"I like snow when I don't have to go anywhere in it." Joan stood at the front windows watching the heavy fall pile up outside. It had been snowing steadily for twelve hours, and it seemed brighter outside now, at midnight, with the city lights reflected back by the white above and below, than it had when the storm started at noon. She laid her hand flat against the cold glass, setting off a full-body shiver. "Also when there's no chance of the power going out. There's no chance of the power going out, right?"
She received a grumble in reply, which was more than the comment deserved, really. Apparently he was in a better mood than she expected. She turned to the room and climbed back into the nest of blankets she'd made on the couch. Once settled, she pulled a folder from the stack on the floor and flipped it open, reviewing the contents. She wanted to get through five more before heading up to bed.
Earlier in the evening some folks had ventured out to play, shouting and laughing as they waded through two-foot deep drifts. Their voices made Joan crave hot chocolate, but she settled for green tea and a Yorkshire pudding rescued before Sherlock could toss the whole batch. The internet informed her they froze well, so she convinced him to dump them into freezer bags when he was done, instead of the trash.
They weren't on a particularly stressful case this week, so she deduced he must have received another letter from Newgate when the baking smell filled the brownstone the day before. A distinct olfactory improvement over his various attempts to destroy dolls, in any case. As an indication of his state of mind, however, she much preferred melted plastic.
The only sounds now were the low rustle of the fire and a light spit of blown snow against the windows. Their street was low priority for snow ploughs, and anybody who wanted or needed to drive was either long gone or thwarted for the duration. A wave of cozy drowsiness suggested she might have been overly ambitious about those last five folders, and she slid lower under the blanket with a contented sigh.
She woke to the squeak of a bicycle wheel and chilled feet in early morning light. Sherlock sat by the fireplace wheeling the toast away from the flames and the kettle toward them, the blanket she was pretty sure had been covering her feet draped over his shoulders.
"Oh please don't tell me the power's gone out." She pushed up to sit against the couch arm rest, tucking her feet under the remaining blanket.
"As you wish." He spoke to the fireplace, not turning around. She yawned and stretched her shoulders, feeling stiff as she worked on waking up her neck. As she turned her head she saw the usual lights on all his scanners in the study, as well as the lamp on the lock room table.
"So, the power's not out," she said, relieved at the thought of a hot shower in her future. He shrugged, still staring at the kettle. "Why are you cooking up here?"
"Why not?"
"I don't have any reasons why not, but that doesn't actually answer my question. Is this for science, somehow?"
He nudged the base of the rig a little closer to the grate, adjusting the wheel slightly. She wasn't in any particular hurry at what — she fished her phone out from under those last five folders to check the time — 6:23; she could wait him out, maybe put in a little meditation practice at the same time. Many long slow breaths later she heard the wheel again, and he lifted the now steaming kettle off to pour into the waiting teapot.
"My feet were cold standing in front of the stove," he said. "I'd rather wait up here where they could be warmed along with the water."
"And how much longer did it take, this way?"
He glanced over at her then, shifting his lips against a smile. "Twelve minutes, forty-one seconds."