Chapter Text
If I go out in the morning snow/ In my pajamas and my winter coat
And take from the house our darker thoughts/ And take away the memory of loss
And if I drop them into the snow/ Will we never find them anymore?
To see him/ To see him happy
The Innocence Mission - “Snow”
Sherlock listens to the water running in the shower, to the small sounds of movement: of bottles clunking against tile, intermittent splatters as a body moves beneath the spray. John’s body. Sherlock grins into his pillow and wonders how to translate the rasp of a towel, the clink of a razor, into notes on a violin because this is symphonic. It’s been far too long since he listened to this particular melody, and his smile fades when he remembers why.
He left. He left. And so did John.
They wrap their scarves close around their throats as they leave. Tube there, taxi back--because of the bags, and if they hurry, they might miss the worst of the weather. John will call an estate agent for the house on Monday at work, but he and Rosie will need a few things before the movers can get the rest. John lists them off, planning--and Sherlock listens. He mentally pens each rise and fall of John’s voice as notes on the page, circles and dots gliding along the manuscript staff.
“Are you even listening?” John asks, and Sherlock feels his own face fall, hates that he even has to ask. But, he knows, Sherlock knows that John has to ask for a reason: because Sherlock spent far too long not listening. They both have, really. Far too long.
“You’ll need at least four changes of clothes and your phone charger and laptop, and Watson will need the only cup she’ll actually drink from. Oh, and your own shampoo and soap so you don’t go round smelling like a posh git.” Sherlock’s eyes slide his way, lip curling on one side. He catches John’s eyes, willing, willing him to understand what has changed.
John stops on the pavement and turns to look Sherlock full in the face. His cheeks are pink from the cold, hair windblown and flopping in the front, and his smile reaches the farthest corners of his eyes, and Sherlock--loves him.
John takes a breath to speak, but doesn’t, not right away. A small shake of his head and then, “Let’s go this way,” he says, pointing toward the park with his gloved hand.
It is uncomfortably cold out, and this is not the way to the station, but that’s all right. It is Saturday, and there is nothing to do but this. As they walk, John’s shoulder brushes his, and they are quiet, a rest.
It’s busier than usual for a day so cold, but it’s almost Christmas, and tourists and Londoners alike are there to take photos in front of the tree, to listen to the choir of carolers. John slows and then stops before them, watching. His eyes narrow against the cold, and he sniffs, but his lips move, only just, silently forming the words along with them.
In the meadow, we can build a snowman, they sing--but the real music is in the rustling of John’s coat, in the breath puffing from his mouth in quarter time, a delicate white curl. Sherlock wonders if he were to press in, ear against John’s mouth, would he hear his voice?
Sherlock thinks about those beautiful curling breaths, about how quickly they go, dissipating into nothing by the time the next one comes. He wants to catch one, hold it in his hand to prod at it with a finger, perhaps store it in a vial to put under a microscope slide for further examination-- but those are impossible things to want. He cannot stop time any more than he can change the past-- the hurt and the heartache, regret, and so much loss. Is it possible for their shared darkness, so deep in too many spots, to ever be completely lifted?
The choir sings next of a guiding star, a light in the darkness; Sherlock steps closer, enough that their arms brush, John’s fingers against his own, solid but muffled by two layers of gloves. He can’t feel John’s body heat, but that’s all right; he knows where it truly lies--underneath the layers: vest, shirt, jumper, coat, scarf. John is covered in things designed to keep the human body warm, but Sherlock knows that the genuine source of warmth is inside all of that, muscle and blood, and the heart that makes it all move, beating, keeping time.
John notices him looking, and his hand comes to light at the small of Sherlock’s back, a caress over his coat, and Sherlock smiles at him with lips pressed together.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Whenever you are,” Sherlock replies, and John leads them back toward the street.
The snow started sometime between Baker Street and John’s house, while they were underground. They emerge from the station to a world being covered. Large, lacy flakes swirl in the air, and as they walk, they stick to their lashes, make their way into nostrils and the seams of their lips.
By the time they reach John’s house, the snow has accumulated enough to cover everything. No crack in the pavement, no fallen leaf--nothing but a rising blanket of white.
Everything even sounds different now: quieter, brighter, sparkling in places. Decrescendo. Snow has clung to John’s shoulders, hair, arms, shoes; brilliant white in flecks and patches, swallowing him up.
As they step up to the front door, John laughs, touselling Sherlock’s hair. “You’re covered,” he says, and the snow flutters down, adding to what’s already there. It crunches beneath their feet.
John kisses him then, gloved hands grabbing onto the lapels of his coat, a chaste press of lips that lingers. John’s nose and lips are chilled, but it takes only a second to feel the warmth below. John pulls back slowly, to open the door.
Before Sherlock goes through, he takes one more look at the changed world, made new by the snow. He breathes in the icy air, deep, clean, and he watches the trail of it as it mists out before him, visible evidence that it happened at all.
Turning to go in, he hums to himself--a tune he is only just learning.
-end-