Sherlock is close. Too close.
John's breath is rushed, forced, hoarse, heavy. So much confusion. So much tension. Too much. Far too much tension for one night. His abduction, the bomb, Jim, that moment when he realized that he was going to die and that moment where he realized he wasn't. It happened so fast. Too fast.
And Sherlock's arms are around him, holding him close. John can feel the hair on his neck rising at the very notion of Sherlock hugging him. Hugging him? Sherlock wouldn't do that. Would he?
Yet here he is, trapped in the detective's warm embrace. Warm. It's so warm and it more than makes up for the absence of his parka. John wants a parka as warm as Sherlock.
And he's pressed against the wall, held in the arms of his replacement parka. He doesn't fight against it. He doesn't want to fight against it. It's Sherlock. It's okay.
"Sh... Sherlock." John mumbles. Sherlock pulls his face back to look into his flatmate's eyes. They're wide as saucers.
"John, I'm sorry." The words echo around the pool. It's spooky and silent except for their breath, except for their voices.
"Sorry about what?"
"I forgot to get the milk."
John smiles.