Final fic of the day! This will be the only story in Jumpers and Scarves that will have more than one chapter. The next one will be posted Monday I think.

I originally began writing this ages ago to submit to gaytectives on tumblr. She was having a bad day and was requesting fluffy fics to feel better. I submitted Umbrellas (the original version) and then started writing this. I only just got it typed up. I'll submit this to her because I promised it to her so long ago. She deserves to finally get it.

There is alcohol involved in this fic, but no one is taken advantage of in their inebriated state. It's just fluff and some sexual tension and feels.

Enjoy!

'Not exactly how I wanted to spend your birthday,' John shuddered. He wrapped his blanket tighter around himself when his teeth began to chatter. Sherlock eyed John carefully, making sure not to stare at him for too long. John didn't like it when he stared too long.

'It's… fine,' Sherlock said slowly. 'It's been a better birthday than a majority of the ones previous.'

'Wow. I'm sorry to hear that,' John said softly. He took his blanket-covered hands and rubbed warmth into his cheeks.

'As I said, it's fine. I'm not one for celebrating the day of anyone's birth, let alone my own.'

'Still, I'm sorry you consider this a good birthday.' John covered the bottom half of his face with his blanket, rubbing at his nose.

Of course this is a good birthday, Sherlock frowned. You're here.

'Of course, it could have been worse,' John continued, failing to notice Sherlock's frown.

'Yes. What could be worse than the heat malfunctioning on the coldest day of winter so far?' Sherlock spat, shivering despite being wrapped in a cocoon of blankets in front of the fire. 'Tell me, John, what could possibly be worse than this?'

'It's just an expression, Sherlock. It wasn't meant to be taken seriously,' John murmured, burying his head in his blanket.

The heating had died almost an hour ago. Mrs Hudson was out thankfully, and both Sherlock and John were too stubborn to try to fix it themselves. And with the blizzard outside a repairman wouldn't be able to arrive until the storm calmed and the roads were plowed. John had managed to start a fire before the cold set in, grabbed blankets off their beds, and had pushed the sofa in front of the fire instead of their chairs. The sofa had more wiggle room and was more comfortable anyway.

'John, you know I don't understand your sarcastic or rhetorical questions,' Sherlock said, pouting.

'Sherlock, you've known me for the better part of a year, excluding the three years you were out dismantling Moriarty's web of criminals. You should be used to my idiosyncrasies by now.'

'Well, obviously I'm not.'

'Obviously.'

Sherlock turned back to the fire, shaking visibly beneath his blankets. John poked his head out from his blankets, noticed Sherlock's shaking, and sighed. He stood up, still wrapped in his blankets, and padded into the kitchen. He pulled out two mugs and a large bottle of whisky out of the cupboards. He set the mugs on the counter and poured a generous amount of whisky into both of them.

'Here. Drink this,' he instructed, offering Sherlock a mug. 'It will warm you up.'

'I know all about the warming effects of alcohol, John,' Sherlock sighed, taking the mug. He sniffed at the whisky and wrinkled his nose. 'And you also know I'm not much of a drinker. I'll probably be pissed after I finish this.'

'You won't be pissed,' John said, sipping at his own mug of whisky. 'If anything you'll be buzzed, but you won't be pissed.'

Sherlock frowned slightly but sipped at his whisky nonetheless. It burned his tongue and throat, but it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. He continued to sip at his drink, watching as John took large swallows of his. He tracked the movement of John's Adam's apple as he swallowed, watching it rise and fall as he drank. He blushed when John caught him, but the smaller man just smiled.

'Feeling any warmer?' he asked, drinking the rest of the whisky that remained in his mug.

'I suppose,' Sherlock muttered. 'My cheeks feel hot.'

'That's a good start,' John said, chuckling. He stood and poured himself some more whisky, plopping down beside Sherlock with a wide grin.

'At this rate you'll be the one who's pissed,' Sherlock said with a smirk, sipping at his drink.

'So what if I am?' John grinned. 'I'm allowed to get pissed on my best mate's birthday, aren't I?'

'I suppose you are.' Sherlock smiled, taking a larger sip of his whisky. 'And, since it's my birthday, I suppose I am to, right?'

