Sherlock Holmes joined his friend John Watson where he was seated at the front window. He said nothing, only dropped a quilt over Watson's shoulders and wrapped one snugly around himself. He looked out, seeing the first rays of morning light slanting through the buildings around them and glittering on the freshly fallen snow. His breaths fogged on the cold glass. Watson's movements had woken him, and his eyelids still felt heavy with sleep.
He glanced over at Watson, seeing the slightly sorrowful look in his eyes. Watson always liked watching snow, especially the first snow of winter, but he always had that look in his eyes. He'd never said why the snow was such a source of both joy and sorrow for him, but Holmes had an idea he knew. He, too, usually found himself in a reflective mood whenever he watched the snow fall, and it wasn't all happy thoughts.
Watson fell asleep in an awkward position, his forehead resting against the windowpane. Holmes sighed when he noticed, shook his friend's knee, and motioned for him to leave the windowsill. Light was streaming in and the city was awake so Holmes rose, too, moving to fetch his violin. He decided he was going to make it a good day, and some music would be a good way to begin.
For the prompt form cjnwriter: Freshly fallen snow.