Summary: It's cold at a crime scene and John has no sweater. What does Sherlock do? Fluffy fic.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC or any of its characters. Sadly. *sobs*
Warnings: Not really any warnings, except it's mildly slashy. *winces*
Author's Note:Okay, alright. This was meant to be a simple Sherlock and John fluff fic but in the end it sort of ran away from me (as usual) and became a... Johnlock fluff fic instead. And it *might* be kind of stretching the genre of 'Humor/Friendship' that I put this story under but gosh, I just can't put it under 'Romance', okay? I just can't! *breaks into sniffles* Okay, so if any of you readers actually read my profile you'd know that I said that I don't write slash fics but... Oh gosh I don't know what came over me. I got possessed by the Johnlock ship and er, well... This fic just came out the way it is. For Johnlock shippers, rejoice! For non-shippers, well, I'm terribly sorry but I guess if you close one eye... Anyway, enough of spilling my guilt and the likes.
On with the story, my dear readers!
I'll Keep You Warm
John hugged himself, rubbing either side of his arms with his hands. It was awfully cold and he hadn't brought his sweater, thanks to one utterly brilliant genius of a flat mate.
(He didn't even know what he was doing, standing by a dead body with his mad flat mate and several police officers at such an ungodly hour. For God's sake, the sun wasn't even up yet!)
He had been unceremoniously awakened and dragged out of the flat by Sherlock at (a quick glance at the clock had told him) 2.34 a.m. He had barely been able to pull on his socks and shoes when his flat mate all but dragged him out of the flat, ranting about murders, idiotic Scotland Yard officers and unreasonably slow flat mates.
(Well, sorry, but at least someone in the flat needed sleep and actually had sleeping habits like a normal person which obviously did not include being woken up at 2.34a.m. in the morning!)
So now here he was, freezing his arse off at a crime scene, feeling utterly miserable as he watched Sherlock flit about from here to there like a butterfly.
(Wait, back up, did he just liken Sherlock Holmes to a butterfly? He must be more sleep deprived than he thought.)
John had more or less resorted to hopping about like a rather demented chicken to keep himself warm when his flat mate finally straightened up from his examination of the body and from the stony expression on his face, he could tell that Sherlock was less than happy. Why, though, he wasn't quite so sure.
(Come on, Sherlock. Surely you're not going to let me freeze to death while you a) insult Scotland Yard's officers for their incompetence (again), b) rant about the idiocy of criminals who left obvious clues behind or c) rattle off various obscure details and continue being oblivious to the blasted cold in that coat of yours!)
John tried to convey all of that in one intense (he hoped) stare. He thought it had failed when Sherlock opened those lips of his, presumably to rattle off whatever deductions he had discerned.
However, it seemed that was not quite what Sherlock had in mind.
"John, come here for a bit."
John shot him a startled look but complied rather grumpily after a moment's hesitation.
(Probably getting the opinion of a 'professional', as he called it. Seriously, did that git actually bother if he froze to death or not? Sometimes it really seemed like he was just around to pay the other half of the rent and to watch over this adorably mad genius of a man so he didn't do harm to himself and/or others.)
Well, to say that he was rather shocked would have been an understatement; he felt a pair of lanky arms snake around him, holding him tight as the ends of the great swirling coat encircled his body just when he stopped several feet in front of Sherlock, preparing to bend down to examine the body.
(How the hell did he manage to get so close to him anyway? John's brain gave an undignified squeak.)
His first thought that came to him was that what he was feeling now ohgodyes was most certainly utter, simple, wonderful bliss.
His second thought was that he most certainly wasn't gay, despite how this might seem to onlooking observers.
He tried to pull away (though not really putting any heart into the action), "Sherlock, what –"
He felt, rather than heard, a huff of annoyance as Sherlock pulled him closer, his chin resting lightly on his head of sandy blonde hair.
A soft exhale of warm breath caressed his hair and he sighed slightly in contentment, much to his dismay and mortification (which of course, came much later).
"Don't be daft, John. You're obviously feeling cold, due to your lack of a sweater and my coat is big enough for two to share."
(It was actually because of Sherlock's utter impatience and lack of observance for things he didn't look out for in general that he forgot to bring a sweater in the first place. Despite how he desperately tried to grasp at the last straws of anger at his flat mate, he found that instead of hot, boiling rage, a warm fluttery feeling was occupying his stomach and apparently not deciding on leaving any time soon.)
