Hello friends. I've decided to write another story. This will be my second Sherlock story, so... yeah. Enjoy if possible!
John yawned and stretched out his arms as he leaned back farther into his chair. Large flakes of snow were flurrying down gently outside the window, and as John watched them, he couldn't help but feel warm and content inside the protection of the flat. He'd always loved snow. Maybe not driving in it or necessarily being in it, but sitting inside and watching it always put him at peace. It gave him a nostalgic feeling, and he'd often find himself remembering the better parts of his childhood. It was just... a good feeling, and it was a feeling that didn't come very often, so he decided to enjoy it.
He heard a bored sigh come from the sofa, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes in reply. Sherlock had been sitting there in silence with his eyes closed for about an hour now, and John didn't know whether to be concerned or annoyed. The consulting detective was probably frolicking in his mind palace right now, though John didn't know why. They didn't have a case, and he obviously wasn't working on an experiment. Maybe this was his way of occupying himself when there was absolutely nothing to do. John was surprised Sherlock hadn't gone stir-crazy by now. He figured he'd at least be begging for a cigarette at this point.
John cleared his throat and shifted in the chair, hoping to elicit some kind of response from the man on the sofa. Of course, Sherlock's answer was silence. John didn't mind the quiet every once in awhile. On most occasions, it took a miracle to get Sherlock to shut up, but now John was getting restless, and he needed someone to talk to.
"Do you like the snow?"
The question came out of nowhere, and John regretted it immediately after asking it. What kind of question was that? It was a normal question, of course. A good conversation starter in most instances, but this was Sherlock Holmes. John awaited the irritated sarcastic reply.
"Be more specific."
John blinked, a bit surprised by the reply. Sherlock's eye's were still closed, his hands pressed together beneath his chin, as if in deep concentration.
"I... What do you mean, more specific?"
Sherlock's eyes opened, and he lowered his hands down into his lap.
"It's a rather broad question, John. Are you asking if I like the appearance of snow, or are you referring to the feel of it?"
"I don't know, both."
Sherlock sighed and pulled his legs up to his chest. "I'm indifferent towards it."
"Oh." And they were thrust into uncomfortable silence once again. John wouldn't have it though.
"You asked me to be specific, so you must have some opinion on it. Is there anything you like about the snow?"
"I find the structure rather fascinating."
"Go on," John urged. He was actually really interested in what Sherlock had to say now. It wasn't often that Sherlock Holmes was enticed by something as ordinary as snow.
"Snow, as a whole, is an inconvenience that only gets in the way of performing one's daily routine. The individual parts of snow, however, are quite amazing."
"So you like snowflakes?" John asked, an amused smile gracing his features.
"Well it sounds idiotic when you phrase it like that," Sherlock muttered, "but yes, I suppose I 'like snowflakes,' as you put it." Sherlock closed his eyes again. "They're something so tiny and insignificant, yet I can't help but be intrigued by their complexity." Sherlock's voice had taken on a tone that John had never heard before. If John didn't know any better, he'd say he heard wonder in Sherlock's voice. It held the innocence of a child, and it made him seem much younger than he actually was.
"I mean," Sherlock continued,"Each separate flake has a different design. No two are the same, much like fingerprints, yet each one is symmetrical and beautifully patterned."
John nodded, engrossed in Sherlock's description, and a bit shocked that Sherlock had actually called something beautiful.
"So I'm guessing you enjoy the science behind them," John interjected.
Sherlock shrugged. "I like what the science creates. It's interesting how the freezing of water vapor upon falling ice crystals can create such marvelous six-sided pieces of art."
"Wow," John stated, letting out a chuckle. Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
"What? What is it?"
John couldn't stop grinning. "I just didn't know you were so infatuated with snowflakes."
Sherlock's previously placid expression turned to one of annoyance. "I'm not infatuated! I just appreciate snow. You need to stop exaggerating."
"Oh, I need to stop exaggerating? Says the one who just went on a childish ramble about how amazing snow is."
"It wasn't childish," he mumbled, "and if you didn't want me to talk about it then you shouldn't have asked."
"No, no that's not it. I'm glad you talked about it," John reassured, beaming."We should talk about ordinary things more often."
Sherlock snorted. "Dull."
John only chuckled once more before getting up and walking into the kitchen.
Sherlock could deny that he actually found joy in the smaller things in life, but John would never be convinced.
I wanted to write a winter fic in honor of... winter... I guess. I hope you at least somewhat enjoyed it. Have a great day! (Or night, depending on where you live.)