John Watson loves the snow.
John Watson loves the snow. He loves how it feels on his face when it floats down from the sky. He loves how the London city turns the snow into sludge quickly but not quick enough for people to enjoy it. He loves how it creates a wonderfully scenery. Almost picturesque. Like a post card.
What John Watson loves most about the snow though is the feelings that it brings. The memories. He would sit alone on the bench positioned outside St Barts. Watching life pass as he tightly gripped his crane. As a sort of security blanket. The cane was his only hold left on reality as he sat there contemplating his emotions. His times on the bench helped him to think. It helped him think of Sherlock.
The snow was almost as white as the detective's skin and no doubt if he was still alive he would tell John the obscurity of it all. John would picture Sherlock's coat whirling around with the falling snow as the man rushed about London. Trying to solve the cases.
The snow provided John Watson with a gateway to the past. To the exact moment when Sherlock Holmes had hit the solid pavement near the very spot John would sit. It was a gateway to the day that John Watson died. Not physically but mentally. But what the snow did for John Watson, more than provide a link to the past, was that it made him feel cold.
Cold like his ever developing interior in a life without Sherlock Holmes.
Yes. It is safe to say John Watson loves the snow but for all the wrong reasons.