"Well, erm, thanks, I suppose. But ah, don't you have a body to examine?"
(If he awkwardly wrapped his arms around his flat mate's torso under the folds of the great black coat, nobody had to know.)
Sherlock hummed slightly in acquiescence, murmuring something along the lines of "I am examining" as he nuzzled his chin slightly into John's hair.
John felt heat steadily rising in his cheeks at the implication and tried desperately to ignore what must be shell-shocked looks from Scotland Yard's finest boring into his back. But try as he might, he just couldn't bring himself to feel horrified. Embarrassed, yes. Flattered? Somewhat. But horrified? God no. This was his flat mate and best friend they were talking about. To find out that someone as beautifully imperfect (perfect) as Sherlock Holmes cared about him enough to share his coat with him at a crime scene? Definitely flattered.
He cleared his throat, ready to remind his friend that he should be examining the dead body and helping the incompetent police (Sherlock's words, not his) with their investigation and not cuddling – er, providing his flat mate with warmth. Not that he minded. Much.
But a certain Detective Inspector certainly seemed to mind a good deal about cuddling – er, sharing body warmth at his crime scene, especially if said parties included the consulting detective meant to be investigating said crime, because he cut in before John had a chance to speak, "Oi, you two! Sherlock, can you at least finish examining the dead body before jumping your flat mate?"
At this, John felt his face burn hotly and he cringed.
(So much for his 'I'm-not-gay' and 'I'm-most-certainly-not-attracted-to-my-very-attractive-flat-mate' rants. Oh sod it, it wasn't like anyone actually ever listened to his adamant denials ever since he moved in with Sherlock.)
He felt a deep sigh rumble through Sherlock's chest, then heard his baritone voice from above his head snarl, "I already did. And if anyone of you were nearly competent or observant enough, you would have realized that this is a case of suicide and have, also, just effectively wasted our time."
(John felt a curious fluttery feeling when he realised that Sherlock had said 'our' instead of 'his'.)
It took him a few moments for him to make out what his flat mate was saying as he was still caught up on replaying his last sentence over and over again in his head. Sherlock was apparently bombarding the stunned officers and a quietly exasperated Lestrade with his rapid-fire deductions.
"—and so, if you had even bothered to look at the angle of the wounds and the possible reasons and motives, it would have been obvious that the cuts were self-inflicted. A simple and dull case of suicide. Now, if you have no other reason to waste any more of our time, we'll be leaving now."
John wasn't sure who pulled away first but moments later, they were a safe distance away from each other once more. He rubbed absently at his arms, all too aware of the cold air against his body once more without Sherlock and his coat. Donovan and Anderson were still gaping at them like fish out of water, eyes wide and jaws slack. He would have laughed if he weren't quite so embarrassed (and giddy and light-hearted).
He imagined he would have appeared to be in a similar state when the warm, familiar-scented weight that was Sherlock's coat settled snugly over his shoulders.
(He felt oddly touched. After all, his coat was a part of Sherlock and that he was willing to give that up for him, not to mention the cold… John's stomach did another curious little flip.)
He glanced up, wide-eyed, at his flat mate. Sherlock merely offered him a faint smile, amusement (and was that affection, or was he simply imagining things?) dancing in his blue-grey-green eyes.
(Perhaps getting dragged out of the flat at 2.34a.m. in the morning wasn't quite all that bad after all.)
He shuffled forward slightly, gingerly, reverently even, taking one end of the coat and draping it over Sherlock's shoulder such that it enveloped them both in one black, warm cocoon.
"The coat's big enough for two," John said by way of explanation as Sherlock stared at him, lips parted slightly in surprise.
(It was utterly worth it to see Sherlock's surprised expression melt into a soft smile. A smile John would like to think was now for him and him alone.)
Oh my. The ending is kind of a bit too... Johnlock. Alright, so I apologise to non-shippers. Anyway, I hope this passes off as some nice fluff for anyone who's out there prowling and hunting for fluff fics. Well, I would know simply because I spend some time finding good fluff fics myself. Suggestions, anyone? Anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this fic and I hope you liked it! Don't forget to review:)
Cheers,
Rainflower