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John’s heart was nearly pounding right through his ribcage, his chest heaving with each breath sucked into his burning lungs. Sherlock’s coat billowed out behind him as John tried to keep up, the detective’s longer legs giving him the advantage of speed as they ran, weaving through the machinery.
Sherlock disappeared as he rounded a corner. In the few steps it took for John to reach the corner, Sherlock was already well out of sight. Movement caught John’s eye and he squinted, peering through a maze of metal. Sure enough, there was Richard Tate—the guilty party in their current investigation—hiding behind a large stack of boxes.
Richard procured a gun from the waistband of his jeans and took aim at something out of John’s view—most likely Sherlock. The doctor’s heart skipped a beat and he raised his own gun and gave the trigger a squeeze without so much as a moment’s hesitation. The resounding crack echoed throughout the factory, ringing in John’s ears.
Richard let out a pitiful, wounded howl as he desperately clutched at his arm. In a flash, he was running again—albeit it quite slower this time—Sherlock hot on his heels.
Despite the chorus of protests from his lungs, John took off after the two of them, determined not to let Sherlock out of his sight again. John was hit with an unwelcome blast of ice-cold air as he rounded a corner in pursuit of Sherlock and their suspect.
John wrapped his coat tighter around himself as he stepped into the large walk-in freezer, wandering towards Sherlock who was crouched down in the middle of examining a trail of something across the floor. Blood, he realized as he got closer.
“I thought I’d hit him,” John said, crouching next to Sherlock.
“Excellent aim,” Sherlock praised, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards for a fleeting moment.
“He’s somewhere in here, then?” John asked, gesturing to the freezer filled with boxes upon boxes of various ice cream treats.
“Must be,” Sherlock murmured, rising and flitting around the freezer, checking behind stacks of boxes.
John wordlessly joined in the search, vigilantly checking in all the nooks and crannies one could possibly hide in.
“Careful Sherlock,” John warned, his voice echoing oddly against the walls of the freezer. “He’s still armed.”
“Sherlock?” John repeated, only to be met with a deafening silence, save for the low mechanical whirring of the freezer’s motor.
John’s finger twitched against the cold metal of his gun—a nervous habit. He rounded a corner of particularly tall boxes, checking one way, then the other before proceeding deeper into the icy depths of the freezer. He turned another corner, backing his way down the lengthy row of boxes.
He stumbled as his back ran into a mass of heat, spinning on his heel, finger ready on the trigger of his gun.
“Sherlock?” John gasped, staring at the detective whose wide eyes indicated that he was clearly just as shocked as John was. “Jesus, I could’ve shot you.” John leaned forwards in an attempt to catch his breath.
John thought he felt a ghost of warmth hovering ambiguously above his shoulder, wavering undecidedly in the air.
He didn’t have time to think about it any further as a loud, metallic clicking noise rang throughout the whole of the freezer.
Sherlock’s eyes widened and he uttered an “Oh no,” before he was gone in a flurry of swishing coat. John forced a breath of air into his starved lungs before picking up a jog in pursuit of the detective.
When John caught up to him, a pang of dread spread throughout his body, settling unpleasantly heavy in his stomach. Sherlock had his palms against the now shut door of the freezer, his forehead pressed up against the cool metal.
“Sherlock?”
“It’s locked.”
“What?” John asked, his mind refusing to process the information he’d just been given.
“We’re stuck,” Sherlock said, his voice nearly trembling with defeat. John had never heard him quite like that, and quite frankly, the tone of finality in his usually overconfident voice scared him.
“Stuck,” John echoed.
“Stuck,” Sherlock mumbled at the door.
“No,” John said refusing to accept this as his fate. “There must be a handle or something.”
Sherlock pried himself off the door and pointed at the remnants of where a handle would have once rested.
“It’s been removed. Quite forcefully, by the looks of it,” Sherlock deduced, gesturing to the sharp, mangled metal around the space were the missing handle had once rested.
“Christ,” John muttered, dropping his head into his hands.
Sherlock refused to meet his eyes.
“He locked us in,” John surmised.
“Yes, I would imagine so,” Sherlock said, staring intently at the floor.
“We can’t get out.”
“No, not without the handle. The door can only be opened from the outside now.”
“That’s fine then, I’ll just call Lestrade. Get him to pop down, and we’ll be on our way,” John said with forced cheerfulness.
He procured his phone from his pocket, and within a few taps, found quite quickly that there was no service. John glanced up at Sherlock, who quickly averted his gaze.
