Day 5 – Friday 18th December, 2015
"You know, I'm not tired or anything." John grumbled as Sherlock led him through a crowd of people in the minus degrees of central London on Friday evening. Unfortunately for John, all of the work he'd been procrastinating so masterfully had finally caught up with him. "It's not like I've been up since seven this morning. Some of us have important jobs."
"Oi." Sherlock retorted, grinning. "Anyway, Mr. Important, I'm sure you'll come to forgive me."
John regarded Sherlock with joking suspicion, aware that his acceptance of Sherlock's proposal, as it were, had put the detective in a perpetually good mood.
John wasn't complaining.
So John allowed Sherlock to lead him through the crowd of people clad in mittens and scarves until it parted like the red sea to reveal a large, rectangular ice skating rink erected above them.
John's eyes widened as he took in the people skating happily around, lights hanging overhead making a pool of light in the otherwise darkened world and illuminating the white ice so it looked magical.
"What's this?" He asked, vaguely stunned.
"I deduce it's an ice skating rink."
John rolled his eyes. "Yes, thanks, Detective. Impress stuff. What is it?"
Sherlock stifled a laugh. "This is me immersing us in the Christmas spirit." He admitted, rather smugly.
John nudged him. "I thought you were a Grinch."
"Oh, I am." Sherlock assured him, nodding profusely. "But I'm allowed to indulge my boyfriend every once in a while."
John smiled, he couldn't help himself, but at the same time he felt guilty. Sherlock was going to so much effort to make him happy and he felt bad about it, like Sherlock somehow subconsciously knew that John had had doubts and instead of being angry he was trying his best to make up for it. Like he was blaming himself instead of John.
"I don't deserve you." John found himself saying.
Sherlock rolled his eyes but wrapped an arm around him regardless. John liked having Sherlock's arms around him, he liked the safety and the comfort and the warmth and wished, ardently, that Sherlock would never let go.
…
John had only ever ice skated once before. He was twelve and his mum and dad, before he'd died, had taken him and Harry to a rink in Cornwall and John had spent most of his time falling over on the ice because he had no natural balance and Harry had spent most of the time clutching at the rail because she'd been laughing so much.
It turned out that the years had not improved his natural talent.
He clutched the side precariously, the pressure in his ankles threatening to topple him. Again.
John wasn't embarrassed, he was an adult who was aware of his limits and wasn't exactly going to enter the winter Olympics, not to mention the fact that he was so immersed in keeping himself upright that he didn't have room in his brain for embarrassment, but he had to admit that the whole affair would have been vaguely easier to stomach had Sherlock not been just as proficient in skating as he was in every other aspect of his life.
Sherlock came to a graceful stop in front of him, jutting his skates out to the side in a professional manner as if he'd had training.
"You okay?" The surprisingly graceful detective asked, fighting off a smile.
John frowned. "Have you done this before?"
Sherlock hesitated for a moment before joining him at the side. "My parents used to drag us out to France and Mycroft insisted on ice skating."
"That sounds incredible." John mumbled, trying to keep his footing.
"Not really." Sherlock shrugged. "I was always too busy hiding away with my chemistry experiments."
John's mind drifted as he tried to imagine that child, sequestering himself away from his parents and Mycroft for the benefit of science. John wondered if that child ever considered that one day he would be asking his boyfriend to move in with him and celebrating Christmas in the snow.
Sherlock was changing, and John knew he was the one making it happen. He was the one making Sherlock happier, he felt oddly proud.
"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock asked.
John shook his head. "Nothing. Just happy."
Sherlock returned the smile, leaning forward and kissing him gently on the nose.
"I don't see why." The detective whispered against his skin. "Because you'll just be on your arse again in five minutes."
With that, he took off like a bullet in a dramatic flurry of ice that sprayed John, causing him to unexpectedly lose his precarious balance and hit the floor again.
It was in that moment that John Watson vowed that, once he regained his balance, he would be the one to kill Sherlock Holmes.
…
John fell happily into 221B after their cab ride back home, clutching his sopping jacket tightly around himself as he heard Sherlock closing the door casually behind him.
John ran to the bathroom and ripped his cold jacket from his cold body, immediately finding one of the dark towels in the airing cupboard and wrapping it around himself.
Feeling minutely more comfortable but with his teeth still chattering, John made his way back to the living area to find Sherlock in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. He'd taken his suit jacket off and was clad in the purple shirt that was far too tight for him but John never found himself complaining.
He grinned as he watched the detective making tea, imagining how it would be like, both waking up early and grumbling in the morning, preparing to go off to their respective jobs and Sherlock, in his navy dressing gown, would smile sleepily at him as he made them tea.
"John?"
John blinked and looked at Sherlock staring quizzically at him.
"Sorry." John said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "I was just...a million miles away."
Sherlock smiled gently as he pressed a warm mug into John's hand and the now-editor physically shivered.
Sherlock chuckled and pulled on a corner of the towel, leading John to the living room. The pair collapsed down onto Sherlock's large armchair, wrapped around each other as if they were part of the same person.
John snuggled gratefully into the detective's warmth, as if he were his very own heater. Sherlock allowed John to slip his frosty hands into his own. He winced but it was worth it.
"You know, you're not really supposed to sunbathe on a floor of ice." Sherlock pointed out.
John sent him a dithering look. "Shut up, I just need a bit of practice, that's all."
"I'll take you to the French resort I was telling you about, if you like." Sherlock said, wrapping his arms tighter around John and settling happy.
John smiled as he warmed up.
"Thank you, for tonight." He said. "I had fun, I love being with you."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're about to be with me a whole lot more."
"Yeah." John said. "I can't believe I'm moving in. That's so bizarre. I've never lived with anyone before."
"No, neither have I." Sherlock said, "unless Mrs. Hudson counts, obviously."
John laughed and kissed Sherlock earnestly, feeling the detective smile against his lips as he kissed him back.
John had once thought that he'd never get tired of kissing Sherlock Holmes, and it had turned out that he was right. Sherlock never kissed like John expected him to, his mouth was always soft and persistent against his own, and no matter how many afternoons they spent wrapped up in each other, John would never get used to it. He wished he never would.
John moaned as Sherlock opened his mouth with his own, sighing as he felt the detective's tongue tangling wetly with his own.
He tried to moan out Sherlock's name but all that came out was a breathy jumble of sounds.
Sherlock pressed him down into the armchair and John felt Sherlock's weight hovering over him but didn't allow the detective to break the embrace for a single second, too lost in the hot, heavy feeling of Sherlock pressed against him.
"Oh, I didn't know you boys were back. I didn't hear the door go."
John was suddenly met with Sherlock's grey eyes staring at him before the detective manoeuvred himself from John and he was finally able to see Mrs. Hudson picking their abandoned mugs from the coffee table.
Sherlock perched awkwardly on the end of the chair, blush even more prominent on his alabaster skin, and John actually found himself grinning.
"You said 'obviously'." He knocked Sherlock's arm playfully.
Sherlock shook his head before breaking out into a small smile of his own.
The pair giggled quietly as Mrs. Hudson gave them a strange look and went into the kitchen. The moment her back was turned, Sherlock shot up and dragged John with him. John left the towel on the chair and allowed himself to be manhandled into what would soon be their bedroom.
A natural writer, John wanted to make a witty remark, but didn't have the chance as Sherlock pinned him to the door the moment it was shut.
John wasn't complaining.