AN - Thanks for the prompt. I am trying to improve my fluff skills, so here's another bit of fluff for you. It's ridiculously hot, at least it is where I am, so I don't know what I'm doing writing a winter one. Never mind. It's quarter past three in the morning and fluff has started working now, so here it is. I don't know how good it really is because I haven't slept properly in a while, but then, Saul Bellow did say 'You never have to change anything you got up in the night to write.' Let's hope that's true. I did kind of go off the whole pillow thing, but I hope that's okay and you like it. Thought of a name for this one too.
Pillow ~anon
The Snow Keeps Falling
John yawned, humming a little as he curled up under the warmth of the duvet. Snow fluttered down outside, settling still and undisturbed on the windowsill, while the snow on the street lay embedded with footprints and car tracks as London continued to move. He reached to the other side of the bed, only to find it was cold and empty. He opened his eyes and gazed at the clearly bare side of the bed. No detective lay beside him, with his messy bed-hair and crumpled clothes.
"Sherlock?" he called groggily, sitting up a little. As he gazed about the empty bedroom, the cold air around him slipped beneath the covers and crawled across his skin. He shivered. "Sherlock?" he called again, but there was no answer. He picked up his phone and sent a text as he crawled back under the covers, trying to regain the lost warmth.
Where are you? I'm cold and lonely. -JW
John sighed, dropping his phone beside him on the bed, closing his eyes. A cold breeze fluttered around the room from the window - they'd never quite fixed it from that rather interesting experiment Sherlock had carried out in their bedroom. John shivered and curled up tighter.
An arm slipped around his waist and hot breath brushed past his ear.
"Sorry." A smile crawled across John's lips as his eyes fluttered open. Full, soft lips traced his ear. Sherlock pressed warm kisses to the ear, then to the small amount of John's neck that could be reached beneath the covers. "Sorry for leaving you, my dear," Sherlock hummed, pulling John a little closer. "I shouldn't have left you here all… cold and lonely." John's smile widened as he turned to face Sherlock and slipped into his embrace. One of Sherlock's arms was wrapped around John's waist, holding him close, the other hand on the back of the doctor's sandy head. John unconsciously clutched onto the front of Sherlock's soft grey t-shirt, his head against the detective's chest.
"Not cold and lonely anymore," John murmured happily, shifting just a little closer. Sherlock smiled and pressed another soft kiss to the top of John's head. "Where did you go?" the doctor asked sleepily.
"Made tea," Sherlock replied as another cold draft billowed through the bedroom.
"Oh?" John hummed, making no effort to move.
"Yes." Sherlock's fingers slipped through John's soft blond hair. "But I'm warm here."
"So am I," John sighed. "I don't want to move."
"Don't then." The room relapsed into quiet. The snow still fluttered down around them, blanketing sleepy London under a sheet of white. The sun caught on the snow, sparkling the way a diamond ring might in candlelight. The criminal underworld seemed a thousand miles away from the cosy little flat and a million thoughts away from the minds of detective and doctor as they lay, perfectly still and content to be so, in a the warm bed of 221B.
The day drew on slowly, and for some time the pair lay in comfortable quiet in their bedroom as the snow continued its steady fall. After some time, John turned his head up to look at Sherlock, and found himself gazing into Sherlock's indescribably beautiful eyes. They remained for a moment, losing themselves in each other, before they moved together and their lips met.
Sherlock's fingers trailed through John's soft hair, pulling him closer with the arm around his waist. John's hand slipped up to cup Sherlock's snow white cheek, the cold air rushing in under the covers as he moved, but neither could care. They shared each other's warmth, and that was all they needed on that cold winter morning. Cases could be solved later, the taxis could be jumped in and the criminals could be chased in the afternoon, for now they just needed the soft quiet and the fluttering snow and to be wrapped in each other's arms. Gentle, warm kisses. Neither wanted anything more on the snowy February morning. And the tea stood, cold, on the bedside table.
"I love you, Sherlock," John murmured between kisses.
"I love you, too," Sherlock replied.
John dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets, another shiver running through him. He gazed up and down the road. The snow continued its steady fall, but the streets were grey and the covering on the pavement was worn by feet and salt into slush.
Sherlock had gone into some side street that was still almost completely white to check on something. Footsteps had been marked that morning, and it was absolutely essential that they remain undisturbed, so John stayed on the street, shivering, just waiting for Sherlock's return. He didn't mind. Sherlock wouldn't be long. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, nor was it an offending one. Sherlock was Sherlock, his brilliant mind worked in incredible, unique, wonderful ways, and he needed some things to be a certain way. It was just the way things were. If he needed John to leave the flat so he could go to his mind palace, sometimes John would roll his eyes, but he would comply. Sherlock positively glowed when he was on a case, his mind buzzing and his eyes gleaming. He was a beautiful man, with a stunning mind and an even more incredible heart. Some people would ask if he was annoying, when he had to go off on his own for something and John would be left waiting, but John couldn't mind. It was just a part of his genius. Another little thing for John to love. And Sherlock's heart was something people believed he didn't have. But John knew it was there. Somewhere under the snowy skin, deep inside him, was the biggest, most wonderful heart John had ever known.
