A/N- I have no idea where this came from. But it came, and it stayed, and I wrote it. First of three parts.
Sherlock Holmes hates the winter.
In winter, the days are too short. Not that Sherlock stops just because it gets dark, but most other people do. Most other people spend more time occupying their tiny brains with crappy television and filling them with even more tedious junk, and less doing things Sherlock considers worthy of his attention and consideration. He wanders the streets at night, and they feel different. Not bad different, but not good different either. Just different. There are less people; the streets are more lonely, and they feel like they belong to Sherlock, like he's the only person in the world. And that isn't always bad, but it does get rather tedious after a while.
He finds that he has to eat more and sleep more in winter in order to keep his brain working properly, both activities which he considers dull and BOR-ING. And although he prefers to keep himself as desensitised as possible to any kind of temperature change, sometimes the cold gets to him. It makes his body less responsive, stiffer; slower to respond to any command Sherlock gives it or any outside stimuli. His brain slows down, wrapped in a kind of hazy fog that make his deductions slower and facts just that little bit harder to reach. It makes him feel ordinary, and how Sherlock hates feeling ordinary.
He knows that some people (such as his ever-puzzling flatmate) love the snow that falls in winter. But Sherlock has never been able to understand the appeal. It's cold and wet, and makes the streets slippery and everything too cold to touch.
John Watson, on the other hand, John loves the winter.
Winter is cosy, and warm. Winter is woollen jumpers and hot cups of tea.
And how John loves his tea. In winter, John makes pots and pots of tea, loving the way the liquid heats his hands through the ceramic of his Army mug and warms his entire body from the inside out. When everything and everyone around him is shivering with cold, John's cups of tea are his own small taste of paradise in a world of swirling snow and bodies huddled deep into coats for warmth.
Sometimes the cold gets into his bones and makes his shoulder ache, but with a hot water bottle, a thick woollen jumper, and of course another cup of tea, he is soon alright again. He can go out during the day, bundled thickly in his jumper and coat, without feeling uncomfortable, even when their latest case takes Sherlock and John running like madmen through various backstreets, fire escapes and alleyways around the city.
And winter means snow. John has always loved snow, ever since he was little and Harry would take him to the park, and they'd make snowmen and have snowball fights and it was magic. And it's snowing now and he smiles, because snow meant cold fingers and his favourite blue puffy jacket and the never-ending energy of childhood. Now it is memories, contented memories that make him feel safe and happy.
The cold air enters his lungs, giving him a tiny buzz of exhilaration with every breath, and exits them again with a cloud of visible steamy air that had never ceased to amuse John as a child, and even now still makes him smile occasionally. The cold stings his ears, and he loves the feeling of nestling further into his coat and being so warm while everything around him was so cold.