'Of course,' John said, smiling brightly. 'The birthday boy is allowed to do whatever he wants.'

'Good.' Sherlock gulped down the rest of his drink. 'I want more.'

'No problem.' John stood and ambled his way back to the kitchen, pouring more whisky in Sherlock's mug. He brought the bottle back with him, sitting it on the floor between their feet.

'Might as well,' John said nonchalantly. 'If we're going to be getting pissed I don't want to have to get up and stumble around in order to get more.'

'Understandable,' Sherlock agreed. He brought his mug up to his lips and swallowed his drink in large gulps. It burned, but it felt good. He was beginning to warm up from the inside out. He could feel his chest and the back of his neck heating up.

'Starting to feel good there, Lock?' John questioned, swallowing a mouthful of his own whisky.

'I... don't know,' Sherlock said slowly. 'I'm fuzzy. Am I supposed to feel fuzzy?'

'It's the alcohol,' John assured him. 'Because you're not a drinker it will affect you faster. Try not to drink so quickly.'

Sherlock shrugged, taking a large gulp of his drink. He didn't care if he got pissed. It was his birthday. And John had said he could do whatever he wanted on his birthday.

'Can we play a game?' he asked softly, sipping at what remained of his drink slowly.

'A game?' John asked, raising an eyebrow. 'What kind of game?'

'One of those drinking games you're so fond of,' Sherlock stated. 'I want to get good and thoroughly pissed on my birthday.'

'You want to play a drinking game?' John asked incredulously. 'Seriously?'

'Yes. Is that so hard to believe?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking down at John.

'Well, a little,' John admitted. 'But, seeing as you're already affected by the alcohol, not so much. Any game in particular that you want to play?'

'I don't know any.' Sherlock shrugged, polishing off the contents of his mug. 'Not a drinker, remember? You choose.'

'OK.' John grinned cheekily. 'Just be warned: I won't go easy on you simply because you're a lightweight.'

'Bring it on, Watson.' Sherlock grinned right back at John.

'Oh, I plan to.' John stood and grabbed his laptop, doing a quick search for popular drinking games. The Harry Potter ones were too brutal, they'd be pissed within the first ten minutes of the films, the games involving cards were too complicated, and beer pong was out of the question. He skimmed through hundreds of games, most of them the same with only a few variations between them.

'John! You're taking too long!' Sherlock complained after John had been searching for ten minutes.

'There are too many to choose from!' John said exasperatedly.

'Then make one up!' Sherlock groaned. 'Bored!'

'You make one up if you're so bored!'

'Fine! I will!' Sherlock shut his eyes and instantly fell into his thinking pose, his hands clasped by his mouth almost in prayer. John poured himself another drink, finishing it just as Sherlock's eyes popped open and a wide grin spread across his face.

'Oh dear.' John smirked. 'You look a little devious. Should I be worried?'

'Oh yes, dear Watson.' Sherlock turned to John and smirked smugly. 'You should be very worried.'

'Bring it on, Holmes. What's the game?'

'Gimme the bottle.'

'Please tell me that isn't the game.'

'No, John, it's not.'

'Good.' He handed Sherlock the bottle.

'Mug,' Sherlock said, pointing to John's empty mug. John passed that over as well. Sherlock filled their mugs to the brim, giving John's back to him. He set the bottle on the flood and smiled up at John.

'Rules,' he said slowly. 'Drink as fast as you can without spilling any. Whoever finishes first gets to ask the loser anything. Or they get to do something to the loser.'

'And by "do something" you mean...?' John asked.

'Well, for example, if you win you would be allowed to pet my hair if you so wished,' Sherlock explained. 'And, if I won, I would be able to examine your scar, if I so chose.'

John thought about that for a moment. It didn't sound like a bad game at all. And he'd be able to ask some questions he'd been curious about since the mooning incident. And just maybe he'd be able to run his hands through those luscious curls of Sherlock's. Did he just use the word luscious to describe his flatmate's curls? He had enough alcohol in his system that he didn't care all that much if he did.

'Alright,' he finally agreed. 'You've got yourself a game.'