The sky mirrored London in its grey haziness, filtering white flecks onto the shops and the houses and the people as they rushed along with their lives. Most moved like ants, carrying their needs and following their line, focusing on what must be done, but occasionally, you could see someone who'd look up, someone who'd see the snow falling from London's canopy of cloud and who'd just stop to gaze upon the world with a smile. Someone who'd revel in a warm cup of coffee or a flickering fire. Or a favourite scarf.
"Right, we need to get back to the yard." John turned around to see his detective standing right beside him, looking down on his sandy head. Snow flecked his dark curls and black coat, glittering like his impossibly beautiful eyes. A smile spread across John's cold, chapped lips. "What?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed but his eyes still dancing.
"Nothing," John shrugged, still smiling. "Just… you being you."
"What about me?" Sherlock persisted, cocking his head to one side.
John's smile grew. "You being wonderful and beautiful and tall and brilliant and generally just the fact that you exist. That's why I'm smiling. Because you exist, and that makes me happy."
Sherlock's eyes brightened still further, their dazzling beauty making John's cold breath hitch in his throat as he gazed up at his detective. Sherlock's lips parted into a gleaming, truly happy smile. It wasn't a very common sight to see, that smile. It was a smile that gleamed with wonder and beauty, and, when combined with those brilliant eyes, shone brighter than the sun and all the stars combined. Sherlock leaned down and pressed the smallest of kisses to John's lips. John pulled his hand from his pocket and slipped it into Sherlock's gloved hand.
"Shall we be off then?" John suggested, dragging his eyes from Sherlock to look for a taxi.
"Yes. Yes, that sounds like a good idea," Sherlock agreed. He looked around briefly and spotted a taxi. "Come on then."
The pair walked briskly over the snow, their hands still joined, and climbed into the taxi without fuss. Sherlock squeezed John's hand lightly, his eyes still trained on the doctor's face, the stunning light still glowing. John sat right next to Sherlock, their joined hands resting on the detective's lap.
"Scotland Yard," Sherlock instructed the driver, his voice smooth and relatively quiet. There was a case, the chase was on, deductions were streaming and the silence Sherlock needed to think was screaming with thoughts, but somehow the day was still slow and quiet and low. They still sat quietly in the back of the cab, snow fluttering to the ground as it began to move. There was no need to rush. Sherlock's gleaming eyes were not alight with the thrill of the case, but with pure happiness that was so hard to find.
It was not a miraculous day. It was not a special day. It was not an important day. It was neither a birthday nor an anniversary, a holiday nor a date night. It was just a cold and snowy day in early February. And, for some secret reason, it was the happiest day in the world for a detective and a doctor in central London as they sat in the soft quietness of the back of a London taxi. They had each other. That was all they needed to make it the best day that ever passed.
Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to the top of John's head as the taxi drove on. John shifted a little closer, squeezing Sherlock's hand. Each of their smiles grew, not on their lips, but in their eyes. And with the simplicity of the gesture, each knew what the other meant.
I love you, Sherlock.
I love you, too.
"Tea?" John filled the kettle and flicked it on before Sherlock's mumbled 'Yes' came, and pulled out two mugs and teabags. Sherlock stood in front of the mirror, gazing at the photographs and notes stuck there, turning the case over in his mind. The smile played about John's mouth and eyes as he gazed across at his detective. His mind worked at an almost impossible pace, turning over in detail the minute everyone else missed. It was a truly incredible sight, the detective Sherlock Holmes when his mind was fully in action.
They'd only got in about five minutes ago. John had promptly ordered an Indian takeaway, knowing full well that there was no real food in the house and both of them needed to eat that night. Their coats and Sherlock's scarf were hung up and dripping slightly, their wet foot prints stained the floor and their warm breath thankfully lost its cloud as they entered the flat.
The sky outside was already dark, but the snow continued its relentless fall. The people of London were beginning to wind down, but the city never truly slept. There were the people who were just getting ready to go to some evening show and the people who were still working in the Indian restaurant John had ordered from and there was the detective and the doctor as they continued to work on the case in the warm 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock's eyes were bright and the snow gleamed and the doctor remained gazing at the impossible man standing in the living room, complete and brilliant. There had been a part of Sherlock, and of John, that hadn't quite been finished. Like each had started to write a story but lost inspiration halfway through, and each had been able to finish the other's for them.
The kettle flicked off, and John tore his gaze from Sherlock and poured the boiling water into the kettle, the steam hazing the air into momentary warmth. The doctor left it to brew, his thoughts and his eyes turning back to the miracle of Sherlock Holmes.
