A/N: I have no excuse for this one except that I love winter/snow scenes and have been severely disappointed in the lack of snowfall where I live. That's it.
Word count: 790+
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Warning(s): shameless fluff, mentions of Anderson
Of Gloves and Lack Thereof
It was well below freezing in London and dark as ink. The moon was nowhere to be found that night, its former comforting light obscured by clouds. The only lights come from the dim streetlights and the windows of apartment occupants who choose to stay awake. Not many people do, especially after a blizzard, and to John it seems that all of London is huddled under a quilt somewhere. He rather misses the rain himself.
Considering the weather, then, one would assume there would be no legitimate reason to be taking a stroll. That's what John is doing regardless, and he supposed that there really wasn't a legitimate reason for doing it. Who ever had a sane reason to follow Sherlock?
At least John was in the appropriate gear. He had pulled on layer upon layer of winter wear before braving the icy disaster that London had become. Sherlock strolled on ahead of him, wearing only his usual coat as a shield against the frigid wind; John shivered just imagining it.
"Do try to keep up, John. As much as I love to keep Lestrade waiting, I'd like to get there before Anderson solves the case. Next year." Sherlock huffed, irritated by the mere thought of it, and John could see his breath cloud the air. For some reason, this makes John smile.
"You've got to be freezing," John said, quickening his pace to fall in line with the detective. "You could have at least worn gloves."
"Oh, bugger off," Sherlock muttered. John sighed and stared mournfully at Sherlock's hands; despite Sherlock's apparent disregard for the weather his fingers had certainly noticed it. The spindly digits had gone beet red from exposure to the cold, and John thought of the frost burned human feet in their freezer. John reeled.
"Your fingers are going to fall off, Sherlock. You'll get frostbite for sure."
"Unlikely. We're having limited exposure to the cold despite your paranoia, and we aren't too far off now. Honestly, I thought you were a doctor."
"You're an idiot." John didn't say anything more on the matter, though, and he managed to force himself not to look at Sherlock's hands again. "It's going to be an interesting case, then?"
Sherlock snorted. "Not really. I'm just bored enough to need to get out of the house. I do go stir crazy, you know."
John shook his head, a disbelieving smile stretching over his lips. "How do I live with you?" he mused. "Needing to get out of the house in negative degrees…"
Sherlock grinned back. Sherlock always grinned back for John. "You live thrillingly."
"Certainly never a dull moment," John agreed, pondering this. He was so trained on this thought that he didn't think before taking Sherlock's hand. He could feel how cold Sherlock's fingers were even through his cotton gloves, and John was squeezing Sherlock's hand before he even fully realized he was holding it. Sherlock glanced at him with genuine surprise. John blushed and started to defend his actions, but his words died on his lips when Sherlock twined his fingers his and returned the squeeze.
They didn't say anything about it or even dared to look at one another. They just walked through the wintry London scape with careful smiles toying on their lips, crunching footprints in the snow that came closer and closer together.
It didn't occur to John just how close together they were walking until they arrived at the crime scene and all eyes landed on them.
Lestrade's eyes lit up. "Oh, did you guys finally give up and shag, or what?"
Jon gaped, blushed, and tried to move away, but Sherlock's frozen grip was surprisingly unrelenting. "No, nothing of the sort," Sherlock said, seeming altogether unruffled by the accusation.
"He wouldn't wear gloves," John explained quickly. Lestrade's grin did not falter, though Anderson's interest dissolved almost immediately. Sally's disapproving stare only hardened. Sherlock, apparently unamused, huffed. "Are we here to solve a hideous crime or discuss my love life?"
"Or lack thereof," John added hastily, looking choked.
Sherlock snored. "Yes, John. Whatever. Obvious."
Lestrade looked as if he was quickly approaching the point where the options were either laugh or explode. Sally muttered something under her breath that John didn't catch, and Lestrade was done for. Sherlock, who had caught it, went noticeably red in the ears, although his expression gave nothing away otherwise.
Anderson, for once, was the sensible one and just grunted with disgust. He turned back to the crime scene and resumed pointing out things that Sherlock immediately deemed irrelevant. John smiled and allowed himself to be swept into the case; things went on as usual, disturbing genius observations and near-harassment of an officer and all.
Still, Sherlock's hand never left his.
Just want to throw in that I adore all of my reviewers and I hope that I can post-up more better-quality stuff soon. I'm not the most experienced or the most talented, but I appreciate every review I get and each one makes my day. :) Thanks to everybody!