"John."

John was asleep. John was dreaming quite contently, actually, but there was something bothering him. Something that was out of place in his dream. There he was, quite happily having a chat with Prince Charles about jam on toast but there was something in his ear. Prince Charles was relentlessly whispering his name.

"John."

Bit odd, but John didn't think too much of it, instead letting the unusual baritone of Charlie's voice wash over him between conversation which had now progressed onto cheese and biscuits. It was all going rather well, actually, and John was feeling quite chuffed that he had befriended a royal when suddenly he felt considerable pressure on his stomach. It made him somewhat breathless as Prince Charles slowly faded away and sounds of 221b began to rouse him from his sleep.

"John."

"Mrrmmmfff... What the bloody hell. Why can't I… Where am... Why are you... Oh, hello."

When John opened his bleary eyes he was immediately met with piercingly alive grey ones, staring into his inquisitively, nose touching nose and warming his face with every measured breath.

"John."

"Why are you sitting on me?"

"John."

"I was having quite a nice dream you know, I was sure to get a knighthood, but you just couldn't stand to see me get a knighthood could you?" John's voice was fond but still gravelly with sleep as he tried to turn over; momentarily forgetting that he was being held in place by a surprisingly heavy consulting detective.

"John."

"I mean, yes, it was only basic conversation, jam and cheese and the like... Food... I'm quite hungry now actually, shall we have breakfast?"

"John."

John blinked, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled, "John."

"You're smiling. You're smiling that smile. What is it?"

"Snow, John. It's snowing outside."

"Oh... Is it?"

"Yes."

"And this called for you to wake me up by sitting on me and repeating my name over and over?"

"Yes."

"Right'o."

"I like snow, John."

John grinned, "Yes, I think I gathered that."

"Can we go to Regents Park?"

"What, right now? You'll get cold in your dressing gown. Actually, sod that, I'm naked, I'll get hypothermia, that's if I'm not arrested first... That would make Sally's day, I'm sure. Nudey Doctor and Lanky Dressing Gown detective prancing about in the snow."

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a quirk of his lips, "Get dressed. I want to go outside. In the snow. As soon as possible."

"Well you'll have to get off me first."

"I will," Sherlock made no attempts to move. Instead wiggling his hips into John's stomach in a manner that, if John didn't know better, could be misconstrued as excitement.

"Are we going to make a snowman as well?" John asked, not entirely seriously.

Sherlock's eyes flickered away from John's to stare at the window as he considered the question, his eyebrows drawn together in thought, "Maybe."

John laughed, a little breathlessly thanks to the ever present pressure on top of him, "Right. Snow men. Two grown men making snowmen in the snow. To be honest, I'm more surprised that I'm not surprised at all."

Sherlock's head snapped back to John's, one eyebrow raised in befuddlement, "John, you're not making any sense, are you snow delirious too?"

"No, I'm just tired and... Snow delirious? Well aren't you just a basket of kittens."

Sherlock winced, but said nothing, instead blinking away his discontent as he continued to stare at John in comfortable silence, scanning his morning-warm features in only the most pleasant early morning scrutiny.

Suddenly he smiled a great big beaming only-John-ever-sees-it smile and swooped down to kiss John on the tip of his nose before rubbing away the small damp spot left behind with his cheek like an overly-affectionate cat.

"Right then," he said with a clap of his hands, "Showered, dressed then snow, John! Snow!" And with that he leapt off the bed, finally freeing John from his hold and stalking off towards the door, disrobing completely on the way to leave him as brazen and as naked as the day he was born.

John pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes whilst a painfully wide grin painted his face, making his cheeks ache with the sickly-sweet bliss of it all.

"Snow. Of course. Of course you love snow," he murmured before whipping back the covers to join Sherlock in the shower. He might as well make the most of being hot, he thought, before inevitably being coerced into making snow angels in an hours time...