John is dozing off in his armchair when a loud clatter jerks him back into consciousness. He blinks a few times and pulls his arms back into a luxurious stretch, unaware of the detective running an appreciative eye over his body. His eyebrows lower in a frown as he sits up in his seat, ears straining for another noise. He is rewarded with a metallic groan echoing from the belly of the heater, as if it's eaten something that doesn't agree with its stomach.
"Funny," the doctor says before a violent rattling ensues. It grows louder, steady in its increase in volume and slamming into his eardrums. A wince crosses his face before an abrupt hiss slices through the air, causing him to flinch. "Is that even normal?" he says, raising his voice over loud moans.
Stretched out on the couch on his back, Sherlock rolls over onto his side without a word. He curls up into himself, the curve of his spine seeming to taunt John. I can't be bothered to deal with idiots like you, it sneers. The doctor shakes his head, shooting a weak glare at his flatmate before shuffling over to the heater. He slows down as he nears it, taking hesitant steps as though the machine is a frightened animal. A metallic scent stings his nostrils, causing his nose to wrinkle.
"Do you smell that?" John questions the detective, not expecting a response. He leans closer to the heater, only to jump in surprise when it belches before falling silent. His eyes narrow at it. Stretching out a hand, he lets his fingers hover above the slits in the machine. His eyebrows lower in a frown when he feels no heat pulsing from them. He tosses a glance towards the controls. The switches have remained untouched. He blinks as the realization slaps him in the face, leaving behind stinging cheeks and slumped shoulders.
"Oh, shit," the doctor swears, resisting the urge to kick the dead machine. The only reply he receives is the rustle of fabric as Sherlock shifts around in his position. John whirls around to face his friend, his jaw clenching. "Well?" he says. "Our heater just broke." He shakes his head. His feet drag against the carpet as he trudges back to his seat. He plops into his armchair, jolting a soft grunt from his mouth. "And on one of the coldest days too!"
Sherlock twists around to shoot him a look bristling with annoyance. "Are you finished stating the obvious?" he snaps. "Or will you be our announcer for the rest of the evening?"
John stares at his friend, a scoff flying from his mouth. "Really?" he says. "Our heater broke and you're -" He slumps back in the soft cushions. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, hard enough for it to start throbbing in pain.
"Again, you're stating the obvious," the other male says, appearing unmoved by the fact that they have no heat.
The doctor ignores him, deciding he has better things to do than argue with his flatmate. "I'll be building a fire," he says, heaving himself up from his seat, "so we don't freeze our balls off. You interested in joining me?" He only receives a huff from the lump on the sofa. "Fine," he snaps before storming off to find a starter log for the fireplace.
The boxes of starter logs decide to hide from John as he turns the flat upside down while rummaging around in the rooms for it. In the end, he finds one tucked away in the back of the storage closet, where Sherlock's abandoned science equipment rests. It's buried underneath a pile of heavy junk that he has to lug away, an exercise that leaves him panting. When he staggers onto his feet with the box in his arms, he bangs his head on a shelf and upsets a delicate balance of items. A flood of objects tumbles down upon him, the closet pouring its wrath upon him for disrupting its silence. How dare he disturb the gentle weaving of spiderwebs? How could he shift around its contents when they've remained still for months?
John cannot defend himself against this mighty attack. He drops the box of starter logs with a cry and buries his head in his arms, dropping down onto the floor. Buds of pain sprout in his skull, blossoming into full aches and sharp spikes drilling into his nerves. The dark walls surrounding him appear to sneer at his helpless form. After the last few items clatter to the floor, he hesitates before unfolding his limbs. But a fat duvet slips off of the shelf and lands on his head, draping over his face like a conquerer's flag. I have conquered this man, the closet seems to boast. He rips off the blanket and drops it onto the floor, where it lands in an undignified heap at his feet. A throb is building up in his forehead, the sign of a headache. Other than a deflated ego, he appears unharmed. Releasing a colorful string of profanity, he scoops up the logs and storms out of the closet.
The fireplace doesn't treat John any better. He is forced to kneel on the hard floor, the wooden boards digging into his aching knees. The starter logs sit into the jaws of the firebox, buried underneath other heavy chunks of wood. He strikes a match against side of the white box, the head bursting into a flame. Before he can light the wood, a sudden blast of cold breath blows out the small bit of fire.
"Hey!" John protests, jerking his head to see a frowning Sherlock kneeling next to him.
The man yanks the starter logs out of the firebox, dislodging the pile. "You're supposed to use one," he informs him, snapping off a piece of the wood and jamming it back underneath the other logs. "You must have hit your head harder than I thought."
"Shut up," the doctor mutters, heat flaring in his cheeks. He lights another match and holds it towards the fireplace. His eyes watch the flame crawl onto the wood and lick at it before sinking in, releasing a content crack. It's only when his attention leaves the spreading hue of orange that he realizes how close he is to the other male. Sherlock's knee is jammed against the side of his thigh. Their shoulders are pressed together as if they are puzzle pieces, formed to be locked into one. He can feel his warm breath stirring the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. An involuntary shiver spirals up his spine.
John clears his throat, the noise rattling in his throat. "I . . . uh." He nods towards the dead match and the box. "I'd better get rid of these," he mumbles, detaching himself from the detective's side and rising to his feet. His knees crack, and a dull ache blossoms in them. Ignoring the slight pain coursing through his joints, he hurries towards the trashcan in the kitchen. He hopes that his face isn't splashed with an embarrassing shade of pink.
