London is having its snowiest winter ever. The city doesn't have enough snow ploughs or other ways to keep up with it, and has asked the citizens to pitch in to keep the city functioning. John has taken on the task of keeping the area in front of 221 Baker Street accessible, including Speedy's, who supplies him with free coffee and cookies in gratitude. Sherlock is, of course, scoffing at all this civil minded do goodness, and is grumbling every time he tries to get around London for his cases.
John was shovelling hard after the latest snow dump, feeling warm and even a bit sweaty from the exertion. The snow banks are almost as tall as he is now, making it even more work, having to lift the shovel higher and fling the snow on top. He's got a rhythm going, and doesn't even notice that Sherlock has returned, and prior to entering their building, has stepped close to tell John something. Instead, he gets a big shovelful of snow right in the face.
The squawk of outrage and the sputtering as Sherlock shook his head and scraped the wet clinging snow from his hair and face had John turning to him. His expressions went from distress and worry to amusement as the detective's red, wet face emerged, his eyes firey.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said as he set his shovel to lean against the snowbank and moved towards his flatmate, one corner of his mouth struggling to break into a smirk. "Are you OK?"
"No! I certainly am not! To be treated in such a manner on a public street!" The detective huffed, his upper crust privilege coming out more strongly than normal.
John didn't know if he should bow apologetically or tug at his forelock. What was the proper thing for a peasant like himself to do to appease the nobility? He chuckled, mostly to himself, at the thought. Glancing at his work, he decided he had done enough for now.
"Come on, let's get you inside and warmed up," John said, trying his best to keep a straight face. He grabbed Sherlock's arm to guide him into the building, and set his shovel down in the entranceway.
Turning towards Sherlock, he slowly unwrapped his scarf from around his neck. There was snow still clinging to it, and it was shaken free from the motion. Most ended up on the floor, but some went into the upturned collar of Sherlock's Belstaff coat, and touched against the bared skin of his neck.
"Careful!" Sherlock admonished with a shudder, pulling off his gloves and working on the buttons of his coat.
Rolling his eyes, John again tried to keep it together as he bent to pick up the gloves Sherlock had dropped on to the floor, and set them on a side table. He helped Sherlock take off his long coat, and hung up. "Why don't you take off your shoes here and go upstairs to warm up?"
With his lips pursed in distaste, Sherlock followed the directions and scampered up the stairs in his damp socks, slamming the door of the flat behind him.
John sighed, and took off his own winter gear. He had a thick parka, but found it a bit too heavy to wear snow shovelling. It was hard physical work that got his heart pumping and warmed him up. A thick jumper, a scarf, gloves and thick boots were all he usually wore for this. They were soon stored away neatly, and John headed up the stairs, carefully avoiding stepping on the wet spots with his dry socks.
Entering the flat, he could only shake his head. The fireplace was blazing, and Sherlock had pulled his chair directly in front of it. His legs were splayed, his feet close to each side of the hearth, and his body buried under the largest blanket they owned.
Going through to the kitchen, John started the tea and peaked inside the refrigerator for dinner ideas. There was leftover soup Mrs. Hudson had brought them yesterday. He could make some toasties later to go with it.
Making up a couple large mugs of tea, John carried them out to the living room, and set them down on a table. He shifted his own chair to be closer to the fire and moved the table to be beside it. He passed one mug to Sherlock, who held it with both hands and took small sips, still staring moodily into the fire.
John relaxed into his own chair. The tea hit the spot, quenching his thirst from all the shovelling. It was a good workout, actually, and he rolled his shoulders, checking on how his weaker one was doing. If anything, the frequent activity was making it stronger.
"Still cold," Sherlock said, setting his empty cup down on the floor near the hearth, and burrowing back below his blanket.
"Maybe you could take a really hot bath. Warm up that way?" John said, feeling a bit exasperated. It was like living with a six foot toddler at times. But his doctor instincts kicked in. "Turn your chair towards me. I need to check your feet."
