Morning, bumble. John smiles into Sherlock’s hair, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and pulling him closer.
Sherlock hums and lets himself be pulled. When he speaks, his voice is hushed with awe and wonder. John, he says, it snowed.
John blinks, looks toward the window. The curtains, of course, are drawn, but the thin light spilling in around the edges is crisp and bright, like it might crack under too much pressure. How do you know?
I can smell it, Sherlock says. I can hear it. Like rain, but sharper, and somehow quieter, too. He sighs into John’s t-shirt; John can tell he must have closed his eyes by the way he sinks in further against John’s side. I also checked the forecast last night.
John chuckles and closes his eyes too, relaxing under Sherlock’s warm weight. Sherlock, inexplicably, loves the snow, loves to watch it fall with eager fascination, loves to bring in huge handfuls of it and make slides just to watch it melt in microscopic detail. Someday John is going to take him to see a snow and ice sculpting festival, he thinks. Someday he’s going to take Sherlock to stay in an igloo, and to meet a dog sled team, and to go snowshoeing. To build a snowman, maybe. Maybe even to go sledding.
He smiles at the picture in his mind, of Sherlock with his dark coat like a cape behind him as he slides down some precarious hilltop, all laughing and pink-cheeked and vibrant.
Someday he’s going to do everything with Sherlock. But not today.
Today he’s going to stay here, warm and cosy, meandering around the flat with a soft and awed Sherlock Holmes, all curls and pyjamas and kisses that taste like sweetened coffee and insistent smiles.
You’re making plans, aren’t you, Sherlock mumbles. His hand slips up under John’s t-shirt to press gently on his chest, as though to make him stay. Don’t. We’re staying in today.
Even if Lestrade calls? John teases.
Sherlock hmmphs; his other hand curls into John’s shirt, holding on. Especially if Lestrade calls.
Even if it’s a locked room murder? A serial killer? John makes sure to keep his tone light, makes sure to keep a laugh in it. Even if it’s a ten?
Sherlock hmmphs again and shifts himself up onto his elbow so he can look John in the face. Are you planning to go running at Lestrade’s beck and call today? he asks, his bright eyes glittering with smug anticipation. He knows what John will say, but he likes to hear it said.
So John says, No. John says, I’m planning to stay here and kiss you pink and make you tea, and bundle you onto the sofa later and take a nap with you. John says, I’m planning to be wherever you are today.
Good, Sherlock says, and he kisses John, all warm and sleep-soft and lingering, noses nudging and whispers breathing across skin. Me too.
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