"John!"
John snuffles into wakefulness to Sherlock straddling his hips, his eyes lit up with glee. He gently shakes John's shoulder.
"Are you awake yet, John?"
"What?" John snorts, swatting at Sherlock's hands.
Sherlock grins toothily, "it snowed!"
John blinks slowly, "well that's nice, can I go back to sleep now? I can worry about getting to work in the morning at a more human hour."
He starts to turn over but Sherlock pulls him back, "no, John. It snowed. Actual, real, heavy snow. In London."
"I heard you the first time," John grunts, "take your coat off and come to bed."
John hears Sherlock growl quietly, but his weight lifts from John's hips and the door shuts. With a satisfied smile, John punches his pillow and rolls over. Before John can settle into something resembling sleep he hears the door creak open again and Sherlock's light footsteps on the wooden flooring.
"Finally decided to join me?" John mumbles, starting to make room for Sherlock's sleepy sprawl.
Instead of a warm body joining him in the bed, John feels two handfuls of snow dropped onto his chest.
"Jesus, Sherlock, you bastard. What was that for?" John flies to sitting, ice slowly melting on his skin and through the duvet.
Sherlock blinks, "are you naked under there?"
"Yes!"
Sherlock's mouth does something funny. It starts to curl up into a smile, but he tries to keep it under control, not wanting to face a pissed off John.
"Sherlock Holmes, you are a complete and utter cock," John shakes the snow out of his hair and throws a particularly large chunk towards Sherlock, who easily bats it away.
"Come outside with me, John."
"No," John shakes his head, "no way. Too cold."
"That's usually how you get snow, John."
"Alright, smartarse. I'm still not going outside with you."
"Please, John," Sherlock kneels by John's hip and touches his hand. He grins so his nose crinkles, "brand new, untouched snow. Don't you want to ruin it?"
John chews his lip and fights back a shiver, "ten minutes."
Sherlock's grin widens.
[][][]
John finds himself eagerly putting on his warmest clothes and borrowing one of Sherlock's scarves. He forces Sherlock's feet into his wellies and finds his own, still caked in mud from their last visit to a farm for a case. Sherlock flees down the stairs ahead of John, his keys jingling in his pocket.
"Hurry up!" He calls.
John rolls his eyes and pulls his scarf tighter, "I'm coming, I'm coming."
Obviously not coming quickly enough for Sherlock, John's hand is grabbed and he's pulled through their front door and down the street to the park not five minutes away.
He can't help but smile at the still falling snow and completely untouched park. It doesn't stay untouched for long as Sherlock runs with childish glee into the centre of the park. His leather gloves appear to be warm enough for him to roll a ball of snow between his palms and throw it into a tree, making snow fall in clumps.
John perches on the edge of a bench and watches snowflakes under the streetlamps. He suddenly swears at the biting chill of a snowball against his jaw and jumps up to make some ammo to throw back at Sherlock. An all-out snowball war breaks out between them, dashing behind trees and benches. They're evenly matched, John dodging with experience and Sherlock throwing carefully calculated over arms.
John is hit square in the face and he stumbles backwards, thankful for the snow cushioning his fall. He has trouble standing up, wiggling in his layers of coats and jumpers and eventually gives up, flopping his arms back into the snow and giggling. He giggles even more when Sherlock looms over him with an armful of loose snow.
John throws his hands in the air, "truce, you win. I've had enough snow dumped on me today."
With a grin, Sherlock throws it to the side and holds a hand down to John to heave him up.
They leave the park hand in hand and both drenched through to their pants. When they get home John pulls Sherlock up the stairs to the flat and orders him to strip. He folds their clothes neatly and leaves them by the radiator in the bathroom. Next he finds their warmest pyjamas and leaves Sherlock bundled in a thick blanket on the sofa while he sets the kettle to boil. He makes them both hot chocolate and joins Sherlock, who appears to be enjoying John's naturally higher temperature.
John nudges Sherlock's nose with his own, "mum used to always make chocolate for me and Harry after we'd been out in the snow. It was the only way to stop the all-out war we would have going. We built forts and had piles of snowballs, ready to be thrown. Sometimes we'd team up against the other kids in the street. The Watsons always won though."
"Mummy didn't let us out in the snow by ourselves after I fell in the pond when I was seven and got pneumonia," Sherlock sighs and cuddles closer to John, warming his hands on both his mug and John's body, "not being allowed always made me want it more."
"You were never allowed to play in the snow?"
"Rarely. She was scared it would happen again," Sherlock shrugs.
John smiles gently, "I've never seen you so happy. Not even triple murders put that look you had in your eyes."
Sherlock coughs a laugh and snuggles closer, "blame my mother, it's her fault I enjoy it so much."
"So now whenever it snows you go out in it?"
"Just because I can, yes."
John closes his eyes and rests his chin on Sherlock's fluffy hair.
"Are you warm enough now?" John asks after they've been quiet for ten minutes, and they've put their mugs on the coffee table, "ready for bed?"
Sherlock nudges John into lying on his back and wriggles on top of him, pulling the blanket over the both of them.
"I can't stay up here all night, Sherlock. I still have to go to the surgery tomorrow."
"Call in sick."
John pulls a disapproving face, "I can't call in sick because my boyfriend wants me to stay home to have snowball fights and then keep him warm."
"Why not?" Sherlock whines, nuzzling John's throat.
John laughs, "I just can't. It's not the way it works, you might create your own profession and hours, but Sarah'll have my head if I leave them when the weather's like this. Colds and sprained limbs in abundance."
"Fine," Sherlock groans as John drags him to the bedroom.
Luckily for John, Sarah calls him early in the morning to tell him he won't be needed until after the weekend. Sherlock insists he had nothing to do with it.
