A gust of cold February wind could be felt all across London, bringing about a flurry of stray flower petals and with a vague sense of longing alongside the grey overcast skies. The fourteenth was upon Baker Street, and John Watson was the only resident at 221B with the knowledge of what the day entailed. The doctor rolled over, placing a small kiss at the base of Sherlock's neck, "Wake up," he mumbled, hot and sweet breath washing over his neck and throat as the detective rolled over to greet John with a wary smile.
"Good morning, John," Sherlock's deep voice creaked, morning sounding heavily in his words as he let John place a gentle kiss on his lips and he groaned as he was led out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where a small surprise awaited him in the form of a traditional heart-shaped box, "Chocolates?" Sherlock asked, picking it up and shaking it gently, face twisted with disgust, "You know that digesting slows me down when I'm on a case. Especially sugar."
John nodded, motioning towards the box anyway, "Just open it, Sher."
Sherlock complied, deft fingers opening the box as he smiled at the slightly morbid contents inside, "Very nice, John," he said, placing the box of legally obtained human extremities into the freezer before sitting down at the table with a grin.
John nodded once more, "You're welcome," he said, checking the kettle for harmful chemicals before deciding it was safe to flick it on and to retrieve two cups and two tea bags from the cupboards, "Happy Valentine's day, by the way."
Sherlock hummed, mimicking John's nod for a moment, "What do people do on Valentine's day, John?" the detective asked in a manner which let John know that he was definitely not joking, "I've never had a 'valentine', nor was I ever interested in the holiday."
The doctor sat down next to Sherlock, placing both steaming mugs onto the wooden table before them, "Well, that depends on what you want to do, Sher," he explained, "today is about being with your loved one and doing whatever makes you happy."
Sherlock nodded, "Even if that doesn't involve boxes of chocolates and bouquets of roses and dinner at expensive restaurants like on the telly?"
"Absolutely, we can stay here for all I care," John answered, taking a sip of his tea, silently encouraging Sherlock to do the same.
"We're going to the morgue, then," he clearly stated, gliding out of the room to put on proper trousers and a coat before coming back to slip his phone into the pocket of his outerwear, "Come on."
John complied, taking less than a minute to down his tea, change into a pair of jeans, grab his phone and fumble down the stairs after the graceful detective. The both slid into the back of a cab were taken to St. Barts in an instant. They clamoured out of the car door and onto cold streets, momentarily taken aback by a blast of cold wind before they were inside the heat and comfort of the hospital.
They bounced down the stairs towards the morgue, their dress shoes sounding throughout the white rooms as they bee-lined for the slickly grey-coloured double doors and stepped inside. A flustered Molly sat off to the side, frantically organizing her books and papers as she was not expecting any guests and about to be out the door, "Hey," she muttered, pulling a stray strand of hair away from her face for a moment as she looked to her feet, "I was actually just out the door, do you need anything?"
"Just a body," John answered, "Help us with that and you can be on your way."
She nodded, grabbing her bag and a couple files before directing them to a fresh corpse, "Just, uh, don't touch the face, I think his family's coming by later."
Both men hummed, silently dismissing her as Sherlock began to poke and prod and cut at the cadaver, letting out small exclamations of joy and excitement as he slowly became lost in his activity. John hoisted himself up on a nearby examination table, carefully studying Sherlock's catlike grace and childlike enthusiasm, no longer upset or jealous that the detective was immersed in another activity.
After a couple hours of poking and prodding, Sherlock returned the body to his rightful place, "Have fun?" John asked, hopping off of his cold metal throne to join him on the tile.
"Obviously," Sherlock smiled, grabbing John's hand and leading him out the double doors, "And you enjoyed yourself as well."
John nodded, displaying a small smile on his features as well as they trudged their way up the stairs and back onto the streets, "You smell like embalming fluid," John said, scrunching his nose up playfully before resting his head awkwardly on Sherlock's shoulder, "I kind of like it."
Sherlock donned a smug smile, head lifting slightly as rain began to sprinkle down upon them, the chances of getting a cab dwindling by the second as the water began to pour in buckets against the grey streets and John laughed, pulling Sherlock down the avenue as they both lifted their coats above their heads, running through the rain as they returned to Baker Street to finish off their day with a warm cup of tea by the fireplace.