A/N: I've recently started watching the Sherlock series and have watched the first season on Netflix. A friend of mine also likes the series and has request a fiction containing themes of snow, a visit from Lestrade, and John's old shoulder wound bothering him in the cold. The story ended up 3,457 words, even though no word limit had really been set. I'm still rather proud. I've never written for this fandom before and have only seen the first season and so where and when this takes place is a little bit floating. I'm hoping I captured the character's well. They're rather deep and complex on their own and so I hope I did them justice. A review would be nice about anything that you, as a reader, might have had a problem with. Also, let me warn that it is suggested SherlockxJohn without being gratuitous. So if you really don't like that kind of thing you can interpret it as a close friendship, I left it very open ended for that reason.

Now let's get on with this story.

###

Gratitude in Small Things:

"It's Lestrade. I've been summoned." What a common sound that was, vibrating through 221b Baker Street following the painfully harsh ringing of Sherlock's phone. One would think, with the ability to customize a ring tone, Sherlock would have something other than the ear-grating sound of antique landline bells. Then again, something so antiquated and familiar would be very much in Sherlock's modus operandi. John Watson rolled his eyes. He'd just come in and had been a second from hanging his coat back up. … Apparently that wouldn't be happening… Neither would the nap or the hot bath or the pot of tea. But, he couldn't be begrudging of Sherlock. It'd been a matter of weeks without a call from Lestrade or a case that had been of interest to the high-functioning sociopath and John, for one, was glad that Sherlock, at least for a short spell, wouldn't be bored and wreaking havoc around their flat. John was certain that only someone as brilliantly dense as Sherlock Holmes could go on continuing to ignore his obvious affections. After all, any other human being would have long sense tired of patching wall paper and nursing fragile psyches and even preparing dinners and hot baths for a very bored and very destructive police consultant. It was only these affections and Sherlock's fragile ego that kept him from sharing with the world that he felt, sometimes, his flat-mate could be worse than an unruly child.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson, Goodbye Mrs. Hudson." Holmes addressed his landlady on the steps as he tied his scarf, John at his heel trying to keep up with him.

"Caution boys," she cooed. "There's an icy patch on the step." But it seemed only John had been paying attention. Sherlock was flying out the door and had John not been right behind him the brilliant mind might have made a brilliantly ungraceful fall to crash brilliantly into the step.

"Ice, Sherlock." John winced, his arms wrapped around the middle of a somewhat surprised Holmes.

"Yes. Quite. Worse than I suspected."

"You didn't suspect anything about the ice, you weren't paying attention to Mrs. Hudson, as per usual." He muttered. "Now let's get on, I'm going to freeze to death out here." Gingerly he assisted his friend off the step.

"You've hurt yourself catching me." Sherlock observed.

"No, I'm fine let's get on."

"The subtle movement of your facial muscles when you move your left arm suggest otherwise John." Was the monotonous expression as he fell into step beside John, who was hailing a cab with his right arm.

"No. Sherlock. I didn't get hurt on the steps. It's just my shoulder. With this sudden chill coming on and with us getting a foot of snow just since yesterday morning? The old wound is starting to act up on me. There's really nothing that can be done for it, it's just going to bother me when I'm cold I suspect. The thing for it will be a hot bath later if we can wrap this up quickly."

"Ah." Was the response he received, slight tilt of the head, and an expression of understanding; Sherlock was not one for gratuitous worrying. Caring for someone didn't help them. But one thing Sherlock was aware of was that there was a stubborn streak in John Watson. If he was hurt, he might just soldier on. It was best to confirm with origin of his apparent pain. This was probably the highest level of unnecessary compassion he could expressed over something as small as him landing on his flat-mate… He knew John could be easily disappointed in him when he didn't care so he was making a conceited effort of trying to care… it didn't always work. Sometimes he couldn't bring himself to see the reason to. John just seemed to care so much about others… but never enough about himself. Despite Sherlock's inability to see the use of it, he still had a degree of appreciation and admiration for John's ability to feel past himself. And in his own way he was grateful for John's ability to feel for him. Any normal person would have grown tired of patching wallpaper and drawing hot baths and preparing meals for someone who outwardly seemed as ungrateful as the police consultant was. He did his best to respond with understanding; pretending like he didn't already know the cause of John favoring his other shoulder. It would give his flat-mate the chance to explain something to him for once. Unnecessary, but a courtesy he was willing to give the ex-soldier for being so kind as to catch him in a somewhat ungraceful moment.