'Prepare yourself for a slew of questions Doctor Watson,' Sherlock said with a smirk.

'Oh no, Mr Holmes,' John laughed. 'You prepare yourself for a slew of actions you'll be powerless to stop.'

'On three?' Sherlock asked, raising his mug to his lips.

'On three,' John agreed, raising his own mug.

'One.' Sherlock smirked, already sipping his drink.

'Two.' John scowled. Cheater.

No one had to say three. They started chugging their drunks almost simultaneously. Most of Sherlock's slipped onto his shirt, but John swallowed his with ease. He finished his and swallowed with a loud 'ah,' slamming his mug down on the desk behind him.

'Ha! I win!' he declared triumphantly. Sherlock set his barely half empty mug aside and frowned.

'OK, fine.' Sherlock glowered at John. 'What do you want to know?'

'Hmmm,' John hummed, tapping his fingers against his chin in mock thought. He grinned over at Sherlock and moved forward. 'I don't have a question. I'm going to run my fingers through your hair for sixty seconds and you won't be able to protest.'

'How very creative,' Sherlock scoffed. 'Using my example.'

'You're the one who put the idea in my head. Now shut up.' John ran his fingers from Sherlock's forehead through the hair at the top of his scalp. It was a lot softer than he expected. Almost bouncy even. John knew Sherlock would be counting the seconds, but John wanted to explore. He moved his hands to the sides of Sherlock's head, scratching his scalp. He heard Sherlock hum, the younger man pressing into his touch. John ventured down to the base of Sherlock's skull, pulling on the small hairs there. Sherlock gasped and his mouth fell open. He pulled forward, silently begging John to do it again. John did, and Sherlock's hissed in pleasure, his hips jumping slightly.

Sixty seconds came and went, neither man mentioning it as that would mean the hair pulling would have to stop. John experimented with the force and angle of his tugs, noting that Sherlock preferred to be tugged harshly and to his left. those tugs always made his hips jump and soft moans escape from his lips. John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock was now sporting a raging hard-on after all the hair pulling.

'John,' Sherlock gasped, opening his eyes and staring into John's. John pulled one last time, causing Sherlock to moan loudly and thrust his hips sharply. John removed his hands, breaking their connection and the moment. Sherlock whimpered at the loss of contact, pleading with his eyes for John to continue. John didn't see. He was reaching back for his empty mug, pouring more whisky into it and filling Sherlock's as well.

'Come on,' he said softly. 'Game time.' He raised his mug to his lips, Sherlock following suit. They didn't even need to count that time. They just started drinking. It had been an awkward and intense moment; a drink was definitely needed.

John finished first again. Sherlock scowled but had drank more than the last time at least.

'I wanna know somefin,' John slurred, his mug dangling dangerously from his fingertips. 'I wanna know... 'ave ya eva been in love?'

Sherlock paled. Did John know? No. He didn't look like a man fishing for answers. He was pissed and genuinely wanted to know. So Sherlock told him.

'Yes. Once. But I don't think I would call it love as I'm not sure if the person of my affections shares the same emotions towards me.'

'I'm sorry,' John said softly. 'That sucks. Have you ever tried telling that person how you feel?'

'Yes. Many times. But I lose my nerve every time.' John frowned and clasped Sherlock's wrist, his drunk brain attempting to comfort his flatmate.

'Enough of this sentiment,' Sherlock said, wrenching his wrist away. 'More whisky. We'll finish the bottle.' John poured the whisky with a shaky hand, sloshing just a bit over the rim of his mug.

'Iz almost gone 'nyway,' he mumbled. 'Ready?'

'Go.' Sherlock began guzzling his drink quickly. He needed to win because he needed to tell John the truth. And John looked like he was close to passing out. No. Sherlock wouldn't allow that. Because if John passed out then John would forget. Sherlock didn't want John to forget. He finished his drink and set his mug on the floor. He took John's from him and set it down as well. John looked up at Sherlock and smiled drunkenly.

'Wha do ya wanna know?' he asked.

'I don't want to ask something of you,' Sherlock said, swallowing audibly. 'I want you to listen because I'm about to tell you something very personal.'

