"Mrs. Hudson said it would be nice this weekend," John said miserably, staring out the window of the cottage which shook as heavy droplets of rain pelted it. "Still, it's nice to get London out of your lungs for a few days, isn't it? Sherlock?"
"Not much crime though," he replied, struggling to light the tiny coal fire.
John laughed. "Do you ever take a day off? Actually, don't bother answering."
Sherlock smirked.
The steady beat of the rain drumming on the roof had been the soundtrack of their time since they arrived in the countryside last night, along with Sherlock's attempts to start the stove. John shivered and put the kettle on. "Tea?"
"What? Hmm, yes." Still distracted. "This isn't working, John."
"God, I hope it does by this evening. I was chilly last night."
"You weren't the only one!"
"Sherlock, I struggle to believe that considering you stole all the covers."
"I'm taller than you, John. My larger surface area increases my priority."
"I'm sure it does." John gave up, handing Sherlock a mug. His flatmate reclined in an old armchair with the tea and put his feet up on the coffee table.
John sighed. "I'm putting another jumper on."
Sherlock laughed to himself. "I could push you over and you wouldn't feel a thing for all the padding."
Moments later the cottage was immersed in darkness as the lights went. John emerged from the bedroom, pulling a blue and red Christmas jumper over his head.
"Oh great, the electricity's gone," he muttered.
"Good deduction." Sherlock took another sip.
"Sod it; let's go to the pub for a meal."
Surprisingly Sherlock agreed quicker than his friend anticipated, and donned his long coat. John shrugged on his Barbour jacket and tugged on his wellingtons.
As Sherlock pulled open the front door an icy blast blew through the room, the edge of the doormat darkening with each blow from the storm. "Come along, John." Sherlock turned up the collars of his jacket as they stepped out and braved the cold.
"Oh god." John pulled his jacket closer to his body.
The sky above them was dark, stretching out until the edge of the world. The potholes in the lane were filling with water which bounced off the surfaces of puddles, and the ground underfoot became slippery with wet mud. They walked together along the track until Sherlock subtly slipped his hand into John's.
An electric surge flowed along John's arm like warm butterscotch pouring into his heart, bringing the feeling of warmth back to his soaking body. He didn't say anything though: he wanted to maintain the delicacy that Sherlock had initiated.
They continued hand-in-hand, engrossed in peace and self-indulgence for some time more. Finally the road forked and John broke the silence. "Well?"
"Hmm..." he thought for a moment; only a moment, before deciding. "Left."
"If you say so." John followed his flatmate along as the rain relentlessly attacked them, accepting no surrenders.
Soon though Sherlock's pace began to slow; he glanced around.
"What is it?"
"This doesn't seem right."
John could have laughed. "The great Sherlock Holmes has got us lost!"
"Yes, alright, leave it out. Which way did we come last night when we arrived?"
"I don't remember! It was pitch black." John retorted.
Sherlock sighed and opened his mouth to say something but John spoke first. "Yes, Sher, I'm an idiot. Please don't feel the need to remind me once more. But can I remind you who got us lost in the first place?"
"I don't think that's really necessary. Like you said, it was dark last night."
John smiled to himself. Sherlock Holmes: the man of mystery and knowledge, lost in the middle of nowhere with him.
"Let's just retrace our steps and head in the other direction," Sherlock suggested and they did just so.
They approached the split in the road once again and John could not help but laugh out loud.
"What is it?"
"Oh, it's nothing, Sherlock. It's just that signpost there." John pointed up to a fading sign with the words 'WHISHAW 1 MILES' which was almost completely obliterated by the persistence of the storm.
Sherlock smiled tightly. "Well, that's impossible to see!"
John laughed out loud. "You've outdone yourself tonight, Sher."
"I didn't see you noticing anyway," the detective huffed.
John put his head on Sherlock's shoulder, wrapping his arms around him. "God, you're attractive when you're wrong."
"Oh, shut up, John!" Sherlock smirked resting his chin on top of John's dripping hair. The army doctor's muffled laugh was barely heard by Sherlock over the sound of the downpour.
They remained like that for several tender minutes. If anyone had walked by then they would have seen two people sharing such a moment of mutual love that one could not help but smile at the beauty and frailty of it. But no one did walk past. The lane was empty bar these two men, holding each other against the storm.
"Come on, Sher," John said finally. "I'm starving."
The wave of warmth from the log fire struck them first as they stumbled through the door of The Horseshoe Inn. They made their way to a table near the fireplace and collapsed in the chairs.
"I'll be ready for my bed tonight," John remarked, taking off his soaking jacket and hanging it round the back of his chair.
"I bet you will." Sherlock smirked. "Snoring away."
"At least I don't take up the whole bed," John retorted. "I might sleep on the couch tonight..."
"Is it not a bit cold for that?" the detective hinted. "Especially if the fire doesn't start."
"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," John teased, picking up the menu.
Sherlock smiled slightly, and the two let the evening wash over them in a blur of bliss and contentment.