A/N: Carwind gave me my 100th review on my Johnlock fic, "Touch The Fleeting Chill of Air," so I am giving them a consolation prize: a oneshot of their choice! They asked for a snowy, gingerly-attempting-affection sort of fic, so that's what I tried to do here. I hope you like it, bb! #hugs#
Lyrics are from 'Snowlights (feat. Supa)' by I Hate This Place.
Winter forever
Frostbitten trees
A solitary letter
From the days I used to dream
In this maze where I gaze laid back
Thinking about
All of those thoughts of spring
The steady snowfall was eerily still.
The way the thick, fluffy flakes cascaded down from the clouded night sky was hypnotizing. The air hardly stirred, the streets barely moved; it looked as though time were frozen. Scarcely a car passed by, and there wasn't a soul in sight.
The ground was fresh and white. Where the streetlamps caught the crystallized rain as it lay in drifts, there were sparkles like stars, fallen from the sky too mottled with opaque, grayish-blackness to reveal even a circle of the true stars.
They were the only ones left outside at this time of night, in the dead hour of three in the morning. And despite the chaos of their recent case, everything seemed perfectly unperturbed. The sole deviating factor of the snowy silence was the occasional puff of warm mist emitting from their mouths as they exhaled in time with their softly crunching footsteps.
"Lovely night," John piped up, shattering the silence cast by the snowflakes absorbing all sound with their beauty. "Kind of mysterious."
"Not so," Sherlock answered mildly. He went on to explain the process of how snow is produced, all scientific terms and empty words drifting out and down like the snow itself, blending melodically into a vague hum in the background. John wasn't listening. He knew, distantly, from primary school, how snow was made. He didn't need to hear it again. He preferred the mystery of it, the way the snow seemed to engross him in its icy gaze.
When Sherlock finished his science lesson in winter weather, John shivered. He sunk lower into his jacket collar, wishing he had earmuffs or a hat. His nose was as red as a cherry and stinging with cold, and he sniffed. "I can't believe I forgot my wallet. And you never really carry yours unless I carry it for you," John said tiredly. "I could really use a cab ride right about now. I'm going to get frostbitten on either my nose or ears; I'm waiting to see which happens first."
"We're almost home," Sherlock responded nonchalantly. His hands were in his pockets and his coat collar was turned up, his scarf high on his face, muffling his words a bit. Yes, he was definitely wishing for a cab as well, even if he didn't want to admit it. "The walk is nothing a fire and hot tea won't cure. Frostbite is very unlikely. Not cold enough for it; it's snowing, after all. And there is no wind."
"Doesn't matter," John retorted gruffly. "'M still freezin'."
Sherlock slowed his pace to match that of his companion. He glanced sideways at him, as if debating something. Then, apparently reaching a decision, he suggested, "You could take my arm. Our body heat would be amplified through contact, and if you like, I could lend you my scarf. My coat collar is higher than yours; I can button it up to replace the scarf."
Logical as always. But John flushed with embarrassment nonetheless, because those were things male friends didn't do. They didn't hold one another and share articles of clothing.
But John was so cold. He didn't even have gloves. And no one was around, no one at all. No one would see. No one would care.
The large snowflakes fell as soft as feathers. They landed on John's eyelashes, blurring his vision and melting instantaneously. Droplets of water from the snow covered Sherlock's coat sleeve, but John stepped closer anyhow. He blinked away the snow and peered up at the detective. Sherlock's face belied nothing.
John swallowed. He equaled his pace to Sherlock's moderately adjusted steps. Then, ever so gingerly, he reached out and slipped his hand into the crook of Sherlock's right arm. He huddled close, pulling himself to Sherlock's side, and Sherlock took his hand in his leather gloved one. Then John's hand was in Sherlock's warm pocket, and his shoulder and arm and upper ribs felt incredible arm through his jacket.
And he was just a little too glad Sherlock offered this.
"Do you want my scarf as well? I'm not that cold," Sherlock lied, but John couldn't tell.
The doctor shook his head. "No, I'm fine. You'll catch cold without it; I know you. No, I'll be okay. We are almost home, after all."
And for the remainder of the walk, John admired the snow a while longer. London rarely received pleasant snow; more often than not, it was harsh and cruel. But in this early morning hour, it was perfect, like in a romantic comedy film, the sort Harry liked to force John into watching each Christmas. It was… comforting.
They reached 221B without event. They unlocked the doors, locked them again behind themselves, and Sherlock started a fire in the fireplace while John made tea. Together, they sat down in their armchairs and sipped contentedly.
Sherlock played a bit of violin to lull John to sleep. It worked just before dawn peeked from behind the clouds.
He fell asleep playing, his bow slipping from his grasp and plunking onto the floor.
The sound shook John awake, and outside the frosted window, he noted the snow had ceased to fall. But the subtly crackling, dying fire caught his attention, and he drowsily stared at it for a spell.
John's eyes lifted to Sherlock's sleeping form slumped in his armchair. John stood, cracked his back, and paced over to the sleeping man. He draped the plaid blanket from the back of his own armchair around Sherlock and patted his chest very gently. Sherlock inhaled stiffly, but didn't wake. He murmured something in his sleep and his head lolled to the side, nearer to John.
The ex-army doctor smiled and felt himself tip forward. His lips grazed Sherlock's brow before landing amid dark ringlets, and if it constituted as a kiss, John ignored it, because he summed it up to nodding off while standing.
John went to his own bed, then, muttering, "Goodnight, Sherlock," regardless of the sunrise outside the window lighting up the snow with pinks and oranges.
The wetness is blinding
Cold cuts through me
These chills are binding
Heart in a trapdoor lay silent
Moments pass by
Like acts of violence