Okay so maybe I shouldn't be doing this seeing how I'm in the middle of a multi-chapter right now. However, my Beta will only edit so much of that at a time. (Trust me, I've been getting a lot written for "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling"). That is a big project and I won't present it without beta approval. This small collection, however, I feel confident posting now and letting my Beta review this when he gets around to it.
So, I apologize for grammatical errors in advance, and I hope that you enjoy the story.
Chapter 1: The river
The cab ride home seemed unusually shaky. Or maybe that was him. The final chase of this great case had resulted in John being thrown in the Thames before Sherlock managed to overpower the criminal.
Sure the police had fished him out and given him one of those stupid orange blankets, but it was bleeding February.
The police and Sherlock had tried to convince him to go to the hospital, but John had adamantly refused. Sure hypothermia was setting in, but a night under warm blankets would fix that right as rain and he would be a hell of a lot more comfortable in his own damn bed. Being a doctor, John knew there was relatively little, outside of prescribing, he could do for people that they couldn't do for themselves.
John felt an arm coil tightly around his side and pull him closer to Sherlock. He looked unsteadily up into his flat mate's gray/blue eyes, his breath coming out in short puffs and he shivered.
"Can't have you freezing to death," Sherlock murmured.
John expected Sherlock to let him go once they reached 221B Baker Street. He didn't. Sherlock may have paid the cabbie before dragging John inside, but John was having some trouble focusing. Things had gone all swimmy.
Somehow, they must have clamored up the stairs, John felt himself being laid down on a bed. Sherlock's bed, it had to be, it smelled like him.
John felt hands on him, pulling his sodden clothes off, and he let it happen. It was the right thing to do for hypothermia, and he was in no position to argue.
"Lift up, John," Sherlock murmured and his hands grasped the clothing at John's waist. John struggled to comply. It must have been enough because he felt his trousers and pants come away. Sherlock must have already gotten his socks and shoes.
John turned his head and pressed it into the bedding. Flannel; very practical for this time of year.
With Sherlock's help he maneuvered himself into the bed properly. He didn't think he could coordinate his limbs to pull the sheets over himself; luckily Sherlock took care of that.
John made out some disjointed noises and the sound of voices then. Probably Mrs. Hudson. She always did worry too much.
John hissed when he felt hot water bottles being pressed against his skin, under the blankets. They burned and he tried to kick them away.
There were voices talking and then retreating footsteps. He hoped they weren't going to take him to the hospital after all; he really would be fine.
A blast of cool air hit him as the sheets lifted slightly and John cringed. Then the bed dipped, and Sherlock slid under the sheets with him. Sherlock wound his arms around John's middle again, and pulled John flush to him. 'Sherlock is naked,' John mused to himself. And then he decided it didn't matter because Sherlock was also deliciously warm. He squirmed further into their embrace, shoving his toes under Sherlock's claves, his fingers under Sherlock's arms, and his freezing nose into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock allowed this without protest.
He felt the baritone rumble in Sherlock's chest and knew the consulting detective was speaking to him. John couldn't quite make it out make it out, but it was comforting all the same. Sherlock's warmth, his steady heartbeat, and the soft rumbling of his voice slowly lulled John to sleep.
Bright winter sunlight peeked around the edges of Sherlock's curtains and dappled his bedroom. John sighed and stretched, reviling in the wonderful warmth of the room. It wasn't hot by any means, just comfortably warm. John realized, as he stretched, that the flannel sheets and blankets-there were a surprising number of blankets-had fallen to his waist, and his pillow was breathing.
John slowly opened his eyes and saw a flat chest sprinkled with dark, curly hair. He blinked and looked up to see Sherlock smiling down at him. Right, last night. It was slowly coming back to him. Sherlock had protected him. He'd done everything right and saved John from an uncomfortable trip to the hospital. John returned Sherlock's smile. "Good morning," he murmured.
"Morning," Sherlock replied. "How are you feeling?"
John rested his head back on Sherlock's chest, closed his eyes and 'hmmed' contentedly. "Warm," he replied. Perhaps he would normally be embarrassed being naked and in bed with Sherlock. Not this morning, however. He was more comfortable than he'd been in days and Sherlock didn't seem to mind. That was a nice thing about Sherlock, he never read anything more into a situation than there was. Last night he had climbed naked into bed to keep John warm without a second thought. Now, well, if he wasn't equally warm and comfortable he was at least content to let John remain so.
Sherlock chuckled softly and John felt the consulting detective's nimble fingers tracing patterns along his back. "You gave Mrs. Hudson quite a scare,"
John shrugged and the movement turned into a stretch where his legs twined further with Sherlock's. "I'll go apologize in a bit."
Sherlock shifted slightly underneath him and John felt a soft kiss being pressed to the top of his head. "Sleep as long as you want," Sherlock murmured.
John smiled, and did just that.