From Winter Winks 221: The First Snow
I have always loved snow, ever since I was a boy. Christmases in Edinburgh were spent among my brother and our cousins, tobogganing down Arthur's Seat and engaging in snowball fights, until finally retiring to a warm fire and hot cocoa in the evening.
The first snow after my return to England, following a brief career in the army, came as a terrible shock. As the temperature dropped, the ever present ache in my lower calf resolved into a terrible pain, of a different kind to anything I had experienced before. I had known pain, of course, as the bullet tore into my calf. That pain was blinding, near vomit inducing. I thought I should never experience something worse.
This pain, however, was of a different ilk. Deep, aching, impossible to soothe. All night I tossed and turned, unable to alleviate the unbearable pressure, certain my creaking bed springs would awaken my new flatmate (though he kept odd hours, this Holmes fellow, so perhaps not).
The next morning, I huddled in my armchair and looked warily out the window. White flakes swirled past, once a source of childlike awe, now of deepest mistrust. I was early in my recovery, my new injury and I still in the process of getting to know one another, and I felt the grief of all I had lost on the battlefield more keenly than ever.
The snow fell for two more days, during which I slept little and found it difficult to concentrate even on my novels. Holmes noticed my dour mood.
"You do not like snow," he announced, matter-of-fact, after nearly twenty minutes spent unsuccessfully trying to engage me in conversation.
I pulled a blanket wearily about my shoulders. "Just leave me be, Holmes."
He hesitated a moment, but did as I said and retired early to his room without another word. I sighed quietly to myself, but lacked the energy even to make amends. I laid my head back and tried my best to sleep.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, the pain in my leg had dulled to a more acceptable level. Cracking open my eyes, I saw the snow outside had ceased.
"Better?"
I swore and jolted from the armchair, listing to one side as my wounded leg buckled under my weight. I would have fallen, if not for a sudden presence at my side supporting me.
"Holmes." I didn't mean his name to leave my mouth as a recrimination - he had just saved me major embarrassment - but I found myself quite bemused at his presence. "I thought you went to bed?"
"I have a working theory," he informed me cheerily, entirely ignoring my question and handing back the blanket which had fallen from my shoulders.
He started blathering on then, about air pressure and the shrinking rate of metals in cold, and various working theories as to the effect of the weather upon my war wound. For the most part I tuned him out, drifting into a deeper sleep now I was able. One sentence stuck with me, however.
"I shall have to collect data over several years, several snowfalls-"
Several years? Did Holmes expect us to lodge together for that long? I myself had kept all thoughts firmly diverted from the future, for fear of what my mind might conjure up. At times it felt as though I had no hope of a future at all.
I did not know my new flatmate well, but fell asleep with a smile at the thought of lodging with him here in Baker Street for years to come.