“Walls are too thick. Insulated well. Signal won’t be able to get through.”
“That’s all right, I suppose,” John said. “Lestrade knew we were coming here, he’ll figure out we’re missing and come looking for us.”
“He knew we were following up on a lead, not actually pursuing the killer who happened to be here. It’s late, he won’t realize anything’s amiss until we don’t show up tomorrow morning.”
“There’s no way out, then?”
“No way out, John.”
John paced in a circle, his limbs starting to feel unnaturally heavy from the cold.
“I’m sorry. John, this is all my fault. I should’ve seen the blood trail was a trap,” Sherlock apologized. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” The detective kicked a stack of boxes, his coat billowing out with the motion. The frozen cardboard of the boxes echoed throughout the freezer as they collided with one another, scattering in a multitude of directions.
“Hey,” John said, stepping towards Sherlock. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”
Sherlock buried his face in his hands, shrinking in on himself.
“Sherlock,” John repeated, determined for his words to get through. He reached up to remove Sherlock’s hands, then decided better of it, dropping his hands back to his sides. “I don’t blame you, Sherlock.”
Silence.
“It’s not like we’re going to die in here.”
“It’s a freezer, John. Meant to freeze things. In case you forgot, people tend to die when frozen.”
“I’m locked in here with the smartest, most brilliant man in all of England, I think we can figure something out,” John insisted.
Still no response.
“It’s not like we’ll starve in here,” John said, glancing around at the multitude of boxes of ice cream treats—too bad ice cream sandwiches, frozen fruit bars and fudge bars couldn’t help them escape the confines of the freezer.
Sherlock’s hands finally dropped from his face, a small smirk quirking at the corner of his lips. John ducked his head to catch the detective’s eye.
“Knew that would do it,” he said softly.
Sherlock’s gaze softened, the worry on his face visibly relaxing now that he knew John wasn’t angry with him.
“All good?” John asked.
“All good,” Sherlock repeated. He glanced around with an involuntary shiver. “Except for the freezer bit.”
“Yeah, a bit not good, that,” John agreed.
“We’ll need to stay warm,” Sherlock said, his mind seemingly kick-starting into action. “It’s likely Lestrade won’t come until tomorrow morning, that gives us–” Sherlock checked the time on his phone, “–eight hours, give or take an hour or so—Lestrade’s mind is impossibly slow.”
“It will be important to conserve body heat.” Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room and John could nearly hear the gears turning on high speed. “We’ll sit against the door, it should be the weakest insulation, therefore making it the warmest spot. Look around for anything useful; blankets, tarps, anything to capture heat.”
With a nod John set off, diligently searching for anything of the sort. He was immensely grateful being stuck in here with Sherlock—best chance not to freeze to death, and if he was being honest with himself, the company wasn’t half-bad either.
John met Sherlock back at the door a moment later, carrying a small, black tarp that had been conveniently covering some of the boxes.
“This is all I could find,” he said, holding up his finding.
“Excellent!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Right here, yes. Now sit down. Perfect,” Sherlock instructed.
John kneeled down, wincing as his stiff joints protested. He propped himself up, back against the door as instructed. Sherlock arranged himself beside John, his shoulder pressing into John’s and sending a wave of heat through his side. Sherlock arranged the tarp across them, making sure to tuck it around them tightly so no heat would be allowed to escape.
John pulled his coat tighter around his body, willing the warmth to stay shut away. Sherlock flipped up his coat collar, the tip of his nose already turning an alarming shade of pink.
They sat in companionable silence for a while before John started to shiver fiercely, unable to control it. Sherlock felt the tremors, glancing over at John with pure concern laced through his silver-blue eyes. He shifted the tarp, double checking that there were no areas where any cold could get through. Once he seemed satisfied, he hesitantly wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders, pulling him closer against his delightfully warm body.
“We have to stay awake,” Sherlock said, his breath warm where it ghosted against John’s cheek.
“Mmm,” John hummed as another shudder wracked through his body.
Sherlock gave a small sound of disapproval, and John found himself suddenly pressed insistently closer against Sherlock, the sides of his Belstaff wrapped around John’s body. It was an awkward position for John with most of his body weight leaning against Sherlock; his head was forced to be tilted uncomfortably, his muscles screaming their protest.
John gave in to the temptation shortly, dropping his head to rest against the warmth radiating from Sherlock’s shoulder. As though he’d been waiting for it—perhaps he’d already deduced it would happen—Sherlock dropped his head to rest on John’s, burying his nose deeply into the warmth of the doctor’s hair.