######

It had been a rather mundane case. It was suspicious that a woman in her early thirties with no previous health problems and who made a hobby out of athletics that require a healthy heart should suddenly die in the night, beside her husband of eight years, of a massive heart attack. Sherlock, being himself, had quickly deduced that it'd been the husband. Somehow he'd found a way to introduce into her system a chemical that had caused a reaction that would appear like a heart attack. Normally John would have been wrapped up in Sherlock's deductions, but he'd found it to be rather mundane himself. Sherlock seemed incredibly disappointed that it wasn't something more challenging and so he had spent the entire cab ride home brooding. Silent. John was sure that if the taller was capable of such expression he'd have been blatantly pouting.

They returned to find Mrs. Hudson gingerly trying to get down the step from the door without sliding on the one step with the icy patch… which seemed to have grown in their hours away while the temperature dropped even further to encompass the entire step. She seemed to be having a time of it, considering the boots she was wearing were meant more for fashion than function and had on them a heel.

"Here, let me help you Mrs. Hudson." John automatically offered, ignoring his shoulder and helping their kindly land lady down.

"Oh, thank you, what a dear you are. All this snow coming on so sudden, I don't have the proper boots. And my galoshes are just all worn out. I'm off to buy a new pair for myself. And, I was thinking, while I was out, what color yarn should I buy?"

"Y-Yarn?" John inquired.

"She knits, John. She wants to know your favorite colors so she can make a scarf for you as a Christmas gift." Deadpanned Sherlock, stepping around the two in order to enter the flat.

"Oh what a present-surprise spoiler you are." She shook a finger as he passed. "That's why you're getting mittens this year to match the scarf you already wear."

Holmes' head popped through the door.

"I don't wear mittens Mrs. Hudson. Goodnight." The door shut again.

"Well you're getting them anyway." She nodded, turning to give John a smile. "Case not go over well?"

"It was too easy for him."

"Oh, the poor darling. I shouldn't have been so sore to'em then. I'll pick up some ingredients and make you boys some crumpets for later."

"That's very kind, thank you Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, it's no problem Dearest, but it'll be just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeep." She giggled as she parted ways with him, hailing a cab to head out shopping. John smiled. She said that a lot.

Now that he was alone outside, however, he took notice of the condition of their door and step. The snow had just piled up around it since the morning before, and during the day the temperature had only gone up enough to melt the snow slightly, letting the icicles on the roof drip down over the step, before plummeting back down to its current level of nostril binding cold. Perfect conditions to cake ice over an unsalted step. He sighed, his breath hallowing around his head before digging around for his gloves.

###

Sherlock was now preoccupying himself, curled up in his chair, watching the crap television that John had assisted in addicting him to. "What asinine garbage." He mused, particularly of the behavior of the young adults (they couldn't possibly be much younger than himself if he dared to call them young adults… they were more like adults acting quite immaturely) on the tele. Even worse was that it was false advertising. This was supposed to be 'reality television' or it was at least the implied promise of the genre, but it was clear from subtle indicators that half of the behaviors of the people portrayed were roles.

But, of course his binge of crappy television was interrupted by none other than Mrs. Hudson. Oh, about an hour had passed, hadn't it?

"Sherlock, Dearest?" She inquired. "I think perhaps you should see this." She motioned with her hand to come to the window overlooking the street. He rolled his eyes, surly this was some Christmas lights display that must seemed of interest to her, but would surely be of no interest to him.

But what he saw was a little interesting. Right below them was John, huffing and puffing away, as he moved shovels full (where ever did he find that shovel?) of snow from away from the step, and even going so far as to bang the edge of said shovel against the step. He was trying to beat some of the built up ice off.

"I came in passed him, said he'd been out there doing it since I left."

