AN: So this one kind of ran away with me. It was originally going to be a one-shot songfic based on Elton John's Cold. However it demanded more. So it's going to be a multi-chapter stories inspired by Cold instead. Looks like it will have about 6 chapters with the possibility of an epilogue. I should be updating every 3-4 days (fingers crossed).
This is more of a prologue to "set the mood".
Enjoy!

Disclaimer – I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Cold.

Love hurts. John had heard this sentiment 100 times and over again. He always thought it was ridiculous.
Love didn't hurt; how could it? The love he knew was sweet and warm, like honey. It was cuddling on the couch, inside jokes, sharing hobbies, opinions, quick kisses and passionate snogs.

Nothing painful at all.
Unless you count the break-ups of course; but then it's not love anymore is it?
Pain and love were two words that didn't belong in the same sentence; or so he thought.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes; who had a habit of completely destroying any preconceived notions the moment he waltzed into your life.
John still hadn't decided of that was a good or bad trait.

Meeting Sherlock made John realize that those "sentimental idiots" as he'd previously called them; where right.

Love hurts. Like hell.
Love was not warm or fiery he discovered. No that was affection and/or passion.

Real love was like being thrust in the middle of the ocean. Swirling unimaginably deep and dangerous.
Especially when the object of your desire happens to be a certain consulting detective.

Real love was cold and intense, just like Sherlock's eyes. Drawing you in no matter how valiantly you struggle.

Oh hell. He had to stop this.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't let him mind travel down those paths.

But how could he not?

He was completely hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes; and yeah, it hurt.
It hurt because Sherlock didn't care.
Sherlock was the embodiment of cold it seemed. With icy green eyes, frosted pink lips; even his hair reminded John of cool mahogany, cascading around his porcelain cheekbones.
Damn. Not again.

It hurt him to see Sherlock running about; putting himself in danger without a care.
I mean sure; he's fantastic and has this uncanny ability to piece together a puzzle at the last minute saving himself and everyone else.
Still John always worried that on day he won't be quite fantastic enough; and something would happen to his Sherlock.

Wait. What! When did Sherlock become "his"?

If John was honest with himself he was "his Sherlock" practically from day one.
After he shot that cabbie.
He remembers trying to understand why he pulled that trigger without a second thought.
I mean sure; he was a soldier, but this was in London - not a war zone.
The only answer his mind (heart?) could come up with was "He was a threat to my Sherlock."

"God help me", he thought to himself. He had to stop this.

He was falling, drowning in the icy hurricane that was being in love with Sherlock.
He had to take some action for self-preservation. He had to leave 221B Baker Street.
And soon.