Rain rolled off of the window, and John watched Sherlock turn to watch it. Streetlights illuminated his face, but only just; only enough to make his eyes glow as they followed a lazy stream of water down the pane.
Their previous argument hung in the air between them, suspended by the things that neither of them said but the other still understood. Insults, mainly. That was mostly John. Of course, he didn't mean them, and he was sure that Sherlock would get him back in one way of another. A hand in the freezer, perhaps. Rows usually ended when one of the friends gave up the silence and went to bed. That, again, was mostly John. But this time it was Sherlock, and he walked by John with a muted chill in his wake. It shook John to his core.
The last of the embers started to flicker and give up, so John put the fire out before trudging up the stairs. He didn't bother with the lights. By the time his sheets settled around his body, John was nearly asleep.
"Do you really think that I'm heartless?"
John didn't open his eyes; he had heard Sherlock open the door. Just like he heard him enter, John heard every breath that Sherlock took, heard when he licked his lips and brushed his fingers together. He heard it all.
There had been a hundred nights in which John had called Sherlock heartless. It was common; and Sherlock normally took it in stride. It was his thing.
"Sherlock, look, I was any-"
"John." His voice was deep; John tensed when Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed. He could smell him.
"What do you want me to say?"
"Do you really think that I am heartless?"
John rolled over and faced his friends. Moonlight danced off of the tips of his fingers while they toyed with the hem of his pants. It occurred to John that Sherlock was clad in nothing but light pajama pants and an under shirt; it was odd to see his friend so… naked, in a sense.
"What does it matter? Being cold is just what you do."
"Am I cold to you?"
John's face heated up; Sherlock's voice was a deep rumbling, teeming with something dark, something that made John's heart skip a beat. Heart in mouth, John told himself not to move when Sherlock's hand started up his arm. Sherlock was not cold; he was warm, little strips of the sun on his fingertips, and John let his hands trail up to his shoulder and around to his neck. When he kissed him, John expected it but forgot to breathe all the same.
His hand tugged at Sherlock's shirt, and he got it in his fists and pulled. It wasn't a struggled. Both of their pulses were through the roof, and Sherlock slipped on top of John, his nose parallel to John's. Through the small space between them, John could taste the sweat on Sherlock's collarbone. In those few moments, in the very space between seconds were devoted to studying the curves in Sherlock's lips, and the minutes used for looking for a new place to kiss him. He had never been so hungry. With a deep gasp from John, Sherlock slid his leg between John's and leaned right down to him, grinding his hips against the other man's. John bit back a moan and concentrated on Sherlock's voice slipping down his neck.
"Again, John," he mumbled. "Do you think I'm cold?"
No space between them now. John dug his nails into Sherlock's back while the younger man bit, hard, into John's neck; he could already feel the bruise forming.
"Is that a no?"
"Kiss me again."
And he did.