Coat
"Sherlock, I hope you do realize it is snowing." It was the first words John had said in nearly an hour. His breath clouded in front of him only to disappear amidst the swirling snow and wind. John was not dressed appropriately for this type of weather at all. His coat had been used to cover the dead body of a woman that Sherlock had said was merely 'another clue' as to the whereabouts of the murderer.
"Yes," was Sherlock's only reply. Of course he was fine with the snow and the wind. He, after all, never went anywhere without his coat, gloves and scarf. The blue of the scarf and the coattails blew in the wind from their perch on the roof. The killer will think we're on the streets, Sherlock had reasoned. It would be better to have a high vantage point.
John huffed, going back to rubbing his arms and walking in circles, hoping to heat up some. The tingle in his fingers wasn't a good sign. The temperature had dropped significantly when the sun fell, and now heavy snow clouds completely blocked the sky for miles. No moonlight or stars; only the light of a single street lamp lighting the lot below them.
"There he is, John," Sherlock said in a hushed whisper, crouching down low. "And coming right this way. Perfect. Like I thought, the message he sent to Peter Ivanov was encoded. Within this building is the basis of their entire cartel. Abandoned lot and diner, and with a new construction project right across the street. Hiding in plain sight, weren't we?"
John only half listened to Sherlock's little ramble.
"This was probably why he killed her, John," Sherlock realized. "Her husband was a construction worker. I bet he worked right over there." He pointed to the new office buildings being built, just across the badly lit lot from them. "She probably wondered too close to this place for her own good. Couldn't have been more than a few hours ago. The lunch she was bringing him hadn't molded yet."
"Yeah, that's great Sherlock," John grumbled. "Can't we just phone Greg and have him come with the police to take them down? I want to go home and get a warm cuppa by the fire."
"Greg? Who's Greg?"
John heaved another sigh. "Lestrade."
"Oh, right."
Still, Sherlock didn't move to get his phone, or move to get the criminal himself. John, fed up at this point, sat down on the cold roof and blew hot air into his hands, hoping to warm them up. If it came down to it, he wouldn't be able to fire his gun straight in these conditions.
And then, suddenly, something heavy and ridiculously warm settled all around him. His bemused mind caught the scent of whatever it was before he actually looked. Rain and snow, the clean smell of the hospital, a hint of cigarette smoke. John looked up. Sherlock's coat.
"Sherlock-?" John began but he was cut off.
"You're cold," was Sherlock's simple answer. He was texting Lestrade their location as well as the details of the case. "It's my fault you don't have your coat, so take mine. I'll be fine with my scarf until Lestrade arrives."
Underneath the warm coat, John watched as Sherlock himself shivered in the cold, opting to disguise it had a mere shrug of his shoulders. John sighed, pulling the coat closer around him. He nuzzled his face into the soft fabric, drinking in the smell of the man he was so in love with.
"Thank you, Sherlock."
Sherlock merely hummed his reply.
Are you and John hurt? –GL
No, we're both fine. –SH. Sherlock almost hit send, but with a glance at his partner, nuzzling into his coat with a dreamy look on his face, he added something. Bring coffee.
Black, two sugars? –GL
Sherlock smiled.
No. How John likes it. Make sure it's warm. -SH