Sherlock woke up to knocking on his door.

"Sherlock!"

"What?" he heard the door open, and footsteps entered.

"Sherlock, it snowed last night!"

He opened his eyes. John was standing across from him wearing a large coat and mittens. "And I should care about this why?"

"There's a lot of it," John answered. "I already shoveled our steps outside for Mrs. Hudson."

"Hmm, still don't care," Sherlock said, pulling his blanket over his head.

"It actually looks really lovely out."

"So are you implying that I should leave my bed to look at crystallized water?"

"Well, yeah, it's the first major snowfall of the year."

Sherlock sighed in frustration and pushed the covers off of him. "It's just snow, John."

"So you're not coming?"

"No."

"Suit yourself then," John said as he walked out into the hall. "You should really think about getting up. It's half past eleven."

Sherlock did as John told him and moved to the window. There was quite a bit of snow on the ground, though it would be gone soon enough. He threw on his robe as he walked to the kitchen. John had left a mug of tea out for him, and Sherlock was surprised to find that it was still hot. Judging from the steam leaving it, John must have just made it. He sat down on the sofa with his tea and a new case, and proceeded to get lost in the errors that Lestrade had made so far. The victim's brother in the murder was obviously hiding something, but he wasn't the murderer, and neither was his girlfriend. Lestrade seemed to think that the latter was guilty. He needed to see the evidence to be sure, but all of the arrows were pointing to the victim's flatmate.

"Sherlock?"

He looked up. John was standing in the door frame, his cheeks flushed scarlet. Water droplets sparkled in his hair and eyebrows. His coat appeared damp along the bottom, and more water droplets were in his mittens. "You've obviously been outside for a long time. What time is it?"

"3 o'clock," said John, taking off his mittens. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Must have been three hours," Sherlock said, stretching his arms. "You're cold."

"Yeah, I am," John said, making his way into the kitchen. "I'm just going to make myself a cuppa. Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"I think there was a knock on the door."

"No there wasn't."

"Yes there was."

"No there wasn't."

"Yes, Sherlock, there was. Now go answer it!"

"You answer it."

"No, you need to stretch your legs, get the blood circulating. Now go answer the door; it could be a client."

Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he stepped over the coffee table to leave the living room. He didn't hear any knocking when he walked down the stairs. People never knocked; they always rang the doorbell.

He opened the door and felt his mouth drop. Standing before him was a snowman wearing his scarf. It had two blue buttons for eyes and a carrot for its nose.

"So what do you think?" John asked, joining him at the door.

"It doesn't have a mouth," said Sherlock, studying the snowman.

"Yeah, I wasn't sure what to do for it," answered John. "I wasn't sure if I should make it happy, bored, or angry."

Sherlock smirked as he traced a smile into the snowman's mouth. "Well, snowmen are typically happy." He turned to John. "Thank you."

"It's nothing. Happy winter, Sherlock."