"I didn't even notice that he hadn't come in." Sherlock added, continuing to peer down at John, watching him struggle a little and treat his sore shoulder gingerly. It wasn't reasonable to be doing that kind of labor with a sore shoulder. Shoveling snow and beating ice was a job that toiled heavily on one's back… What was John doing playing around out there and shoveling when he was sore? Was he really that stupid?

He pulled his coat on over his shoulders and stepped briskly down to the door, pulling it open. "John, for heaven's sake what are you doing?" He questioned.

The doctor paused in his motion, red faced from the cold and work, obvious that his nose had been running a little, coat unzipped from the work causing his body temperature to climb.

"Well, I'm bloody doing what it looks like, shoveling the snow and trying to get the bloody glacier off the step so I can put some rock salt down on it before you or Mrs. Hudson take a dive and crack your skulls open." He rolled his eyes, having to lift this shovel full of snow higher, straining his shoulder more, in order to get it up onto the two piles he had created beside the steps. There wasn't a yard or much of anywhere else for the snow to go. He couldn't leave it on the step or push it into the road, just wasn't an option. So, to big pillars of snow pushed up beside the door served as monolithic-esc structures framing their entrance to and from the warm confines of the building.

"You needn't, your shoulder is bothering you from the cold and if you stay out here longer the muscles will become stiffer and be more painful."

"I'm aware of this, my back is bloody killing me. But-"

"But you're being stubborn."

"But I'm just trying to finish the job. Now, head back inside, the sooner I finish the sooner I'll be in."

Sherlock didn't seem overly convinced. And John was certain that his flat-mate was trying to understand the rational that finishing a job like shoveling snow would be more rewarding as relieving oneself of the pain from the cold. "I promise." John added. This seemed to appease Sherlock, at least enough, and the consultant turned on his heels and returned to the flat; no longer distracting John from finishing his task. Though, he was a little disappointed that Sherlock, once again, didn't seem to appreciate the things he did around the building. If he logically couldn't see the value in it, he didn't see why John should either. But the doctor resolved to let it go. He would finish the job, head in, have a hot cup of tea and maybe have a nap. That would be lovely at least.

However, what he found when he returned to the flat was a cup of hot tea already sitting on the table for him beside a note which read;

"The tea is how I have observed you making for yourself. However, we were out of lemons. You need to buy some. I do not take lemon in my tea, but I found lime juice of which there is exactly 1 teaspoon's amount in your cup. Perhaps that will suffice for now. As well, you will find a hot bath has been run and I am nowhere to be found. Do not fear for my safety, though I am in grave danger. I am at Mrs. Hudson's flat… … … I will apparently be baking. When you have finished with your tea and bath I implore you to rescue me. Until such time though I find I can soldier on.

-SH"

"He's a very articulate unruly child, but I suppose not nearly as ungrateful as I thought." John smiled into the note as he absentmindedly picked up the tea to have a sip. He winced to find that it hadn't been a teaspoon of lime juice… the spoon on the saucer was a tablespoon… and that lime juice probably never belonged in tea in the first place. But while it may not have tasted like heaven in a cup, he did drink it all and savored it. It'd been made, with care, by someone who cared about very little.

The bath, too, was a little off. When he climbed in he found that the displacement of water caused the copious amount of sudsy bubbles to consume him up to his nose. … The water was around his neck. But in some way Sherlock adding twice the instructed amount of bubble-bath, too, was endearing. Anyone without Sherlock's attention to detail would have probably forgotten the scented soap solution and written off bubbles in a bath as something manly men, especially ex-soldiers, did not participate in. But Sherlock did pay attention to details and knew that John was the owner of a large though cheap bottle of bubble-bath. (A birthday gift from his sister, but most likely picked out by his sister in law, before they had split up.) It wasn't scented like lavender or pomegranates or anything fabulous like that. It merely smelled of soap, which John preferred over smelling like an aroma therapy candle. But it was still a small gesture for Sherlock to remember something like this.

But the best part was that it was nice and hot and relaxing and it felt so good on his shoulder and his lower back (now sore from moving the snow and ice) this was a considerably kind gesture on Sherlock's part. He would be sure to thank him when he went to 'rescue' him.

