John stumbles out of his bedroom wrapped in a warm blanket and wearing a pair of wool socks. He tiptoes down the stairs, tongue between his teeth as he carefully avoids the spots that creak. His effort is likely unnecessary, but if Sherlock is sleeping, the last thing he wants to do is disturb him.
He makes it to the fireplace, and Sherlock is nowhere in sight. The cold has become unbearable; so sharp and biting that John has summoned the energy to crawl out of his welcoming bed and start a fire.
John doesn't know how long he sits there, his mind wandering as his body leans into the warmth of the flames. He glances out the window into the darkness, heart leaping at the sight of the snow drifting from the sky. In the thick, peaceful silence of the night, he allows himself one indulgent moment of nostalgia. The snow, the twinkling lights – they remind him of times spent circled around a fire with a family that was once whole and strong. Of a father with a kind face, not yet made unrecognizable by addiction, and a mother whose eyes sparkled in the candlelight. He remembers the innocence that once shone brightly on his young face, but that has long since been left behind.
John used to believe in so many things.
His eyes drift towards the door of Sherlock's bedroom, and it is as if Sherlock has been waiting for his cue. He emerges, dressing gown askew, and folds himself onto the floor at John's feet. They sit, wrapped in comfortable silence, and stare into the fire.
John suppresses the urge to run his fingers through the inky black hair tickling his knee. He reminds himself that he is not alone.
