A/N: prompted with snow. Sorry it's weird and choppy, bit it kinda works.


It's a well known fact that John wears jumpers. Hideous ones at that. It seems as the weather grows colder, the more horrendous the jumpers get. Today John wore one that was designed to be the most offending jumper with reindeers on it to grace this earth.

'Really, John?' Sherlock scoffs.

'What?' John asks defensively.

'That jumper is doing injustice to all of human kind!'

'I like it. It's festive.'

'Dear lord.' Sherlock rolls his eyes and emerged himself back into a medical journal. He tried so hard to focus on the journal, but just couldn't. Every time John moved about the flat the ornate reindeers caught his eyes. John faffed about the flat indifferent to Sherlock's disgruntled noises.

Eventually the bright red and green and blue beasts pushed Sherlock over the edge.

'John! Please! For the love of all that's holy remove that monstrosity! I can't concentrate on important work with those things prancing around the flat! It's bloody awful!'

John, at first, was shocked. He hadn't expected to Sherlock to hate his outfit so much. He knew the jumper was a bit over-zealous, but it still hurt to hear how much Sherlock hated it. John stood up and defrocked from his jumper. He let it fall to the rug.

'Sorry my clothes are distracting. I'll just leave if it bothers you all that much.' With that John took his leave. John bundled up into his jacket and walked out the door. Sherlock just stared after him. It was most certainly not his intention to scream and drive John away. That jumper was just so horrid. Sherlock groaned and throw himself face down onto the couch.


'Bloody wanker. Who is he to criticize my wardrobe?' Those where just a few of the phrases John angrily mutter as he stomped around the park. He was on his fourth lap around the lake when he ran into Mike Stamford.

'John!' Mike called. 'John! It's me, Mike. Nice to be seeing you again. I haven't seen you since I set you up with Sherlock.'

'Don't remind me.' John grumbled.

'Have a bit of a domestic?' Mike chuckled.

'Yeah. A bit.'

'Wait, are you serious? I didn't know you guys were together! That's great, mate. I mean- its not great you're having a fight, but you understand. Congrats.'

John just grunted.

'Well, anyways, what did the sodding idiot do this time?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Clearly it does matter. You wouldn't be stopping around the park in negative ten degree weather if it wasn't a big deal. I remember once my wife threw me out during a blizzard! A bloody blizzard! Could you imagine that? I was freezing.'

'Sounds awful.'

'It was. I didn't do anything wrong, honest. I just-'

That conversation lasted way longer than it should have. Mike went on to explain the semantics of his worst domestic. John sat listening to the chatter box ramble about the old hag at home and so on and so forth. Not to long after Mike started talking John zoned out. He occasionally gave an affirmative nod or mumble of agreement to keep up the facade of listening.


'Yoo-hoo!' Mrs. Hudson called as she slunk into the flat. Sherlock merely moaned with discontent. 'Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?'

'Nothing, Mrs. Hudson! John just up and left me here!' He whined.

'Have a bit of a domestic?'

'Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know!' Sherlock curled up tighter into the coach.

'John doesn't "just up and leave" you. You must have given him a reason.'

'Why does everyone always blame me? Why isn't it ever John's fault?'

'Thats precisely right. It's never John's fault.' She sat down and
placed a hand on his hip. 'He does so much for you. Sherlock, you don't see half of it. You're crazy, insane, sociopathic, impulsive, rude, clinical, and critical yet he still loves you. You have to treat John better than you do. So now tell me what happened?'

'He wore that ugly jumper with the multicolored reindeer. It distracted me from my work.' He looked up at Mrs. Hudson. 'It looked as though the South African flag exploded on his chest. That jumper is horrendous.'

'Sherlock. I'll bet it's not all that bad.'

'See for yourself. He left it next to his chair.' Se stood up and grasped the warm wool.

'I do admit its quite... Interesting.' She chuckled. Suddenly a realization dawned on her. 'Sherlock, did John leave with out a shirt on?'

'Yes.'

'It's snowing! He is going to freeze!'


The snow was coming down in sheets. It blanketed all on London in white. No one was outside. No one was dumb enough to go out in this weather. No one except Sherlock, of course. As he trudged through the thick white layer he left behind a trail. It was snowing so hard the path was getting covered up almost as soon as it was made. Sherlock turned his head away from the brunt of the wind.

'John!' Sherlock called out as he saw the short flaxen haired man. 'John, please wait!'

'Sherlock?' John was squinting into the blurry white storm at the moving body. Sherlock came running.

'John! You're an idiot!' Sherlock said while embracing him tightly. 'Your going to get hypothermia out here.'

'So will you.'

'I didn't leave with out a jumper.' Sherlock opened the flaps of his large coat and invited John in. John eagerly was enveloped in the warmth.

'Well it was doing injustice to all human kind. Why would I wear it?'

'Because its festive.' Sherlock said quietly. He stepped back from John minutely and passed John something. John felt the soft fabric of his jumper in his hands. He looked up at Sherlock with teary eyes. This was about as close to an apology Sherlock was ever going to give him. John stripped off his coat and quickly threw on his jumper. Sherlock passed him the jacket. Instantly John felt much better.

'Thank you.' John tilted up and placed a chaste kiss in his lips.

'Its all fine.'


The storm came and went. Luckily, so did an animosity between the two men of 221b Baker Street. Everything seemed to be happy and in place. That was until the next storm came. The blizzard was supposed to last four days.

When John awoke on the day the storm was forecasted to begin he stumbled into the living room and saw something a bit out of place on his seat. A horribly, incredibly, insanely, exceedingly horrid jumper was laid across the back. It had a smiling snowman on the front and little Father Christmases all around it.

John smiled.

'Thanks, Sherlock.' He said to the empty air in front of him.