The fire danced, filling the flat with a soft warmth and light. The light cast soft, wonderful shadows across Sherlock's perfectly formed features, flickering in the back of his eyes as they flicked repeatedly over the photos and notes, each time a different stream of thoughts running through that genius mind. He stood, perfectly still, his hands drawn up to his face, fingertips together. The shadows cast from his cheekbones and his nose and full lips and over his eyes, which shone through, gleaming like the moon.
One thing that no one could ever deny was that Sherlock Holmes was a beautiful man. He had perfect white skin and silky dark curls and full lips and stunning, shining eyes. His brain though, his brain was even better, working fast and bright, thinking a million times over the details no one else could see, seeing and deducting and generally being brilliant. And then there was his heart. People would ask if Sherlock had one. They'd wonder if he was just stony and if when John said he was in love with him he meant he loved how clever and beautiful he was without Sherlock loving him in return. But Sherlock had the biggest, most stunning heart of anyone John had ever known. Of course, he said things differently. He showed love in a way no one else did and few others could understand. But he did love. He did care, he did show it, and even if he said they didn't exist, Sherlock was John's hero. He was the man who'd taken the battered and broken man with a shot in his shoulder and a scar in his heart, and fixed him up just by being himself. If asked what Sherlock did that was so wonderful, John would say he took him to dinner. It was no big deal, dinner, right? Every couple went to dinner. John would nod and say 'Yes, I suppose so' and shrug it off, but he'd have a secret smile dancing at his lips and his eyes because it didn't matter that other people didn't understand Sherlock. They didn't need to know why dinner was important. It just was, and that was enough.
John gazed across at Sherlock, his own thoughts turning through his mind, the secret smile beginning to toy about his mouth. There was Sherlock, working fast and brilliant, and John had his mind on something as silly as sentiment. Sherlock would roll his eyes. But he wouldn't protest.
"Oh," Sherlock breathed, his eyes widening momentarily. He took up a marker, circled something almost invisible in one of the photos and smirked to himself. "Case closed," he declared quietly. John laughed a little.
"You're too clever, you are," he commented lightly as he went to stir the tea. He took out the teabags, added milk and wandered over to the detective in the living room. "Here you go," he murmured as Sherlock took the steaming mug from him.
"Thank you," Sherlock smiled, pressing a kiss to John's forehead. John's eyes twinkled.
"Solved it?" he asked quietly, glancing over the pictures.
"Hmm. Not too difficult," Sherlock shrugged, taking a sip of his tea.
"Shall we let Lestrade know?" John suggested as he turned his gaze back to Sherlock.
"That can wait until morning." Sherlock set his mug down on the mantelpiece and turned to face John fully, took his mug from him and placed it on the mantelpiece next to his own, then he cupped John's face in his hands and brought it up, their lips meeting softly. John's arms slipped around Sherlock's alabaster neck and he leaned up on his tiptoes. Sherlock moved is hands to rest on John's back, then his arms wrapped around John's waist, pulling him up a little more as he deepened the kiss.
After a moment, they tore their lips from each other and relapsed into simply standing in each other's arms, John's head on Sherlock's shoulder, his breath hot on Sherlock's neck, his fingers straying through the dark curls, which were still slightly damp with snow. Sherlock's head was bowed, his arms around John, keeping him close and warm. They remained still for some time in each other's embrace, sharing warmth and unspoken words. That was all they could ever need as the snow kept falling, and the world kept turning and the night drew on.
I love you, Sherlock.
I love you, too.
Sherlock slipped under the covers, his arm immediately snaking around John's waist. John turned into Sherlock's embrace, clutching at the t-shirt at his chest and resting his head against it. Sherlock pulled him a little closer with the arm around his waist, his other hand resting against the back of John's sandy head. Quiet lay about them, the city relapsing into relative stillness, and the snow kept falling.
Sherlock's breath was warm against John's head, his arms wrapped around him, protecting him from the biting cold and the general world. John clutched to Sherlock to keep him there, keep him with him, keep him safe. They cared for each other, needed each other, looked out for each other. They only needed to be in each other's arms to know they were fine. The world didn't matter so long as Sherlock had John and John had Sherlock. They were the heart and the brain. The scarf and the jumpers. They were, always had been and always would be Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. It was just a part of the way the world worked.
John shuffled a little closer, tilting his head up to Sherlock's. Their lips met in gentle kisses. Sherlock pulled John impossibly closer, John's eyes fluttering closed. Darkness and quiet enveloped the bedroom, the cold air muted by their shared warmth.
After a moment, John lowered his head to Sherlock's chest again. Sherlock pressed another soft kiss to the top of John's head, before he laid his head to rest against his pillow. Both were perfectly happy to remain in the quiet darkness on that snowy February night. Sleep stole over doctor and detective as they lay, perfectly still and content to be so, in the warm bed of 221B. Just as they were about to drift off, comfortable and safe in each other's arms, words almost unconsciously slipped past John's lips.
"I love you, Sherlock," he murmured.
"I love you, too," Sherlock replied.