AN: This is a first draft. Sorry for spelling and grammatical errors. One-shot ficlet request. It was quite fun to do.

Disclaimers: I do not own anything Sherlock related. All modern characters belong to BBC and the originals to Sir Author Conan Doyle.

"What the hell are these for?"

"They're to protect your eyes."

Sherlock held the eye-wear up to his face, squinting through them in disapproval. "But how am I supposed to see where I'm going?"

"Well, if you'd put them on correctly, that might help."

"Don't patronize me, John."

"Then stop being difficult and get your equipment picked out."

Sherlock and John decided to travel for once. Of course, the only way John could make that happen was to get Sherlock to accept a case that required knowledge of skiing. He decided to snowboard instead, having done it a few times before (most unsuccessfully so). It was ok, but not really his thing. Sherlock, on the other hand, had never indulged in such an activity. " Pointless," he had said when Lestrade suggested it. But Sherlock would do just about anything to solve a case, especially if it involved murder. So, there they were, in the cabin of a store sorting through equipment to use, trying things on for the proper fit.

When they walked in, Sherlock had immediately given the clerk his measurements and impatiently waited, tapping his foot in a rapid, random beat. No, not random, John noticed. It was repetitive, more likely from a musical score he had memorized. And the process of choosing their necessary gear was even more tedious. Sherlock looked over every single pole and ski, trying to determine the best match from the height difference between him and the victim and something about the shoe size difference and balance. John didn't care; he was too busy getting his things together and fitted.

In a back corner where he was trying on the boots, an employee that was helping him out asked, "If you don't mind my asking, is he normally like... this?" She motioned her head over to Sherlock, who was meticulously looking over every piece of equipment.

John just nodded. He didn't need to look to know what he was doing. "Yes, he is. Sorry about that. We'll be out of your hair soon, I'm sure."

She slowly nodded, although quite unsure herself, and continued assisting him until he had everything he needed.

Thirty long minutes later, Sherlock had finally picked his stuff out (without the help every employee offered; no, Sherlock "knew what he was doing,") and they out the door in no time, dressed and ready to go. Sherlock adjusted the skis and poles in his arms, complaining that they were too large and in the way. The walk to the lift wasn't too far, thank god, and they'd get through their first round soon enough. Maybe Sherlock would enjoy it and shut up once and for all, John thought. Then he realized that wasn't likely to happen. But with multiple runs to be had, he was in for a long day anyway.

"I can't believe Lestrade hung that case over my head. He's probably off somewhere cackling madly, hiding in the bushes and waiting to take an embarrassing picture."

"I'd frame it."

"Shut up, John."

"Hang it up in the flat. Probably right next to the holes you shot in the wall."

"I would burn your favorite jumper."

"Worth it."

That shut Sherlock up for all of a minute. They made it to the lift, Sherlock sat to put on his skis, and they waited patiently for the next seat to come around. The attendant there was friendly enough, overlooking Sherlock's brooding stare in favor of offering encouraging words.

"This is the easiest slope to start out with. Great for first timers!"

"That's great, thanks for your input," Sherlock grumbled back. John wasn't sure if he meant it to be loud enough for the guy to hear or quiet enough for only John to catch it. Either way, he gave Sherlock a quizzical look. Sherlock was shaking, visibly so.

"You ok?"

"Fine. It's just cold."

"We're bundled up in layers of clothes and you're cold."

"Obviously."

Like that was convincing. "Whatever you say." They were on the lift in no time and being carried to the top of the hill. It was longer, though not very steep. Still, Sherlock was fidgeting with whatever he could, avoiding John's gaze and swallowing when he looked over the hill. John realized what was going on. "You're nervous."

"No I'm not," Sherlock snapped back, and he stilled immediately, though he had trouble hiding that in his eyes.

"It's ok to be nervous, Sherlock."

"I'm not, and that's that."

"Then can you explain why you're gripping onto my jacket?"

Sherlock looked down where his fingers were wrapped tightly around the material of John's sleeve and he let go. "Just making sure you don't fall off."

"Right."

"Shut up, John."

"You're impossible."

"You're impossible."

John had half a mind not to laugh. Probably wouldn't help with anything, so he kept it in and replied back with a matter-of-fact, "No I'm not."

They didn't say anything the rest of the way. Someone on top helped them off (that was a sight to see, Sherlock agreeing not to ride the thing back down), and explained to them what they would do while John snapped the snowboard on in place. He was up in no time, Sherlock obviously miffed that he hadn't taken longer to get ready, and positioned at the top. After a few words of precaution – "Keep it slow and steady, there's no race, and have fun!" – John coaxed Sherlock along, pulling his goggles up on his face and reminding Sherlock to do the same.

"I can't hold your hand down this hill, you know," he said as he leaned into the slow acceleration of his board.

Sherlock scowled and pushed off with the poles, following John's slow descent down. "I don't need your help, John." There was a slight desperation in his voice, but he did well to keep that from reaching his face. His body tensed and he just about lost balance.

John didn't say anything back, just went along beside him for a short bit. Sherlock was starting to get the hang of it, no doubt from a few hours of research on the subject neatly tucked in his head (to be deleted later), and went through the motions of increasing his speed. John grinned at him, Sherlock scoffed back because he was just fine, thank you very much, and they were off. John managed to gain some ground on him, turning back when he felt safe enough to check on Sherlock, who was still fumbling along, and called out, "You're doing great!"

"Who in their right mind," Sherlock started to call back, face in a slight panic when he felt he was going to fall over, and finished when he regained balance, "would ever do this for fun? This is useless!"

"Think of it like the thrill of the chase, Sherlock."

"But I'm not chasing anything!"

"Yeah, except your nerves of steel."

"You're going to regret saying that!"

"No I won't!"

Several minutes later, with Sherlock trying his best to keep up and John gliding along the snow with relative ease, they were at the bottom. Both had trouble stopping, but they managed. John looked at Sherlock and outwardly laughed at the frustrated expression on his face. "What is it?!" Sherlock snapped, pulling his goggles from his eyes and glaring at John.

"I just can't believe you actually did that!" John held his stomach and bent over, the laughter still racking his body.

Sherlock looked back up at the hill – it really wasn't that bad, he noticed – and frowned, playfully whacking John with his pole. It didn't stop him from laughing. Sherlock did, however, realize there was a bit of an adrenaline rush from the whole experience. Though it was nothing compared to the kind he got chasing people through the streets of London. Skiing was definitely not Sherlock's sport, but if it meant gathering data for a case, he'd endure it long enough. "Alright, shut up. Let's go to the next one."

"Wonderful," John replied between bursts of giggles. And out of the blue, he muttered, "Anderson and Donovan owe me fifty quid."

"What was that?"

"Nothing!"

"You bet on me?!"