It had been an ongoing debate between them, ever since the snow started accumulating on the streets. John had told him to use warmer footwear outside, but Sherlock had turned up his nose at the idea of wearing winter boots. It had gone as far as John even buying him a pair, but they sat untouched by the door. John bugged him about ruining his hand-stitched Italian dress shoes, but even that hadn't swayed the stubborn detective.
Sherlock did at least shift his big chair to face John, and lifted his right foot to rest it on John's knee. John worked the thin, damp sock off, and examined his foot by the firelight. His fingers traced over it, looking for signs of frostbite, like areas that had gone pale and numb, from the blood flow stopping to a damaged place. He sighed in relief when he could only see skin that red from cold. He gave the other foot the same review, and set it on the rug.
"Fine this time, but is it really worth the risk for the sake of fashion?" John huffed, his own frustration at his flatmate showing more than usual.
"My feet feel even colder now, without the socks," Sherlock grumbled, ignoring John's comment.
John was feeling a bit tired now, from the exercise and the warmth of the tea and the fire. He shifted sideways in his chair, extending his warm, dry-socked feet towards the fire, and almost sighed at good it felt. Now just to shut up his whining flatmate for a bit so he could have a nap before dinner.
"Tuck your feet under my leg," John said, grabbing a throw from the back of his chair to drape over his body.
Sherlock blinked at him in surprise for a couple moments, but then rested his feet on the edge of John's chair. John lifted his outer leg slightly, and Sherlock shifted his feet forward. Relaxing back into his chair, John could feel Sherlock's feet under his thigh, a bit cold, a bit boney, but not that uncomfortable. At least it shut him up. John drifted off.
...
He awoke later, not really sure how much time had passed. Blinking, he rubbed his face and glanced around. Sherlock was mostly in shadow, the firelight flickering over him, and he seemed to be looking his way.
"Feeling warmer now?" he asked, rolling his shoulders and curling his back into a stretch. His stomach gave a bit of an empty grumble. Time to make dinner.
Sherlock gave a noise of protest when John got up, but then curled up on his own chair, legs tucked under his blanket. He stared into the fire moodily.
Knowing better than to expect an answer when Sherlock was like this, John went into the kitchen. Soon, the soup was heating up and he was slicing cheese.
He carried the plate of hot sandwiches and a couple mugs of soup into the living room, and set them on the coffee table. Switching on the telly, he found an old movie, a black and white film noir, and settled down in the sofa. "Come over and eat while it's hot," John called over to Sherlock, pulling a blanket over his lap as he dug into his meal.
It was always about a 50/50 probability that Sherlock would eat when presented food. John tended to just set it out and hope for the best. Sometimes, he would wrap it up and put it in the fridge if Sherlock didn't eat it. Sometimes he'd leave it near him, hoping the berk would eventually notice it and eat the cold food because it was convenient.
This time, Sherlock stayed bundled in his blanket and sat beside John, eating the food without complaint and watching the movie. It was times like this when John enjoyed sharing a flat with him. Someone to share a meal and a quiet meal with. So much better than those lonely nights in his bedsit.
After finishing the meal, John sat back and got comfortable with his blanket to watch the rest of the movie. Sherlock shifted too, leaning back against the armrest with a pillow under his head.
John almost jumped when he felt something pressing against his thigh. Realizing what it was, he glanced over at Sherlock. Was this a thing now? Was he going to let Sherlock tuck his feet under his leg whenever they were sitting close to each other in the living room?
Sherlock was looking back at him calmly, and John just shrugged internally and shifted to allow Sherlock to slide his feet in place. His flatmate would complain a bit less if his feet were warm.
They both turned their attention back to the movie. It was one of the better film noirs, with a good storyline and a very beautiful actress, glorious in 1950s fashions.
Sherlock scoffed. "How can she even run like that in those heels? In that narrow skirt?"
