a/u: going to try something new. reviews are always very welcome. more chapters to come.
"I hate winter," Sherlock muttered, so that only John could hear.
"Why's that?" the doctor asked, rubbing his hands together.
The detective sighed and glanced at the crime scene– he had already figured it out. It was another case of a person faking their own death so that they can start anew. Different country, different name, different people. Nobody knew who you were or where you came from and that was perfectly okay; though, Sherlock wished that they would just tell people they were going away instead of faking their own death, because it was dreadfully cold out.
"It's dull."
"Boring?"
Sherlock gave him a small smile. "Definitely boring."
Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and approached the men. Snow collected on their shoulders, melting after a while from the warmth on their skin. Sherlock tipped his head up to look at the sky; his dark waves falling back, and John noticed how badly he needed a haircut. The sky seemed to go on forever, all one shade of gray that looked like it wound around the whole world like a piece of fabric covering a ball.
"So that's it, then?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied, clasping his hands in front of him. He turned on his heel and threw his words over his shoulder. "Coming, John?"
He followed. The snow was crunchy beneath their step, long strides that John almost had to jog to keep up with. They hailed a cab and John nearly sighed from the warmth of the car. He leaned back into the seat and rubbed his hands together, glancing at Sherlock gaze absently out the window.
"What?"
He turned to John. "What?"
"You've got something on your mind."
"There's always something on my mind," Sherlock said, turning back to the window.
John sighed and watched their neighborhood come into view. The shops were all decorated with red and green fluff; statues of baby Jesus in a lot of windows and out front some of the houses. Snow collected in them, filling their open hands and gathering on their shoulders. If they were people, Sherlock mused, they'd be awfully cold.
"It's nearly Christmas," John said quietly.
"Yes."
"Happy holidays," he joked.
Sherlock turned to him and nearly smiled. "Happy holidays, John."
His phone buzzed again (he tad taken to putting it on silent when at a crime scene) and this time he opened the message.
I love winter. Let's have dinner.
Sherlock slid the phone back into his pocket and leaned his head against the window. So cold outside. He turned over in his head what to reply (if he ever did) but came up not black, but with too many possibilities.
No. Ah, no, too short. Too boring.
I already ate. That would make him seem dim.
Busy. A possibility. He took out his mobile and stared at the screen for a long minute, but again didn't reply.
When the cab pulled up to his flat, he paid and slid out, nearly running up the stairs to his flat.
Maybe.
-S.H.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
"You want to go get dinner?" Sherlock asked later that night.
John turned to him and shook his head. "Date tonight. I promised."
"Ah. With… Mary?"
"Sara."
"Right." Sherlock shifted on the couch, suddenly restless.
He flipped so that his feet were up and his head was hanging down near the floor. The blood rushed to his head and made him dizzy, but he didn't sit up– he could almost hear the snow on the window near his soles.
"What are you doing?"
"Bored."
"You've been acting strangely all day."
"Have not."
"Have too."
When he was afraid he might pass out, Sherlock pulled himself upward and curled up on his side. He closed his eyes and waited for the blood to go back to where it was supposed to be. It hurt his eyes.
John stood and pulled his coat from the closet. "Well, I'll be off then."
His friend didn't reply and he shook his head and left. The door closed just as Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up again, all nervous fingers and racing thoughts. He began pacing and thought about everything he could think to be thought of, but finally couldn't take his clear headed-ness and grabbed his coat as well, making his way down to a pub across town.
Briefly, he wondered if the snow would stop at all tonight. He ever so much hated the cold.
