They don't have too much longer left, and John is relieved. The tiredness in Sherlock's eyes is plain to see - though he's fed, and he's actually slept over the last few days. The wood poison is beginning to affect him, though not yet in any co-ordinational way that could endanger them. But that knowledge isn't enough to stop John worrying whenever he catches a faraway look in his lover's eyes.
"We should go back to Baker Street." John finally voices the thought that's been burning his mind for the last hour after checking the binding on Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock shakes his head, as John suspected that he would. "No. Not yet. We still have an hour."
"Yes, but you've been wood-poisoned."
"It's not serious. I'm fine."
"Not serious! Sherlock -"
Sherlock cuts him off with a sigh, standing up to his full height though he winces when that tugs on the wound. "I know, John. But you've seen it. It's only a scratch. An hour isn't going to severely impact my survival chances. Mrs Hudson will work her magic, and I'll be just fine in a day or two."
"Well, if you're sure . . ."
"When have you ever known me not to be?"
The sheer arrogance of the question makes John smile. Instead of answering, he tugs Sherlock's head down and kisses him, lips soft and gentle, warm in the night air but not as warm as when he was human. Sherlock pulls him close, and without either of them saying a word, they stand there, holding each other, kissing as if it'll be the last time and both of them feeling oddly blessed, as the city quietly begins waking up and the snow drifts slowly to the ground, coating the concrete and buildings in a blanket of white, as if this were an innocent land.
(This has never been an innocent land.)