Most of the times I enjoy London. Even after I returned from combat, even when I barely could live in military lodgings, or afford to eat. It's home. Simple as that.

Yet I could never adjust to the bitter, grey city winters. No snow would fall from the sky, but the air itself would frost over and mark your breath as it left your mouth. Black ice mirrored the tone and textures of the road, and not every street could be coated in the strong, industrial salt. More specifically, the alleys and lanes Sherlock tended to frequent.

I'm not the first man to wipe out on an icy thoroughfare or have to survive the frozen exterior of a city that long ago gouged its way onto the map through wars and battles. Not the first to ungracefully slip and sprain my ankle, or to make a fool of myself in front of the shadier crowd in a dark alley. Evidently, I was the first Sherlock had to deal with.

His reaction? The hardest I've ever seen him laugh.

"You," he gasped for breath, "fell, on your ass, in front of …the most violent …drug dealer in London!"

I sent him a glare from my currently seated position in the aforementioned alley. "Laugh while you can, but I can't move my ankle. It's sprained, you idiot, and no taxi will pick us up here. You're going to have to carry me."

He collapsed against one of the walls, shaking in laughter. "And then you… landed on your…gun, and—" He howled in appreciation.

Long story short, I accidentally shot him in his manhood. Now both the drug dealer and I were suffering on the ground, and Sherlock looked like he thought this was the most comedic situation he'd ever thought could occur had just happened.

"Call an ambulance!" rasped the drug dealer. Sherlock paused from his fit, sent the drug dealer a look that said ruin this perfectly comical moment for me and die, then returned to his tirade.

"You made this sound, too, it was like a 'oomph!' and then he was like, 'holymother—'"

"We don't need a play-by-play, Sherlock!"

He rose to his feet, still shaking violently, then quickly dialled the police and reported hearing a man in pain in the passage. He turned to the figure squirming in agony and said, "I think it's best for both our sakes if you were shot by a homeless man, agreed?"

The drug dealer nodded.

"John?" he asked, extending his hand, grinning from ear to ear and his chest still vibrating. I grabbed for it, one leg buckling in pain beneath me. Sherlock instantly grabbed for my forearm, heaving me against him. I wrapped my arms around his neck, determined not to fall, despite the odds against me. I heaved out a small cloud behind his neck, hoping he didn't realise that in actuality it was a sigh of content. His long, lean body wrapped around mine, the soft scent of wool mixed with the subtleness of leather, and something entirely Sherlock. He panted slightly too, and a warm smile still engulfed half of his face, amusement thick in his eyes.

There isn't a dark moment in the entire universe that can't be lit up by a smile like that.

"This is going to be painful." He assured me, still the most positive I've ever seen the sociopath.

"For who?" I ask, only now realising how close my face is to his, and how I have to tilt my head up to see him and he has to tilt his down. We're close enough to feel the heat of each other's breath coming off in waves against our faces. I grin back, lost in those soul-consuming eyes.

"Both of us. I think I will have to carry you on my back until we can reach the main road." He paused, confused and still thrilled, like a puppy muddled by the signals it was receiving.

"Well, then, sorry I had those extra biscuits at lunch."

"Yes, you are likely very heavy. Which is why it makes no sense why I am smiling. You are too, which also makes no sense, because you are in pain. Why is that, John?"

"Well, we giggle at crime scenes, enjoy running around London at odd hours of the day, embarrass ourselves in public… I always just figured we were a bunch of masochists."

Sherlock, in one swift movement, swung me onto his back and I wrapped my legs around his hips. Surprisingly muscular hips, I might add.

"We can't both be masochists, otherwise our relationship wouldn't work. At least one of us has to be a sadist."

"What, so we're like—no, scratch that."

"Why?"

"If anyone from the Yard heard us having this conversation, they'd assume we're shagging."

"They already do…?"

"Yeah, but shagging a bit past vanilla."

"Oh."

'Yeah."

"Probably doesn't help that I'm carrying you around on my back, either."

"Yup, that most definitely worsens the image."

OoOoO

You can imagine the look on Mrs. Hudson's face when we got in.

"He sprained his ankle." Sherlock tried.

She still looked mortified.

"And shot a drug dealer!" I piped in.

Mortified switched to flabbergasted.

"We couldn't hail a taxi," Sherlock attempted again.

"Or hitch hike, because Sherlock's permanently under the impression I'm going to get taken by a serial killer."

"You're 5 foot 6, petit, and blonde. It's a reasonable assumption."

"Boys!" she interrupted, sharply, colour returning to her cheeks. "Are you trying to tell me that you walked around like that, all the way home, with an injury?"

I paused. "That's about the gist of it."

"Sherlock, you get poor little John off your back right now. I'm sure he's terrified by the height."

I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better off it.

Sherlock swung me off his back, placing me very gently on the floor, as though I was his skull and not me.

"Now, young man, carry him up to bed."

"How?" he asked, amused with my death glare I was sending towards him.

"Any way except on your back. I'd hate to see you pull a muscle."

She trotted towards her flat, calling back: "I'll go get you an ice-pack, dearie."

Sherlock smirked at me. "Honey-moon style?"

"Oh God, no." I said. Oh God, yes, I thought.

He shrugged, still looking pleased with himself, then wrapping an arm under my arm pit. I looped an arm over his neck; he grabbed my injured leg and pulled it up to a right angle. Then, ungracefully and uncoordinated, I hopped.

One, two, three, three, (slipped back onto Sherlock), four,four, five, six…seven…eight (nine seems really far away-)

"—oh, sod it, carrying me honey moon style."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You know, when I met you, I never thought you'd be asking me to carry you to bed."

"Oh, shut up."

OoOoO

Yeah, Sherlock OOC. Other than that, not too bad given I'm writing this on a sick day.

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