Saw a couple cuddling at the bus stop and of course I can't keep this from popping into my head. These boys are always on my mind.

John's phone was completely smashed to pieces and now the tiny shards of touch screen were scattered somewhere amongst the gravel of a roughly paved country road. Sherlock neglected to even grab his phone from the table as they ran from the flat with utmost haste to pursue a suspect they'd been tracking for over a month. A tip from a boy in Sherlock's homeless network set them off in the right direction. John was always amazed by their loyalty, but then again, a look at his own behaviour around Sherlock was a reminder that he would do anything for Sherlock. Anything.

A London cabbie had reluctantly driven them out to the relatively deserted area where the suspect was last seen. In the end, the middle-aged, heavy weight, balding cab driver couldn't turn down the money from such a long trip but quickly turned tail and left the two behind as soon as they ran off down the road.

With no way to call for a cab back to Baker Street and stuck out in the middle of nowhere, they were left to wait for the next bus, if there was even a next bus to come.

It was biting cold, windy and raining; of course it was raining. The scratched and graffiti-covered Plexiglass walls of the bus stop did nothing to break the gust of wind and rain soaking them and ruffling their hair. Shivering, John had his coat buttoned up tight with his collar up and his hands shoved deep into the pockets. Sherlock, looked unperturbed by the chilly weather, his scarf artfully wrapped around his neck, it's donning a perfected act making him look smartly dressed every time.

The timetable posted said that bus was to come anytime now and John, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet, stuck his head out to look down the road. No bus. He sighed heavily, his breath puffing out in a swirling fog in front of him. The day was a disappointment overall. They didn't catch the perpetrator. And now they had to wait outside in the cold rain for the bus for who knows how long.

"John." The deep thrum of Sherlock's voice always made John shiver and this time was no different. He was unable to stave the visible shudder that ran through his body; he knew Sherlock saw it. John could tell that Sherlock was sorry for the situation they were in, a sentiment that he only showed to him; the rest of the world was not privy to Sherlock's emotions. He didn't turn toward the detective but kept looking forward, his lips a thin, hard line. He was mad, he couldn't deny that, and he just wanted to be home and warm and comfortable. The turmoil of the argument in his head was making him feel guilty; it wasn't Sherlock's fault after all, he shouldn't be mad at him.

Breaking, he took his hands out of his pockets and blew into them and rubbing them together to warm up and turned to look at the other man. "Yeah? Right. It's fine, Sherlock." John thought that would be an appropriate response considering the circumstances. He turned forward again with another peak down the road only to see no sign of a bus.

The immediate warmth at his back told him that Sherlock stepped closer. Very close. What came next thoroughly startled him making him feel like a young colt in the training arena. Sherlock's long fingers traced down his arms from his shoulders to his fingertips and wiggled their way into John's pockets, settling in over John's hands.

Instantly, John's shooting jacket felt like entirely too much fabric for the weather and he itched to take it off of his burning hot skin. He knew his face was an obscenely dark shade of red and wild black curls tickled his ear causing him to tilt his head away.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" John could feel the vibrations of the grumble on the back of his neck and it pleasantly traveled down his spine.

"Why are your hands in my pockets?" The hands resting on his own squeezed lightly before their owner answered.

"You were cold." The response was as Sherlockian as any ever could be; simply stated as if there was no other way to explain it, and the tone implying that it should have been obvious to John.

John rolled his eyes in reply. He tried to remove his hands, as well as his friends, from his pockets but Sherlock wouldn't have it. "Really Sherlock, there's no need to-"

"And I also wouldn't have been able to do this."

"Do what? What do—aaah." Hot lips closed on the shell of John's ear, sucking the flesh causing him to go weak in the knees. Sherlock tightened his arms around him to support him.

"Steady, John." He nipped gently and sucked at the skin just below his flat mate's ear, enjoying the fact that he wasn't being pushed away and that it caused John to gasp quietly and tilt his head to expose more of his neck. The suspect may have slipped away from them today leaving them both tired and irritated, but Sherlock was feeling aroused and insanely bold despite the situation. He often felt like that after an intense chase but this was the first time he ever made a move on John.

"When we get home, I'm going to strip you out of these cold, wet clothes." Sherlock's breath was hot in his ear and John didn't dare turn his face to look at him. Instead, he closed his eyes and dropped his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder, whining quietly. "I'll slowly peel them off your body one by one until you are completely naked in front of me. I'll lay you down near the fire and learn what exactly makes John Watson tremble."

Doesn't take much, clearly, John thought to himself. It was all he could do to keep himself steady. He heard the bus pull up and he mentally thanked the driver for his timely arrival. Without a glance back at Sherlock, John shyly fumbled for change and purchased two single tickets back to London and chose a seat on the isle forcing his flat mate to sit across the aisle, giving him space and time to think.

Cheers for reading!