Another of Atlin's b-word suggestions, inspired by the impending frigid weather here in Canada. Also felt like I needed a bit of fluff after yesterday's drabble.
Sherlock woke slowly, careful not to move too abruptly so as not to wake the five and a half feet of sleepy rumpled doctor curled up against him. There was a stillness in the air – it was still early enough that the city outside hadn't woken up yet, and the light seeping in around the curtains had a muted, grey quality. He got up and pulled the curtain aside gently to observe the city below. If he'd been the type for flights of fancy, he could almost see himself imagining that the two of them were alone in the world.
Winter had come on strong and sudden this year; the flat had been frigid until they'd turned on the heat for the night and pulled out the spare quilt. The heavy blizzard had started some time around three in the morning. John, unsurprisingly, had slept through it. It had been a long few weeks, and he needed the rest. Sherlock heard him stirring now though, as he crawled out of bed and padded up to the taller man's side and peered out the window as well.
Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's shoulder and rested his dark curls against John's sandy hair. The two of them stared outside in quiet contentment, watching the heavy snow settle across London like a blanket.