And in My Hand, Find Solace
John doesn't realise that Sherlock's gloves have disappeared until they're half doubled over on the pier, gasping for breath, both of them.
John feels frozen to the core, breathing a struggle in the thick, cold air that puffs their breath into clouds.
Even Sherlock looks uncomfortable, hair tousled, breathing heavy, cheeks rosy. "Down here," he breathes, and leads the way to a blind spot nearby the pier.
The water nearby rushes in John's ears. He shivers, unceremoniously clambers into the small alcove after Sherlock, and slumps back against the wall. "Did we lose them?"
"I don't know." Sherlock's head falls back against the wall.
John can feel the detective's shoulders heave with the effort of breathing. Concern touches his doctor's instincts. "Are you okay?"
"Bruised ribs, nothing more." Sherlock shifts. "But it makes breathing more difficult, especially in the cold. The temperature is uncomfortable to begin with."
Sherlock isn't good with cold. He never has been, as far as John can tell. Sure, he'll defend that he doesn't sleep often, but if the temperature drops below a certain degree, he'll scarcely leave his bed long enough for tea, if only for the mountain of blankets he keeps there in the winter. He'll start stammering over his deductions in the middle of the park on a case during one of their rare snowfalls and spend the following cab home with his teeth chattering audibly. John supposes it's because he has nothing on his bones to help protect against the cold, but getting Sherlock to eat is even a challenge, let alone trying to get him some padding for winter. "I'm not a chipmunk, John!" he had retorted, childishly, one memorable time that John had tried to combat his "you're skin and bones, you lanky git" cold problem.
John nods at Sherlock's exposed hands. "Where did your gloves go?"
Sherlock glances down at his own fingers, which seemed to be faintly red in the dim light of their hiding place. "I took them off for the combination lock, didn't get the chance to grab them." He flexes his fingers and winces.
"You're going to get frostbite," John mutters, reaching for Sherlock's hand. "Let me see."
Sherlock extends his hand without argument. "Well, I can't help it."
John sighs and pulls off his own gloves. "You, I reiterate, are a giant berk." He folds Sherlock's fingers into his palm, wrapping his fingers around them.
"It's not my- oh." Sherlock looks at him oddly.
"What?"
"... Your hands are warm," Sherlock says, still with a strange look on his face.
John raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, because I'm not a berk who lost his gloves trying to break into a safe."
Sherlock huffs. His breath clouds around them. "You don't have the capacity to break into a safe."
"Oh, please." John shakes his head slightly, a smile tugging at his lips. "You forget that I do have a brain, albeit it's not as large as yours."
Sherlock hums contemplatively, and cranes his neck to glance out of the alcove they're tucked into.
"Lestrade?" John asks, squeezing at Sherlock's fingers.
"He should be here in ten minutes, tops."
"Well, at least we won't die of hypothermia. Hey, here." John reaches over to pluck at Sherlock's scarf, pulling it up around his face as much as he can. "Get that around your ears if you can." He picks up one of his gloves and tries to get Sherlock to put his newly warmed fingers into it.
"They won't fit," Sherlock mutters, curling his fingers into his palm.
"They stretch. Not everyone has fancy-pants leather ones like you."
Sherlock sighs and wiggles his fingers into the glove. It's a little short on the wrist, but it'll keep his fingers from freezing off.
"Give me your other hand."
"Huh?"
John sighs and reaches for Sherlock's other hand, pressing his cold fingers into his palm again. "You're impossible."
"It's impossible to be impossible; I wouldn't exist."
John raises his eyebrows and looks at Sherlock. They meet each other's gaze for approximately three seconds before they both start laughing softly.
"Oh, ow." Sherlock squirms, pressing up against John's side. "This case has certainly taken a turn."
John tucks his own bare, free hand between his knees for warmth. "I just hope Lestrade gets here soon."
The minutes tick by slowly. Ten minutes isn't long, but ten minutes in cold weather near the water is... yes, it's lengthy. John tries not to shiver, and flexes his fingers to keep the circulation up in them.
Sherlock is pulling John's gloves off before John notices.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
Sherlock drops the gloves onto John's lap, and then proceeds to offer both of his hands out towards him without looking.
"... What?" John asks slowly.
Sherlock scoffs and wiggles his fingers. "Use your imagination."
"Sherlock-" John starts, but the argument goes out of him with tiredness and the cold. He just sighs and takes Sherlock's hands. "Thank-"
"Don't."
John rolls his eyes, but is secretly pleased. He doesn't really want to thank him for having to share body heat by holding hands to keep their fingers from getting frostbite. It's not even very practical.
When Lestrade shows up, he takes one look at their conjoined hands and raises his eyebrows.
"He lost his gloves," John says dolefully. He's too done with this to give a toss.
Lestrade just shrugs and holds up his hands. "Come on, then." He gestures them back to the cruiser.
Sherlock seems reluctant to let go of John's hand, but he does. He tucks them between his knees once he's in the back of the cruiser and shuffles down into his coat. John sighs and follows suit, although not before readjusting the heating vents in the back.
John is longing for a hot bath and some hot tea.
Sherlock is calculating the precise temperature of John's skin.
Lestrade is secretly wondering what revelations the two nutters in his backseat have had over the past hour.
I miss Sherlock 3: And I had a cute mental picture of them platonically holding hands and Sherlock being a little awkward about it. So, in the spirit of winter, I made it cold, and fluffy. xD
I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading!