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Sherlock shaking him out of a sound sleep was nothing new, but John still flailed about and groaned when he tried it. “F’ck arrrrf,” he growled, and buried his face in his pillow.
“John! Wake up!”
“Sh’lock, go ‘way,” John groaned, and kicked weakly at Sherlock’s hand jiggling his leg.
Sherlock leaned over the bed, close enough that John could smell the tea on his breath, and said in his ear, “Snow.”
John sat up so fast he narrowly avoided smacking Sherlock in the face with his head. “Wha??”
Sherlock grinned gleefully, “Snow, John!” He flung a bundle of fabric at John, “Pants, John, quickly. No one has walked in it yet-- it’s virgin snow. In London.” He made for the door, all kinetic energy and flying curls, “I’ve made tea!”
Wasting no time, John not only donned pants, but several other layers, and joined a very excitable Sherlock in the lounge. “Tea,” Sherlock said, shoving a travel mug at John, “Come along, Watson!”
John passed a hand over his daughter’s hatted head, glad, but not surprised, to see that Sherlock had dressed her for the cold. Sherlock was actually quite good at being a childminder--though occasionally his methods were odd, to say the least. The five year old was hardly more awake than he was himself, no surprise given that it was not yet dawn. “Alright poppet?” John asked hoarsely, blinking the sleep from his eyes and sipping cautiously at the hot tea.
“Uh-hunh,” she held out her arms and Sherlock snatched her up, letting her monkey-clamber onto his back. “Is Nana coming?”
“It’s too early for Nana,” John said, stumbling down the stairs after the pair. Rose looked back over her shoulder at him and grinned. He laughed, suddenly delighted despite the fact that it was fuck o’clock in the morning.
He was proven wrong, however, when he fetched up in the hallway to find their landlady--and Rose’s honourary Nana--waiting for them. Hatted and coated, she was beaming, “Isn’t this lovely? I can’t recall the last time London saw snow like this!”
The blast of air which greeted them was sufficient to wake John fully, and he put the travel mug down in the hall and joined his little family on the stoop. They stood in silent wonder for a moment, drinking in the sight of a snow-clad London, quiet, still and peaceful. John hadn’t even realized he’d fumbled his hand into Sherlock’s until the other man squeezed his hand. Looking at him, John saw Sherlock gazing out at the snow, looking nearly as young as when they’d first met.
Squeezing his fingers gently back, John bumped his shoulder lightly into his best friend’s, “Thank you, Sherlock.”
Looking at him out of uncharacteristically shy eyes, Sherlock held his gaze for a minute, “What for?”
As Rose wiggled excitedly down from Sherlock’s back and went wading out into the snow, calling for them to join her, John became aware that he was still holding Sherlock’s hand. He wished suddenly and fiercely that neither of them were wearing gloves, that he could feel the heat and roughness of Sherlock’s skin on his. “For everything,” he said softly instead, and ran out into the snow.
Sherlock stood at the window overlooking Baker Street, curtains open, staring out at the snow-mottled street. The early morning snowfall had nearly melted once the sun came up, but after darkfall the temperatures had dropped and it looked as if more snow might fall.
It had been...a perfect day. Magical, almost, if one believed in things like that. The four of them had romped in the snow, giggling and shushing one another. As the snow-filled sky over London lightened toward dawn, they had thrown snowballs, made snow angels and showed Watson how to run and slide on the slippery pavement. More than once Sherlock had stopped to take it all in, drink in the memories so he could store them in his Mind Palace with perfect clarity, there to remain in splendor for as long as he lived, like a snowglobe encapsulating one of his happiest memories.
But then, nearly all of his memories of John, and of Watson, were happy ones.
He heard the creak of the floorboards overhead, and knew that John was moving around the room he shared with Watson, making sure all was cozy and secure after reading her bedtime story. He would be down soon, and Sherlock needed to compose himself, force down his unruly feelings, lock them away; with effort he could be calm and normal when John came down. Playing in the snow with John, so carefree and happy, had loosened the control he normally kept over his softer emotions.
There was a special kind of bittersweet pain to sharing a home with John--despite having been nearly five years now, Sherlock knew that one day it would end. John would decide he’d done mourning Mary, and the loss of the lies he’d once believed to be his life with her, and move on. Find a wife for himself, a mother for Watson,
Sherlock would be alone again. And this time the pain might break him.
“She’s out like a light,” John said in a low voice as he entered the lounge, “despite her longer than usual nap today. Maybe we should wake her early and play in the road for hours every day.”
Sherlock smiled at the jest, but couldn’t find a normal-sounding response. John was used to his silences however, and doubtless didn’t expect a reply. Staring blindly out the window, Sherlock wasn’t even aware that the snow had begun falling again, until John stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder and exclaimed softly.
“Today was...perfect.” John said at last. He leaned slightly into Sherlock, a fine tension evident in his body. “Spending time as a family. Making memories. Made me think...it’s time I go on a date.”
The pain was swift and brutal and left Sherlock breathless and stunned, as if he’d been kicked in the chest.
“So I thought, erm, maybe Mrs Hudson would come up to sit in case Rose wakes, and we could go to Angelo’s?” John sounded...nervous? Uncertain? Sherlock’s brain was shorting out. “Have dinner, just the two of us.” He licked his lips, eyes on Sherlock’s, “Just like that first night.”
“You want me to, what, deduce your dating prospects for you?” Sherlock rasped, confused and wounded. For god’s sake, surely John couldn’t be so dense that he’d failed to see how deeply in love with him Sherlock was? Even if it was something he chose to ignore, how could he do this? Ask this of him?
John was legitimately startled, “What? No! Sherlock--” he huffed out a breath, closed his eyes, “I’m trying--badly, apparently--to tell you--to ask you--if you’ll...go out...with me…” He stumbled to a halt, face red, “Christ this is hard, why is this so hard?” He shook his head at himself, “I practiced this, for Chrissake.”
“...I don’t understand.”
John visibly took in a deep breath, then reached out and gently took Sherlock’s hand in his. Gazing up into his eyes, he tried out a tremulous smile, “I’m asking you to go out with me, Sherlock. Properly, on a real date. As...as potential boyfriends.”
Words failed him, and Sherlock could only stare at John, lips parted dumbly, eyes stinging with sharp tears. “John...”
John took his other hand in his, pressed his fingers tenderly with his own, “Only if that’s something you want too.”
“If I want it?” Perhaps it was a bit scathing, but Sherlock was unable to keep the incredulity from his tone. “If, John?”
Rather than being offended, John laughed wetly and grinned at him, face lit up with happiness, “So that’s a yes then?”
“Bloody hell, yes it’s a yes, you idiot.” Damn. Probably not done to call the love of one’s life an idiot.
“There he is,” John murmured fondly, and kissed him as snow fell on London on this most perfect of days.