at the frozen flesh gripping his heated arm. "For goodness sake Sherlock, just go put on one of mine if you're so desperate", Sherlock would have scoffed if he weren't so cold, and if John hadn't made a good point. He hadn't thought of that. "N-n-n-no, st-t-upid jumpers t-too short. P-p-plus, bod-dy heat's b-better for you." It was John's turn to scoff, "Well I'm perfectly fine without you sucking the heat out of me thank you very-Oi!" The last word of his sentence was muffled by a bony shoulder in his mouth. Somehow Sherlock had managed to wrap his entire body around John's torso without knocking his laptop to the ground. John sighed resignedly and tried to manoeuvre around the consulting detective, which resulted in his grip tightening. "I wonder if this would count as harassment", he mused into Sherlock's chest. He didn't respond; Sherlock appeared to have fallen asleep. John's arms were stuck to his sides, making any movement nearly impossible. He slowly loosened Sherlock's left arm and removed the laptop from his lap. A jab to the side startled Sherlock into semi-consciousness, allowing John to drag him to his bedroom. Laying him down on the mattress he almost immediately curled up into a ball. John pulled the covers over the black and blue lump that was Sherlock, leaving only mop of curly black hair to peek out the top; he tilted his head and half smiled at the sleeping man. Turning to walk out he heard a small, deep voice from under the blanket, "John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?" He didn't speak, but held out an arm in reply, his fingers grasping at the air just outside the comfort of the covers. John rolled his eyes and lifted them, sliding in beside his friend, and letting him wrap himself around him once again. He smiled and shook his head, whispering, "Sweet dreams" as he began to drift.