"As if you are one to talk. You chase criminals in bespoke suits and Italian shoes, even when there's six feet of snow out there," John shot back, but with little heat. It was an old debate.
Sherlock wiggled his toes under John's leg. "I seem to be handling it fine."
John scoffed. "You really have a selective memory. Have you already deleted from your Mind Palace how much you were complaining about being cold an hour ago?"
"No, I'm still a bit cold, actually," Sherlock said dismissively.
Rolling his eyes at his flatmate's disregard for his transport, John turned to face him. "What you wear is fine when it's above freezing, but when the temperature drops, you should really wear the boots and layer with a jumper."
Sherlock just stared at the telly, not conceding to John's points.
"I trained for a few weeks in Canada one winter. Hypothermia is a risk, especially for someone as slim as you are."
That got a look from Sherlock. "When were you in Canada? Why?"
"They have some British training bases there," John said with a shrug. "I learned how to treat hypothermia. Saw some cases of it."
"Next you'll be telling me about people sleeping in the same sleeping bag to stay warm," Sherlock said, rolling his own eyes.
John glared at him, feeling frustrated. "It is surprisingly effective."
Sherlock didn't seem convinced.
Sometimes it was better to prove a point instead of arguing about it. At least that's what John told himself as he pulled back Sherlock's blanket and laid down beside him, before tugging the blanket over both of them.
The sofa wasn't that wide, so of course they were in full contact along the length of their bodies. John felt a surge of awareness with this, but was also almost instantly aware that Sherlock's body was colder than his own. Swearing, he wrapped his arms around the man tightly. "You damn fool," John grumbled, his face pressed against Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock had stiffened in surprise at first, but as John stayed wrapped around him, he relaxed little by little. John was warm, very warm, and the heat was sinking into to him in a delicious way. Not just on the outer surface, but sinking deeper. Thawing him out from the inside. He shivered at the fast change in his own temperature.
Along with the heat came an awareness. They touched each other in passing, and longer when John was treating one of his injuries. But this was different, longer. Body against body. Full contact. Sherlock rarely has this with anyone. Especially not John. John...
"Ah," Sherlock started, feeling a bit lost for words. "Um, yes, yes... I think you have proved your point," he said, and gave John's good shoulder a small push.
But John didn't get the message. He lifted his head to grin down at Sherlock triumphantly. "Exactly! And it's supposed to be even faster with less clothes on."
He had said the words without thinking, and they seemed to hang in the air between them. The room seemed suddenly too quiet, and Sherlock could only look at John, still so close, feeling incredibly aware of the sound of their breathing. His own heartbeat seeming to get louder, and faster.
As he watched, John's eyes widened slightly, and then dipped downwards. Staring at Sherlock's lips in a way that made him feel self-conscious. Making him feel desperate to lick them.
John's eyes met his again, a heat in them that was totally new but so, so welcome. Sherlock felt an answering surge of warmth through his body, his heart thumping now. He opened his mouth to gasp at this, and somehow they were kissing. Wet and hot. Warm lips pressing together.
Sherlock was shocked for a few seconds, but then wrapped his arms around John tight. John grunted at that, swearing softly and shifting to be in even fuller contact, sinking against him. Sherlock wasn't just warm now, he burned.
It was only the sound of someone coming up the steps that halted things. John pulled away with another swear under his breath. He sat up at his end of the sofa and yanked his blanket back in place. Sherlock followed his lead, pulling his own cover over his recumbent form.
"Woo hoo," Mrs. Hudson called out, knocking once before opening the door. "I just finished this shortbread. It's best hot from the oven."
John nodded at the plate of biscuits she carried. "Perfect! Those will go great with our tea."
She set the plate down on the coffee table, and chuckled at their blankets. "Warming up after being outside, are you? Maybe move closer to the fireplace, dears."
"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, warmly but also dismissively. "We are managing fine in that respect."
Nodding, she left and they heard her descending back to her flat with a mutual sigh of relief.
