Work Text:
A stakeout.
In the park.
In the twilight.
In the snow.
John reflected sadly that his life had reached a new low. Sherlock had disappeared to scout around the lake but left John hidden, watching the bench that he was certain was the spot.
John wished that he hadn’t been so quick to acquiesce, that he hadn’t left his gloves at the clinic, that his jacket hadn’t already been damp with snow when Sherlock whirled out the door just as he was getting home. He knew it was his own fault, failing to put his foot down unless it was a matter of Sherlock’s health, and even then giving in too frequently
Enough was enough. Tonight he had been hauled away after extra hours at the clinic, he was cold and hungry and his fingers were numb and paler by the minute. Little shivers had begun to run through his body and were now more or less constant as he mentally railed at himself and his godawful, inconsiderate, narcissistic flatmate. As soon as he could move, he was leaving, Sherlock be damned.
Just then there was a whisper of movement behind him. A greatcoat descended over his shoulders, and a pair of gloved hands reached around him to cover his fingers with their own, warming the chill skin beneath.