Work Text:
24 December 2015, Christmas Eve
John wishes deeply that this Christmas could be absolutely perfect. The only thing that's missing is snow. For the past two weeks Great Britain has been attacked with an unusual warm front causing it to be unseasonably hot. It is Christmas Eve in London and John and Sherlock have put the air conditioning on.
Almost every Christmas John remembers involve snow in some way or another. Whether it was making snowmen with Harry, watching the wistful snow fall as he was pulling double shifts in the ER during his residency, or even the last Christmas he'd celebrated with Sherlock whom played songs like 'O Holy Night' and 'Silver Bells' on his violin; the snow had been merry then, not foreshadowing the years to come.
Of course he knows now that a lot of that snow wasn't actually snow but was alien ash. Sometimes things were better left unknown.
Sherlock stirs slightly in his sleep as if he knows John is thinking of him. John leans over the bed and kisses his lover. The doctor spoons the detective and goes to sleep, dreaming of snowflakes and the sound of a groaning TARDIS with the Doctor and Sherlock beside him.