The inky blackness of the night was blazing outside of Sherlock's window, contrasting harshly with falling snow. As he stared out of the large window pane from his spot on his worn out couch, he, in his signature blue robe, pulled his knees to his chest, resting the heels of his feet on the seat of the couch, folding his arms in front of himself, burrowing his head on the top of them.
"Oh, dear, Sherlock, don't mop about so." Mrs. Hudson bustled about the living room of 221B, placing a tray of tea and sweets on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. She leaned over and gently placed a kiss on his head. "I'll be just down stairs if you need me, dear." With a short pat to Sherlock's head, she descended the stairs, hearing the knocker on the door clash against the hard, cold wood.
Sherlock heard her make a minuscule noise of surprise as she embraced someone. Who was that someone? The tall detective listened to light footfalls, familiar, the rumble of his voice, soothing, not quite able to understand the words. He caught the scent of hair gel and leather as the man ascended the stairs. Jim. The man paused for a moment then continued up the stairs. He entered the main living area, gently closing the door behind him.
He shrugged off his suit jacket. Tossing his jacket and his bag onto the kitchen table, he loosed his tie. "Hey, Sherlock." He drawled. Slightly, the detective turned his head in the opposite direction of the man, who had traveled into the living room and was now pouring two cups of tea, one for himself and one for Sherlock.
"Here, darling." As the man sat down, Jim nudged the warm cup into Sherlock's hand, his long slender fingers wrapping around the thin porcelain. Sherlock shifted, leaning into the man's side, head resting on his shoulder. Jim rested his arm on the back of the couch, pressing Sherlock closer to himself and angling him so that the taller man was reclining, back against his chest. Toying with the dark, curly hair, Jim gently inhaled as he kissed the mop of curls. "You need a bath, lovebug."
Rolling his eyes, he muttered into his tea. After taking a small sip, he coughed, "Bitter." Jim hummed, drinking his own tea. "You don't need any sugar. You know how you get when you have some this late." Jim clucked, petting Sherlock's head, attempting to sooth him, "Just drink your tea, my love." Sherlock huffed, swallowing the bitter liquid. With a clink, Jim set down his own teacup on the coffee table. He crossed his arms across Sherlock's chest, gently rubbing and applying the heel of his hand to pressure out the tension. The taller man let out a small whimper of a whine. Jim hushed him, pressing his lips to Sherlock's head. Giggling, he clicked his tongue, "Daddy has such a fussy baby tonight. What should be done about that?"
Sherlock set his cup next to Jim's, turning so his chest was pressed to Jim's own. Settling his head under Jim's chin, Sherlock blew air on the expanse of pale skin before him, teasingly. "Don't act like you don't already have ideas in that head of yours, Jim."
Jim shrugged, smirking, "Well, I might have a few theories about how to pacify my baby boy."