As evening drags into the dark folds of the night, the flat grows colder. Soon, the crackling flames do little to help keep the men warm. Sherlock begins trembling underneath John's gentle fingers. Quivers run through his body as he presses closer to him until his face is hidden in his stomach. The doctor blinks in surprise, concerning flashing across his eyes.
"I'll be back," he tells Sherlock, pushing him off of his lap with gentle hands. Rising onto his feet, he winces at the dull ache coursing through his joints. Hurrying towards their rooms, he rips their duvets from their beds. His arms hug the thick layers to his chest, a strange mixture of their scents filling his nose. He can detect the traces of Sherlock's posh shampoo and cologne, trapped in the material of the comforter. His chest tightens at the familiar smell. He returns to find a shivering Sherlock curled up in a tight ball, almost pressed against the screen of the fireplace.
John's eyes widen. "Sherlock?" he says, rushing towards him.
"I'm fine," the detective says, the lie slipping from his tongue.
John's face hardens into a stern look. "Liar," he says. An accusing tone stabs at the word.
Kneeling on the carpet, John wraps the blanket around Sherlock's shoulders. He nudges him even closer to the fire, hoping that the waves of heat will engulf him its embrace. But the tremors continue raking through his body. The cold manages to seep through the layers of warmth and slides along his skin with the glittering, predatory eyes of a reptile. The older man's teeth sink into his bottom lip as he runs through a list of his choices. The one that stands out the most is body heat. He hesitates before deciding to slide it at the bottom of his options. He searches for an alternative, but the icy air is beginning to numb his brain. His thoughts flicker to his early memories, desperate for methods to gain warmth. What is the most comfortable way? he wonders, pecking at his head for ideas. The fastest and most efficient? After flipping through a few, faded scenes of his childhood, his attention fixes upon two words: blanket forts.
The doctor blinks a few times before a grin stretches across his face. Of course! Why didn't I think of that before? He remembers stretching blankets across chairs with Harry and filling up the gaps with a sea of pillows. It had been their way of coping with the cold weather as young children after hours of romping outside in the snow. A shuddering breath from Sherlock interrupts his thoughts.
"What are you so happy about?" the younger man grumbles, twisting his head around to narrow his eyes at him.
His grin only widens. "I've got an idea," John blurts out, jumping up onto his feet. "I'll be back." Before the detective can shoot out a deduction, he darts off and crashes up the stairs towards his room. With his feet catching in the carpet, he almost loses his balance as he flies into his bedroom. His hand shoots out to grab the doorframe for support. A hum rises in his throat when he twists open the closet. His eyes fall upon the thick duvets lining the white, wooden shelves. He gathers them up in his arms, pausing to shove his feet into a pair of fluffy slippers. His toes flex in appreciation at the brush of the soft, inner fuzz.