Soo…like everyone else in this fandom I became totally obsessed with Sherlock. And this idea absolutely would not leave my head. Takes place sometime in the second season before the finale (which still makes me cry whenever I think about it!)
Enjoy!
John stomped his feet, trying in vain to get some of the feeling back into them. It was the coldest night of the year (10 degrees below 0!) and snowing horrendously. By Murphy's Law there had of course been no cabs in sight, forcing him to walk home from a double shift at the hospital. The only thing that he wanted was a hot bath and sleep, possibly after taking a bit of tea to wind down.
"I get to sleep in my own bed," Watson sang off-key as he turned the key to let himself into 221B Baker Street, "I get to sleep in my own bed! I get to sleep without being woken by two interns having sex in the cot next to meee- Oh god what the hell are you doing?"
Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor calmly humming Vivaldi's Four Seasons amidst an array of about 50 beakers full of chemicals. Judging by the large cloud of black smoke above his head and rotten eggs smell, a few of them had reacted not-so-nicely.
Sherlock looked up and nodded curtly. "John," he said, looking infuriatingly calm for someone who could have just blown up the entire flat.
"What is all this?" John repeated, gesturing to their sitting-room-turned-chemistry laboratory. He grabbed a newspaper from the armchair and tried to fan some of the smoke out of the room.
"I was bored," Sherlock replied. "I wanted to see how many different combinations of house-hold products I could use to create cyanide."
"But why didn't you do that in the laboratory?" John asked, trying his hardest to keep the exasperation out of his voice. "Where there isn't the possibility of setting all of our worldly possessions ablaze?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Because then they obviously wouldn't be house-hold products would they?"
"What? That makes absolutely no sense!" John cried, throwing his hands into the air in defeat. Sherlock's lips quirked upward almost imperceptibly, and John knew that he was amused by his temper tantrum. Something in John seemed to loosen at the sight, and he found himself chuckling before he shivered involuntarily.
"Sherlock, why is it so cold? It's even worse in here than it is outside!"
Sherlock calmly mixed together two more of the chemicals in a flask. "Oh, the heating unit got covered in the snow, and it froze."
Johns face turned hard. "You're telling me that we don't have heat on the coldest bloody night of the entire year?" he said in a low voice.
"Probably, yes."
"And you're completely fine with this."
"Obviously."
"But, if you knew it was happening, then why didn't you shovel it out?" John snapped.
"Well, I was busy wasn't I!" Sherlock snapped back.
The two men stared each other down for a few seconds, breathing heavily. John strode briskly across the room and tossed Sherlock his jacket before putting on his own.
"Outside." John ordered. "Now."
Sherlock knew better than to argue.
xxxxxxxx
"Come on!" John yelled as he struck at the ice with a shovel. "I need. To take. A Hot . Shower!"
He gave the ice one final thrust before dropping the shovel to the ground and panting.
Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder. "John," he said in a tone that John supposed was meant to be helpful. "I think it's frozen."
John rolled his eyes. "Yes, I can see that."
He paused for a moment. Wait. Mrs. Hudson is our landlady! Why don't we just call her?"
Sherlock nodded. "Yes I tried doing that. I fired a few bullets into our sitting room wall, which usually brings her up right away, but this time it didn't. From the clothes she was wearing and the perfume she had on this morning I deduced that it was because-"
"Damn," Jon interrupted him. "She's off this weekend. I completely forgot; she's visiting her son in Cardiff."
Sherlock stuck out his lower lip, looking for all the world like a sulking school boy. "You didn't let me finish my deduction," he pouted.
John laughed. "I didn't need to. The date's been circled on our calendar for weeks."
Sherlock sniffed. "Well, there's nothing more we can do now, so we might as well go back inside."
"I suppose you're right," John agreed. He turned to face the younger man. "Listen, I'm sorry that I got angry earlier. I was just…tired. I had a long day at work, and I just wanted a break. Not all of us are machines like you are, you know."
John walked back towards the flat. If he had turned around he might have seen the hurt look play on his friend's face.
xxxxx
"You want me to do what?"
John threw Sherlock a mound of blankets. "Sharing body heat. It's the oldest survival trick in the book."
