A/N : I don't own Sherlock, The Hobbit or Doctor Who. Just love them all to bits really.

"It was a bad day, lots of bad stuff

happened. And you know what? I'd

love to forget it all, every last bit of

it, but I don't. Not ever."

Doctor Who : Vincent & The Doctor

...

Watson dropped an extra cube of sugar into his tea, a splash more milk than usual.

It was, had been, rather is, one of those mornings.

Rain smattered against the window, a steady constant sound that brought forth the kind of warm comfort that came from bracing against the cold, battered up in an old sweater as he sat as near to the hearth as he could get.

A fire lit, kindled, and he closed his eyes, hands curled around a chipped mug, sunk back in Sherlock's austere leather chair.

Not really his first choice, just one that required less action.

Wind picks up, whistled in the mail flap and set his teeth on edge, toes curled in thick wool socks as he nurses his tea, head ducked till steam warms his nose and he inhales, slow and deep, chest expanding till abused ribs protest.

Lucky he hadn't broken anything, considering he had fallen several feet from a fire escape in a fantastically disastrous slip and right into a rubbish bin, catching his chest on the way down.

According to Sherlock, the look on Lestrades face had been mildly entertaining.

"You never sit in my chair."

Watson snorts, watching Sherlock sidle into the room from the corner of his eye.

Tucked up in a pale blue house robe as he lingers, as if waiting for Watson to recognize the error he has made, and divest himself from his chair.

"I was cold." Watson retorts, sinking back as if digging in his heels. "Yours was closet to the hearth."

Sherlock sniffs, scrutinizing him as he ran a hand through his tangle of dark hair.

"You're up early." He draws out the last word, rocking on the balls of his feet as this was causing him physical distress.

"Storm woke me." Watson mutters, "and I've no intention of moving, unless you want to pull my chair closer to the fire."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, consternated before he pivots, gripping the arms on Watson's chair and pulled it roughly across the hard wood.

"Better." Sherlock cocks a smile, flourishing a hand.

'Brilliant, thanks."

Muffled weather battled between them as Watson retreated from one chair down into another, wind whistled down the chimney pipe, sputtered the flame in the hearth as he picked up his mug and sipped at his tea..

Sherlock sank back, folding long legs up onto the seat so he could draw the hem of his house robe across them.

"Storm woke you too then?" Watson looked up as a crack of thunder followed his words, a vibration he could feel down into his bones as he grips the mug with tense fingers, trying to stem an uncooperative tremble that retreats up his arm and into his shoulder.

Remnants of old night terrors press against his breast bone, and he tries to orientate himself, because he'll be the first to admit that he is absolutely shattered, and he had assumed, wrongly it seemed, that a bright fire and a warm cup of tea could ease the worst of it.

"Your tea must have cooled, perhaps a fresh cup?"

Watson started, looking up.

Sherlock stared back, feet on the floor, thin fingers locked together over his knees and regarding Watson in a way that always left him somewhat wrong footed.

He looked down, brushed the brim against his lip, ignoring the hesitant tremor in his hand before taking a sip.

"That….would be splendid, thanks."

Sherlock's face crumpled slightly as Watson held out his mug, biting back a twitch of his lips.

"You never like my tea." Sherlock blew out a breath, lip close to pouting, hesitating long enough to see if Watson was playing before whisking the mug from his fingers with a disgruntled noise.

He couldn't see Sherlock, his back to the kitchen, but he could hear the petulant thunk as he set the kettle down to boil, rummaging around the dark with muttered grievances, as if Watson had purposely rearranged the tea cupboard again.

"Thanks, really." Watson smiled thinly, cradled the fresh mug in his hands and felt almost instantly sated by the warmth, overly sweet and far too milky and somehow perfect.

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, collapsing back into his chair, tea sloshing against the brim as he shook out his fingers, lip curling back in distaste.

"I had been trying think." Sherlock drawls after a moment, setting his tea gingerly down on a side table before shaking out his robe. "Heard you moving about, found it….distracting."

"What, more than all this?" Watson snorts, waving a hand towards the window.

"Before." Sherlock mutters, tone vaguely cryptic and Watson frowns.

"Before what?"

"You were having a nightmare." Sherlock looks at him, eyes narrow as if challenging Watson to refute him.

"…..oh."

Right.

A glimmer of a self satisfied smile pulled at Sherlock's lips.

"You were quite loud, in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Mrs. Hudson heard you."

Watson's flushed.

"Violent I take it?"

"I'm sorry." Watson said stiffly, setting down his mug before shifting forward. "For keeping you from thinking, but I might try -

"I've made you uncomfortable."

There was an underling note of something there that Watson couldn't put a finger on, hesitating on the verge of rising as Sherlock regarded him quietly, chairs close enough together now that their knees were practially touching.

"I'm tired Sherlo -

"Yes, considering you've been drinking caffeinated tea, which is redunant. Try coffee."

"All we have is caffeinated tea." Watson muttered, to bloody tried to feel properly irritated.

God help him.

"Perhaps if you told me -

"No, no. Don't want to discuss it, thanks."

"Would you mind if I read then?"

Sherlock was already stretching over the arm of his chair, rummaging around a mound of books pilled haphazardly close to the fire, before toppling the first three to reach the fourth.

"I ah….out loud?" Watson hedged, trying to keep pace with the turn of conversation.

"Yes." Sherlock blinked at him, thumbing the pages absently.

"I suppose so, I -

"It helps settle my mind." Sherlock opened the book, face disappearing behind a tattered paperback volume.

"I….."

Fingers spasm, spilling tea as he attempted to take another sip, stalling for time.

"In a hole in the ground their lived a -

"You…." Watson nearly spat out his tea. "Are you reading The Hobbit?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"…because you don't read fantasy, considering it's essentially useless and -

Sherlock lowered the book, "I could always read from one of my medical journals."

"I wasn't complaining." Watson scrubbed a hand down over his face, and entertained the possibility that perhaps he was still dreaming.

"My other material could adversely influence your dreams." Sherlock regarded him carefully, "as you have made several attempts to read this, well…it just seemed a logical choice."

"Would you rather -

"No, please, keep reading." Watson faltered, touched by the sentiment.

Sherlock nodded, hesitating the briefest of seconds before bringing the book up again, twisted just far enough in his chair to catch the light of the fire.

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat : it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort."

The End