###

Redressed comfortable into a large sweater he descended the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's apartment, his mouth pulling up into a smile at the sound of Christmas music blaring from her radio. Poor Sherlock. But John had not begun to imagine Sherlock's suffering until he'd let himself in, merely calling out a "Mrs. Hudson?" To let her know it was him.

He had to avoid laughing at what he saw. A very, very disgruntled Sherlock Holmes, standing in Mrs. Hudson's kitchenette, flour caked onto his dark shirt, his shoes abandoned at the door (it seemed Mrs. Hudson didn't want him tramping through on her rugs), and a gob of dough had found its way into his hair, seemingly from working with it and then trying to push the offending mess out of his eyes.

"Hello John, dear. Sherlock and I are making scones. He's a regular pat-a-cake baker." She cheered jovially, obviously thrilled to have someone to spend time with.

"Please don't sing it again." Sherlock requested; a hint of a plea in his voice. He was now a sulking miserable child of a man in so far as he could express it with his face and mannerisms.

John allowed himself a larger smile here. "Well, I'm sure they're delicious. But I think I should probably collect Sherlock, it's a tad passed his bed-time."

"I don't have a curfew John I-"

"It was a joke. Just a joke. But I will have a scone before I go, thank you." He smiled and paid his good-evenings to their land-lady, accepting a scone and watching Sherlock bid his own goodnights and lead the way out with his own scone. They'd both have them eaten long before they made it back up to their flat.

"Thank you Sherlock." John said.

"No need to really, Mrs. Hudson gave us scones she'd baked. I confess that while I am brilliant I've discovered that my own talents at baking are magnificent failures and I shall rather keep to my habits of consuming food from boxes with preheating and cooking time instructions on them. At least when I am put in a position to fend for myself in that depart-."

John stammered to interrupt. "N-no Sherlock I meant thank you for the tea, bath, and the time to myself. It was a really kind gesture."

"Oh, those. Well. I suppose I did it to express my own gratitude. And to apologize. It was a rather… kind… gesture as well for you to shovel the snow and ice even with your bad back because of my slipping on it earlier. I should not have spoken down to you for doing so. I apologize."

"I can't believe I just heard you say you are sorry, not once, but twice. Can you tell me what planet you're from and where my actual flat-mate is?" John Watson chuckled, but at the expression on the other's face he rolled his eyes with less mirth. "I'm joking again."

"Ah." Was the sound of understanding he received in return.

###

John laid on the couch, bundled up in an afghan and with his trusty box of tissues not far. It seemed that despite the tea and hot bath he had managed to catch a cold for himself several nights back when he'd shoveled snow. Sherlock had expressed his compassion by purchasing John tissues that had lotion and aloe in them. As far as John was concerned, as far as Sherlock's affections went, that was probably about as kind of making a pot of chicken soup and tucking someone in so he wasn't of a mind to complain. But it was now Christmas Eve and he certainly wouldn't be going out to have any fun in any pubs. He probably didn't needed to be pissed with this cold anyway. But Mrs. Hudson had come up to visit them part way through the evening, surprisingly, with Inspector Lestrade in tow.

"He's come to pay you a Yule tide visit." She chirped to them. John thanked him, Sherlock expressed his typical sentiments towards it being pointless if not about work and continued reading his book.

Mrs. Hudson had just waved the comment off, pushing the two to open their presents from her. John was not surprised to find a blue scarf waiting for him, but he did find it rather amusing that Sherlock's mittens were made of the same yarn. Obviously his picking on her and her knowledge that he probably wouldn't wear them anyway had lead her to use the remaining yarn from making John's scarf.

Sherlock didn't seem much to care. He was still preoccupied on trying to shut down Lestrade every time the Inspector attempted to speak with him. He was heavily preoccupied with the entire visit being unnecessary.

"I know it was unnecessary but it is the occasion and I suppose you've both been a great deal of help to me so I got you both a little something. Merry Christmas." He wished, giving them each a poorly wrapped parcel… he'd obviously wrapped it himself instead of shelling out for gift wrapping at the store. John was a little perplexed to find noise canceling earphones at first, but it made much more sense when Sherlock opened his and revealed it to be resin for his violin bow. Oh no. Lestrade had actually given his consultant something he could use… Sherlock liked things he could use. This was going to be a long cold. He hoped he recovered soon.