John rubbed his palms together furiously, but it didn't do much—the warmth had already drained from his hands hours ago and Sherlock was occupying all limited room in front of the fire possible. Today was not his day. It never seemed to be.

"This isn't working, John!" cried the detective from the ground in that sodding, over pronouncing baritone of his. The words bounced off the chilly walls and frigid entryways… they even danced around the room and made their way back—all the way to John.

"I just want to be warm, can't you see that?"

John muttered his response under his glacial breath. "I'm not blind," he said.

"What?"

"I'm. Not. Blind. You have all the covers in the house on you… there's nothing more I can do. No need to bring up the tension just because the temperature drops."

"Hell," the detective said, his pale fingers etching arrogant pathways through his forest of curls. Every now and then they would latch around one and tug on it anxiously. "When did he say he was coming to fix it?"

"Tomorrow. Now shut the bloody hell up or I'm calling your brother."

Sherlock's frame shot up. He was propped onto his elbows with his eyes yanked open. "You will not," the violinist said, "Mycroft is not coming here."

"He is if you don't shut your f— you know what, stay there. Pout by yourself. I don't care, really, Sherlock. Not anymore. I'm going out."

"What's it like in your brain, John? It's colder out there! You'll freeze!"

He could have responded, yes, he could have. Possibly a snarky "There's no difference!" or "Not colder than your condescension!" but he chose not to. In this case, the stronger impression would to be to ignore Sherlock completely, to deny his existence. And, sooner or later, it would crawl under his skin with twitching feet and eat away at him until he would finally give up and request John be at his side. Under blankets. Next to the warmth of a fire and human flesh.

It would just take awhile, really. John hoped it wouldn't, though. The London air was strenuously miserable.

Each footprint pressed into the soggy cement would become a worn thought pushed away, until he used that foot again. Only then would it return and John found himself in patterns.

He walked until he was certain his fingers would drop off his hands, until he could no longer sense that his nose was, yes, still intact with his face. And, sooner or later, he found himself mindlessly at a familiar doorstep. He rolled his eyes a bit, bounced on his toes once, and propped it open. Mrs. Hudson greeted him.

"You should have wrapped your self up there a bit more, dear. I'm afraid you caught something while you were out and about."

John nodded, "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'm fine. Really. No need to fret." And he walked up the stairs.

When he arrived, and shrugged off his jacket (and slipped out of his shoes), Sherlock bellowed, "If only I had someone to wager with…"

"Hmm?"

"You were out forty-two minutes. One to stop and chat with Mrs. Hudson, three for stopping at various places in Regent's for pondering, and give or take three for your various paces in the cold. Thirty-five minutes you walked, John. You went through the park—turned right when you got to the café… there's a distinct aroma to you know that only belongs there…and then you meandered a bit until you got to Inner Cir. From there you crossed the lake and came home—the path you carelessly take when you've been frustrated with me and wish to stay something, but haven't yet swallowed your pride in order to do so. There's no better time than the present, John. Get to it."

John peered down at his friend, the detective, who was swaddled in various blankets and soothed by the fire, and said, "You're whining and it picks at my skin. Especially because you are the warmest person in the flat."

"And yet you hung up your coat. You're not finished… spit it out."

He closed his eyes briefly and opened them before responding, "May I join you?"

Sherlock looked bewildered. This wasn't an expression he often wore. John felt his gut attach itself to his heart and leech it down to his feet.

The violinist opened his mouth to speak, yet didn't until a few more fire crackled moments passed. "You didn't have to ask, John. I thought we were… together. Have I done something to upset you other than the moaning?"

"Things have just felt off recently. We've been busy and—"

Sherlock waved him off. "Shut up," he seethed.

"What?"

"Get yourself over here and quit making this any more complicated. It's cold. You have an excuse if you feel the need for one."

The fire nipped at his flesh while John found himself next to Sherlock. And, as he pressed his head in the crook of the violinist's shoulder and his legs entangled with the opposing pair, he said, "I'd shoot you for this."

"You really wouldn't," Sherlock responded.

They were silent for a while, until John quietly said, "Did you know you can change the colors? Of the fire? Might be entreating."