It's fucking freezing here at work, the heater's broken and it's about -15 C out there. I thought a bit of unexpected first kiss fluff might help warm me up, and once again poor John is bearing the brunt of my current misery.


It's absolutely frigid outside, the type of cold that settles deep down in your bones and keeps you chill for hours, even after you're ensconced in the safe warmth of home. John's commute home has been miserable, he can barely move his finger and the hem of his good work trousers are covered in a revolting brown mix of slush and salt. He trudges up the stairs, resigned to an evening of attempting to warm up and dealing with whatever insanity his flatmate's consigned him to tonight.

When he gets up to the top of the stairs, Sherlock greets him by helping him out of his coat and rubbing John's frigid hands between his long, dexterous, surprisingly warm ones.

"Are you alright, John? It's miserable out there. I've just put the kettle on; I'll make you some tea while you change into some dry warm clothes."

John just stares at Sherlock as if he's grown another head.

"Not good?"

And suddenly, incredibly, everything just clicks into place.

"No, Sherlock. Good. Very good. Perfect."

Before John has time to think about what he's doing, he grabs the lapels of Sherlock's housecoat and pulls the taller man down to his level, pressing his chapped, frozen lips against Sherlock's incredibly warm, soft mouth.

They both ignore the kettle's insistent whining as the water boils.