'OK,' John said, attempting to sit up. 'Wha do ya wanna tell me?'

'The person I'm in love with... is you.' Sherlock felt his whole world stop as he finally said that words that had been plaguing him since John had started speaking to him after the naked bum incident. He quickly continued before John could interrupt.

'I have done extensive research on the subject, so don't think I don't know what I'm talking about. When these feelings first emerged I mistook them for simple sentiment. I enjoyed watching you putter about the flat, cleaning, decorating for holidays, cooking, even pacing when you were nervous or lecturing me. I was beginning to enjoy the boring and mundane everyday things you did. I told myself was because you were my friend. Friends enjoy the things their friends do, right? But then I began constantly craving your company. I wanted you by my side at all times. I ruined your dates because I wanted you to spend your time with me. Not them. Me. I was jealous, overprotective, and possessive. That was when I realised something was wrong. This wasn't just sentiment anymore. This was a lot stronger than sentiment. So, the research began. There were so many books and websites, and most of them were all idiotic and unhelpful. But they all had the same advice: "Listen to your heart." At first I thought it was completely idiotic. My heart didn't have a voice, so it couldn't talk. How on earth would it be able to tell me what the hell I was feeling? But after a while I noticed a pattern. Each time you were near, my heart would beat faster, my chest would feel tight, and I would have trouble thinking. You, John Watson, are able to shut off my brain like nothing else. Better than any drug or even this alcohol. You, John Watson, are the ultimate distraction. But my feelings run deeper than that. I don't love you simply because you're a fantastic distraction. I love you because you have a beautiful heart, you have fantastic bedside manner, you're kind and smart and you're a very handsome man. But the main reason I love you is this: you don't "tolerate" me, you don't "put up" with me, you genuinely enjoy being around me even though I test your patience constantly. You, John Watson, like me for who I am. You don't call me a freak, and I can never thank you enough for that. Instead, you compliment me, praise me, and tell me I'm good. You have made me want to be a better man, for you, for myself, for the Yard, even for the victims and their families. You have changed me for the better, John. And I love you so much for it.'

John stared at Sherlock as he spoke. His brain may have been muddled by alcohol, but he could hear Sherlock clearly. His words bounced around in his heads, the words 'I love you' at the forefront of his mind. He wanted to tell Sherlock he felt the same. That his time of silence had been so he could figure out his feelings for him and see if they were genuine or just infatuation. But he couldn't voice them even if he tried. His tongue just wasn't cooperating.

'I'm too drunk for this,' he said instead. Sherlock's face fell.

'Of course,' the younger man scoffed. 'I finally get the courage to tell you how I feel and you won't even remember it in the morning.'

'No. No, I don't forget,' John assured him. 'Neva been a blackout drunk and I dun wanna start now.' He blinked and righted himself. When had he started weaving? 'I do wanna sleep though.'

'Oh. OK. Shall I help you to your room?' Sherlock asked. He moved to stand but John grabbed his wrist tight. John couldn't allow Sherlock to leave.

'No. Here's good. Here, with you, and the fire and the blankets.' John pushed Sherlock back against the sofa and crawled over him.

'John? Are you sure?' Sherlock asked, gulping loudly.

'Yeah. Wanna stay warm. You're warm.' John settled against Sherlock's chest, drawing the blankets around them.

'Uh... OK.' Sherlock settled along the sofa, stretching out as far as he could. John was already asleep on his chest, snoring softly. Sherlock pet his hair gently, relaxing as he too began to fall asleep.

'I love you, John,' he mumbled before his eyes closed and sleep took him.

Chapter one done. Chapter two comes Monday. I'll be writing it over the weekend when I'm not editing the final chapters for Faith, Trust, and Pixie Dust. Also FOUR DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS! I have the sneaking suspicion my mom bought me a signed Benedict photo because she got an envelope from the UK and wouldn't let me see it. My brother also knows what my ULTIMATE GIFT THAT IS SO AMAZING I'LL SCREAM is. I GETTING SICK OF THE WAITING AND IT IS TAKING TOO LONG.

Sorry.

See you all Monday!

~TSA