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The slush is the last straw.
They’ve been away from Baker Street for two interminable weeks, looking for a series of stolen carvings, and they’ve fetched up in a small, damp guesthouse on the Isle of Man, of all places. When the snow comes down, the ferries stop running, apparently, and so they’re stuck. There’s a shortage of brainwork, warmth, and clean underwear, and neither John nor Sherlock is in a particularly good mood.
Sherlock copes with petulant stomping.
John copes by going for a walk to get away from Sherlock’s petulant stomping.
When he comes back, he’s got wet socks and is and no cheerier. Sherlock, who has now exhausted himself, is lying limply on his back on the very small couch, so sunk in his own misery he doesn’t even acknowledge John’s presence.
John is used to this, but when he sees Sherlock lying there in a thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, he frowns slightly.
“You’ll catch your death, you know. Look at you-I can see gooseflesh from here.” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, just gets a rug from his room and throws it towards the couch. Sherlock grabs it, but it slips out of his hand. He lets it fall to the floor with a sigh.
John shakes his head and goes to plug in the kettle.
“John,” Sherlock says.
“What?” John stops staring at the very flowery wallpaper and looks over, “It’ll just be a minute.”
Sherlock sighs.
“No, I will not fetch that for you,” John gestures, “It’s right by your fingers. You pick it up.”
“I will,” Sherlock says, and John nearly drops the salmon-pink cup he’s holding.
“You all right? Got some dreaded Manx disease?” There’s a little worry wrinkle between John’s eyes now. Sherlock watches it form and watches John come over to him. He scoops up the blanket because he can’t help himself, covering Sherlock to the neck. Sherlock settles under the cover obediently, satisfied because John will now feel obligated to check his temperature.
John does, perching on the edge of the couch and putting his wrist on Sherlock’s forehead. His gentle, doctorly gesture is tempered with a little preventive irritation, that edge he gets when he’s worried Sherlock is trying to trick him in some way. He smells of mint shampoo-the guesthouse’s-and he’s recently moisturized his hands. His shirt is rumpled; despite his efficient packing, he’s out of clean clothes. Sherlock watches him as the worry wrinkle disappears, replaced by the beginnings of the Sherlock-you’re-a-dick face.
“John?”
“You’re fine, you know.”
“I love you.”
The pause is not as long as Sherlock expects.
“I know. Me too.” John’s voice is steady, but the hand he places on Sherlock’s chest is not.
Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position and tips John towards him. John scoots up a minute amount and lets himself be gathered into Sherlock’s arms.
They sit like that, silent, and absorb each other’s warmth until the last of the daylight fades from the room.