"John, come here!"
At the moment, John was enjoying a blissfully deep sleep, and had absolutely no intention of leaving the warmth of his bed.
"John!"
"What is it…?" he moaned.
"That's the whole point! I'm not going to tell you until you see it for yourself."
Employing one of his choicest swear words, John staggered out of bed and into the sitting room. "What is—wow." He looked past Sherlock's dressing gown clad figure to the window, and smiled.
The first snowfall.
Abnormally large flakes drifted past the windows, glimmering in the early morning light. Mixed with this old-fashioned charm were the usual agitated honks of cabs and lorries maneuvering the morning traffic on Baker Street.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" asked Sherlock, with a note of appreciation in his voice.
"Back up—did you just call something beautiful?"
"What's wrong with that?" John saw the defensiveness springing back into the detective's eyes.
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. It's just—that was a bit unexpected, er, coming from you."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Want to go out in it?"
Sherlock stared at John as though he'd gone mad.
"Oh, come on; don't pretend it hasn't crossed your mind." John gestured toward Sherlock's cobalt dressing gown. "Go put on some trousers, will you? Even if you don't want to go outside, I am." With that, he turned and went in search of his cable knit jumper.
It was a great surprise, when, coming back into the living room, John saw Sherlock fully dressed—two tone leather gloves, trench coat and navy scarf. "Alright, then." He grinned at his flat mate and led the way down the stairs and into the chilly Saturday morning.
Small snowdrifts had accumulated at either side of the street; occasionally a pedestrian would slip and fall into one of the drifts, scowling. John took a deep breath of the crisp, cold air, aware of the snowflakes landing in his hair. He turned to Sherlock. "When you were a child, did you play in the snow?"
"A bit." Sherlock smoothed his scarf. "Mostly I outsmarted Mycroft while he shouted abuse."
John laughed. "Yeah, he doesn't really seem like the sort to enjoy a snowball fight."
"Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Did you enjoy snowball fights as a child?" Sherlock's expression was remarkably similar to that of when he conducted a scientific experiment.
"Definitely! Harry and I had loads of them. In fact…" He scooped a handful of snow from the nearest snowdrift. "…I still do."
"You really don't want to throw that," Sherlock informed him, quite calmly. "Really, you don't."
"Why's that?"
"You forget, John, that I was the one that outsmarted Mycroft, not the other way around." Sherlock flicked his coat collar up against the sudden wind, and John rolled his eyes.
"Okay. I'm letting you off just this once, got it?" He gave Sherlock a significant look, and was certain the taller man smiled. A split second later, John jolted forward, having been bumped by a group of children. The oldest looking one, a boy, winced.
"Sorry, sir."
"That's quite alright." John winked at them, seeing their impressive collection of sleds. "You lot going to the park, then?"
"Yeah, we're gonna have loads of fun today!" They waved cheerfully at John as they departed, giggling and chattering.
"That was nice."
"What d'you mean?" John glanced questioningly at Sherlock.
"You're good with kids. I can see the way you talk to them…look at them. You want one."
"Well, yeah, sure. Someday." John averted his gaze. "What about you?"
Sherlock laughed rather resentfully. "It's not that I hate children—I just don't know how to speak to them, or interact with them, or—make them feel better about anything."
"It's obvious you've given this some thought."
Sherlock cast John a familiar what are you implying look. "No, John, I haven't. It's a fact. An inevitability."
"Sherlock. You're selling yourself short. I bet you'd feel different if it was your own kid we were talking about. It's not true, you know, when you say you don't have a heart. It's obviously not true, to me at least."
"Well, it's not obvious to the rest of the world." And with a swish of his coat, Sherlock marched away.
The door marked 221B swung shut with a slam.
Hey, everyone! Thanks for your support and reviews. It means a lot! Requests, anyone?
-Spark Writer-
