A/N: Some time ago, someone asked me to write a fic where the boys go skating. I think it was in the spring or summer, and my head was not at all in the winter activities mindset, so here it is now. Enjoy!
Thanks to AGirloftheSouth for the beta and glowingbunny for the invaluable information about skating in London.
Technically a Sugarverse story, but it's not at all necessary to have read that series for this one to make sense.
"What are these?" John asked as a laced bundle clanked onto the coffee table next to him.
"Ice skates. Obviously."
"Yes, I can see that," John said, marking his place in his book and setting it aside to focus on Sherlock, who was watching him with that expectant do-keep-up look. "What are they for?"
"I should think that would be equally obvious," his husband replied, arching one eyebrow coolly.
"You want me to go ice skating?"
"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. Not on your own."
"You want us to go ice skating?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, not deigning to answer, and John tried to smother a grin. "Why?"
"It's winter."
"Yes, I know. And?"
Sherlock sighed, pressing his lips together, one hand resting on his waist, index finger tapping his belt impatiently.
"It's what people do in the winter."
"Not everyone," John said. "And certainly not you. Fifteen years we've been together, and I've never once known you to even express an interest in winter sports."
"Yes. Well," Sherlock sniffed, and John couldn't hide the grin this time. He'd get no more explanation, which probably meant Sherlock had overheard someone discussing it as a 'romantic' activity or read it on one of the advice blogs that John couldn't seem to stop him randomly obsessing over.
"Right, I'm game. It'd be nice to have a proper date again." Sherlock narrowed his eyes; John dispelled the confusion with a chuckle and a shake of his head. "Don't worry – I'll let you count stopping mid-rooftop chase to point out that meteor shower as a date."
"If I recall correctly, we still caught the suspect," the detective replied. "And had Indian take away afterwards."
"A perfect evening," John agreed. "C'mon. Get your coat."
The walk to Regent's Park was chilly despite the sun that glinted off frost- and snow-covered surfaces. John was glad he'd bundled up carefully – although Sherlock, as always didn't seem the least bit fazed by the unusually cold December weather. Two pairs of ice skates clanked gently, slung over Sherlock's left shoulder – he'd somehow decided that neither of John's shoulders would benefit from the strain, and the doctor was happy not to argue. He kept his right hand bundled in his coat pocket, but his left sleeve cuff was caught between Sherlock's gloved fingers.
"What if someone recognizes you?" John asked.
"What of it?" Sherlock replied.
"The great consulting detective, out for a skate?"
"I'm not on a case," Sherlock sniffed. "I can't imagine one that would require me to participate in such an activity."
"Posing as a figure skater to get access to the seamy underside of professional skating?" John suggested. Sherlock paused, giving John a long, slow look.
"Honestly, John, where do you come up with these things? You're as bad as the conspiracy theorists on your blog."
"I am," John agreed. "I should have them over for tea and a chat, don't you think?"
"Don't you dare."
"I can just imagine how much you'd egg them on."
"I've never 'egged' anyone on in my life, John," Sherlock said, blatantly ignoring the "yeah, right" John muttered under his breath. "You on the other hand, seem to take considerable delight in it. Why should anyone be bothered by me ice skating?"
"Have you ever skated before?" John asked.
"Of course not," Sherlock replied, voice almost as frosty as the air.
"Then I can't wait to see you fall on your arse," John said.
"Need help?"
"Don't be absurd. I've been tying my own shoes since I was two. You, on the other hand, Doctor Watson, were nearly six before you could manage the manual dexterity."
"Just because you can lace up doesn't mean you'll be able to stay up," John said cheerfully. "Make sure they're tight around your ankles." A roll of the eyes was his only reply, and John had to admit that Sherlock seemed comfortable with the action, as if it were old habit.
'Course he does, John thought with an inward snort. Probably watched videos and practiced for hours.
"Ready?" he asked.
"More so than you," Sherlock replied, refusing John's offer of a steadying hand as he rose from the bench. Small steps took them to the rink's edge, Sherlock's arms gently outstretched, stark black against the white snow and ice.
John slipped onto the ice, skating a few feet before turning back, the motions returning almost effortlessly. It had been years since he'd done this – he couldn't even remember the last time he'd been skating – but it felt like no longer than a heartbeat.
He grinned at the sight of Sherlock stepping hesitantly onto the ice, wobbling slightly, fingers splayed to help regain his balance.
"All right?" John asked, closing the distance between them, extending a hand.
"Oh yes," Sherlock replied. "I'm fine." Grey eyes danced, a sly smile crossing his husband's lips before he was gone in a smooth movement, great coat billowing behind him as he slid away.
"Oi!" John shouted, frozen in place – almost literally – for a half a moment before he was chasing Sherlock's trailing laughter, using strength and speed to catch up to his husband's long, graceful strides. "You sodding bastard!"
Sherlock spun, grin growing, accentuating the small, rosy patches on his cheeks. He kept going, backwards movements confident and nimble, but extended a hand to catch one of John's.
"Fifteen years and you still can't tell when I'm lying," he commented, arching an eyebrow.
"What, so you've been sneaking out to practice skating?"
"Of course not. Like you, I haven't done it since I was a child. Bit like riding a bike, isn't it? Comes back rather quickly."
"And now you're telling me you know how to ride a bike? What next – can you pilot a hot air balloon?"
"Unlikely," Sherlock said. "At least, not on my own." John rolled his eyes; Sherlock's grin grew.
"I suppose you expect me to believe that Mycroft taught you to skate?"
"If you couldn't imagine me having learned as a child, it strains credulity that you could imagine Mycroft doing so." He paused, slowing his glide, tugging John closer to him. "Although the image of him trying now… John, you must post that on your blog. Surely one of your readers has enough artistic skill to draw it. We could frame it and give it to him for Christmas."
John laughed, settling one hand on Sherlock's waist, half pushing them along, half being pulled by Sherlock's movement.
"So who did teach you?"
"My mother, of course."
"Wonders never cease," John replied. "What made you think of it now?" Sherlock shrugged lightly; it had probably been in long term storage until something had triggered the memory. John had acquired enough computer skills that he could go through the detective's deleted browsing history and find out which of those blogs had posted something about it.
And send the author a thank-you note.
"How long do we have the skates for?"
"Until tomorrow," Sherlock replied. "Although if you're enjoying yourself, we can always purchase our own."
"I am enjoying it," John said. He tugged lightly on the hand clasping his husband's, switching directions so that he was towing Sherlock along gently. "I forgot how much I liked this. This was a brilliant idea."
"All of my ideas are brilliant," Sherlock sniffed.
"They are," John replied with a grin, catching Sherlock's lapel between a thumb and forefinger, pulling them closer together. "But this is by far one of the best."