The biscuits did smell good, and John carefully took a bite of the warm buttery treat, but still managed to get some crumbs on his jumper. He brushed them away as he popped the rest into his mouth. As he chewed, he thought he heard an unusual sound, and gazed over at Sherlock.
"Are you humming?" he chuckled. "That sounds like a Christmas carol, a week too late. I'm surprised you didn't delete them all, actually."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know a few. But that wasn't a Christmas carol."
"I beg to differ," John replied. "It's often played at Christmas."
"But the lyrics simply refer to winter conditions. No mythical saints or savoirs, no virgin births."
John must not have looked convinced, as Sherlock began to sing.
Oh the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful
And since we've no place to go
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...
Chuckling, John had to nod in agreement. "OK, OK... not in that verse anyways. Why are you singing it anyways?"
Sherlock gave him The Look, which despite what they had just been doing still irked John. He let out a huff of frustration.
Seeming to take pity on him, Sherlock didn't even roll his eyes as he sang another verse.
When we finally kiss goodnight
How I hate going out in the storm
But if you really hold me tight
All the way home I'll be warm...
That had John bursting out laughing. "Is that going to be your new excuse not to dress properly for this weather?"
Sherlock simply smirked, his eyes warm. "Well, we need to test if it's quicker to warm me up without clothes still, don't we?"
Crawling over his prone flatmate, John grinned down at him. "I vote for testing it out now," he whispered, and gave Sherlock a very thorough kiss. It felt good when Sherlock groaned in response, his legs and arms coming around John to get him even closer.
After a few minutes, John pulled back for some air. Sherlock whined in complaint, kissing his way down his neck.
"I can't go any further until I know that door is locked. No chance of getting interrupted," John said, a bit breathlessly.
He was promptly dumped on to his side as Sherlock wiggled out from beneath him and was securing the door. He leaned back against it, his hair messed up by their make-out session, his clothing rumpled, and his eyes almost glowing.
Fuck. John thought, getting off the sofa and being drawn to Sherlock like he was a magnet. Sherlock held out his hand when he was near, and tugged John towards his bedroom. Arousal kicked up hard inside John at that. Who would have thought they would be together in Sherlock's bed even yesterday?
Sherlock carefully locked his bedroom door behind them, an extra bit of security for John's piece of mind. He stalked forward, his gaze intent, and John marvelled at seeing him like this. A man he'd always thought of as asexual.
Clothes came off between heated kisses, dropped carelessly on to the floor. John was already so aroused, having not been with anyone for ages.
He pushed Sherlock, relishing his shocked look as he fell back onto the unmade bed, his long limbs inelegantly splayed. Chuckling, John climbed over him, grinning down at his flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. Had Sherlock ever looked so delicious?
Dipping his head down, John captured Sherlock's lips in a deep, hungry kiss. Almost immediately, he felt Sherlock's arms and legs wrap around him, pulling him in closer. John couldn't help but groan at feeling something hard pressing against his hip.
"Lube, do you have-" John got out, before Sherlock almost hit him in the head as his arm shot out, fumbling around in the bedside table.
Prep was quick but thorough, and they both groaned when finally fully together. They shifted and found a good rhythm, hitting all the best spots, panting and straining together. It was fast, messy and glorious.
Within a few minutes, they were lying together in an exhausted but satisfied heap. Sherlock traced a hand down John's sweat-slick back, and John pressed a open-mouth kiss against his neck.
"I would say the experiment was a success, Doctor. I feel truly warm everywhere," Sherlock said in his wickedly sexy purr.
John grinned, glad that Sherlock wasn't having any post-sex regrets. "The weatherman said this cold snap could be around for the rest of January."
"Mmmmmm," Sherlock hummed contentedly. "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."
...
-A/N: Just a fluffy winter fic. It just snowed a lot where I live.
-Merry Christmas! Happy holidays! Happy New Year!