Sherlock arched an eyebrow and stared at him incredulously, making John blush against his will. Back in his freezing cold room it really had sounded like a good idea, and not at all…like that. Then again, no one could make him feel like an idiot like Sherlock did.
He sighed. "Look, I won't tell anyone if you don't."
Sherlock made no admission of acceptance but to slide further over on the bed, glaring at John suspiciously all he while. John awkwardly slid into bed next to him, taking great care not to touch the other man.
"Well, um, goodnight," John said awkwardly, turning off the light.
"Goodnight, John," Sherlock replied.
John turned over on his side and tried to fall asleep, but each time he felt himself drifting off, he was immediately woken again by Sherlock tossing and turning. Finally John had enough.
"For God's sake, Sherlock, knock it off!"
"I can't help it," Sherlock cried agitatedly. "Your breathing pattern is completely different than mine! How is one supposed to sleep with someone else breathing in their ear?"
John turned to face the man and propped himself up on one elbow. "Are you telling me that you've never slept in the same bed as someone else before? Not even your parents?"
"No, that was more Mycroft's arena," Sherlock replied, staring straight up at the ceiling. Even in the dark, John could feel him almost purring the way he always did when he got to embarrass his older brother. "He was a bed-wetter. Be sure to bring it up the next time you see him; he gets horribly embarrassed."
John couldn't help but smile at the though of blackmailing one of the most powerful men in Britain by his bedwetting tendencies. But something in his mind wouldn't let him drop the matter. "But weren't you ever afraid?" he pressed. "Didn't you ever worry about monsters or boogie-men or bumps in the night?"
"Why would I be? There's no such thing as monsters," Sherlock said with a tone of finality to his voice.
"Well yes, you know that now. We all do. But how did you know that when you were a boy?"
"Because it couldn't be proven to me that they had ever existed in the first place."
John burst out laughing. That was such a typical Sherlock thing to say. "Wow, you really are something. You are –"
"A machine?" Sherlock interrupted.
"Well no. I was actually going to say that you're quite a piece of work." John hesitated. "Hold on, is this about what I said earlier?"
Sherlock turned away from Watson to face the wall. "No. Forget I brought it up."
A sudden realization washed over John like a wave. "I hurt your feelings earlier, didn't I. When I said that you were like a machine."
"No you didn't," Sherlock, his voice muffled by the pillow. "What am I a school girl?"
"Yes I did," John continued, more sure of himself now. "I know you Sherlock. Right now you're doing your whole 'I don't understand people, but I don't really care' voice. But you don't not understand me…you don't understand yourself. You don't understand why you cared when I said that."
John could hear the hint of a smile creep into his friend's voice. "Well, if you're being the detective now, let's hear your theory."
John took a moment to gather his thoughts. "You're upset because…because 'Sherlock is machine' is something that people who don't know you would think. Like Sally and Anderson down at the Yard. But I'm supposed to know you. To know that there's more to you than that. And when I said that, you felt like I didn't know you either."
The last bit came out in a rush. John waited for Sherlock to deny his claim, to chastise him for being over-sentimental. But when no rebuke came, John was forced to rule out the impossible to leave only the improbable: he was right.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "And it's not true. I know you're not… a machine. It's just one of those things that slipped out. It doesn't mean anything."
"Obviously. You live with me. I would hope that my own roommate would know that I require sleep and sustenance like every other human being." He spoke in a voice that oozes with assurance, with certainty. But John knew he didn't imagine the doubt in it just moments ago.
"Alright. Well goodnight, Sherlock," John said for the second time that night, albeit with a lot less awardness than the first.
"Goodnight, John." Sherlock replied.
The two men lay in silence for a few moments. John felt himself nodding off and hoped against all odds that now he'd finally be able to get some sleep.
"John," Sherlock said, breaking the stillness.
"What?"
"I'm cold."
"Well I think we both know whose fault that is."
"Yes," Sherlock said seriously. "Mrs. Hudson's. For visiting her son in Cardiff and forsaking us during our time of great need."
John couldn't stop himself from giving Sherlock a great kick, sending him toppling off of the bed, covers and all.
"God damn you, Holmes."