John has always loved Winter.
It held precious memories of snow fights, snowmen, hot chocolate and warm fires.
It has always been his favorite season. Not because of Christmas or New Years.
He looked forward to the snow.
There was something magical about waking up to find the world covered in white.
It had snowed while he was in Afghanistan. That kind of snow had been less magical. It had been cold, wet and uncomfortable.
It also was often mixed with blood, dirt and grit.
When he had returned home, snow didn't look as appealing as he thought it would. The cold made his shoulder ache and his cane was constantly slipping, which made walking a difficult task. His shoes were always wet and the air left you chilled to the bone.
This year had been much, much better and winter started to look better too.
It had started to snow a few days ago and now everything was covered in soft white powder that reminded him of his childhood.
Sitting on the couch with Sherlock, watching TV and eating warm soup filled him with the kind of happiness and peace he could remember from decades ago as a child.
John realized Sherlock had stopped his constant commentary on the TV. In fact, the detective had been very quiet for the last few minutes.
Glancing over his shoulder he found that Sherlock had fallen asleep, curled up in the corner of the couch.
He smiled to himself and got up to fetch a blanket.
His flatmate taken care of, he trudged up the stairs to his own room.
Settling between the warm blankets John sighed with pleasure.
Yes, he has always loved Winter.