John let out a small laugh into Sherlock’s neck. “Now people will really talk,” he said.
Sherlock huffed, the heat of his breath against the crown of John’s head inexplicably warming his entire body. “Let them,” Sherlock whispered, his lips tickling John’s head as they moved against it.
******
John groaned as he forced his stiff limbs to climb the stairs up to two twenty-one B. The way Sherlock was moving, just a few steps ahead of him, without his usual feline-like grace was indication that he was feeling no better than John. Sherlock’s deduction had been alarmingly accurate: Lestrade had been at the warehouse by nine the next morning.
They finally reached the flat, ending their perilous journey that was the stairs. John immediately moved to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He was cold. Colder than he’d ever been. The cold from the freezer had sunk deep into his bones and burrowed further still, into his very being and settled there, seemingly not intent on leaving anytime in the foreseeable future.
“Tea?” he asked, glancing into the sitting room where Sherlock was already wrapped into a ball on his chair, head buried somewhere beneath his coat.
“Tea sounds lovely,” Sherlock said, though it came out in a garbled mumble through the thick wool of his coat.
John paced around the kitchen as he waited for the water to boil in an attempt to free his muscles from the stiffness they were currently being incapacitated by.
“You should move around a bit, Sherlock,” John suggested. “It’ll help you warm up faster.”
Sherlock’s head appeared at the top of his coat, like a gopher popping out of its hole. “How would you know?”
“I’m a doctor.”
Sherlock’s responding groan sounded more dinosaur than Sherlock Holmes in nature. John decided it would probably be best not to press the issue.
After what felt like hours, the tea was finally ready. John took a long sip of the piping hot liquid, relishing in the feel of it burning down his throat and into his stomach, warming him slightly from the inside out.
Sherlock removed himself from his coat only as much as was needed to drink the tea John offered him.
John curled into his own chair, sipping his tea in long, burning gulps. The flat was unbearably cold. It had always been slightly drafty with poor insulation, but it seemed far worse now. John shivered despite the warmth from the tea.
When he glanced up, he caught Sherlock staring intently at him, a slight furrow in his brow.
“I’m fine,” John reassured him.
“You’re shivering.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He set his empty mug down beside his chair and shuffled towards the fireplace. Within minutes a fire was roaring, sending wonderful ripples of heat shivering through the air.
“Thank you,” John said, genuinely touched by the small gesture of kindness Sherlock had just displayed. It was rare, to see this side of Sherlock. John had decided some time ago that he quite liked this side of Sherlock. He downed the last of his tea and placed his mug on the floor before sinking deeper into his chair, closing his eyes—he was awfully tired from having to stay awake all night.
The chair dipped and settled as a warm weight descended upon it. John opened his eyes in shock to see Sherlock clambering over the arm of the chair. Before John was able to form a coherent thought, he found he had a lapful of Sherlock, which wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
John swallowed, finding his voice. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” he asked, desperately trying to keep his voice even.
“You’re cold. I’m cold. The flat is cold. A simple solution, really,” he said and damn him for being able to speak so calmly, as though he wasn’t currently straddling John.
“What?” was all John could manage to splutter.
“Obviously,” Sherlock said, though there was none of the usual bite attached to the word.
He pressed closer and closer and closer still until John feared his chest cavity was about to be filled with a consulting detective-shaped mass. Sherlock wrapped his coat around John, completely enveloping him with it. It was rather pleasantly warm, sharing the heat from Sherlock’s body.
Sherlock melted forwards into John until he became a boneless heap, his head coming to rest on the doctor’s shoulder. The doctor tentatively slipped his arms underneath Sherlock’s coat to rest around his small waist—simply to prevent him from tumbling backwards off the chair, John told himself. The detective shivered—whether it was from John’s touch or the residual cold, John wasn’t sure.
Shortly, Sherlock’s breathing evened out, the steady rise and fall of his chest a surprisingly comforting sensation for John. Sherlock rarely slept at all, never mind in the presence of another person. It made him seem so positively human.
John let out a contented sigh, allowing his own eyes to slip shut. He was mildly aware his legs had fallen asleep—Sherlock might be ridiculously skinny, but he weighed more than John had predicted.
No matter, thought John. It was worth it.
******
The day was dreary and judging from the monotone grey of the engorged clouds, the steady drizzle of rain wasn’t about to be stopping anytime soon. Both men were quite obviously hesitant to leave the warmth of the flat after the freezer incident, but Lestrade had texted them with a new case.
John threw on a couple of extra layers under his coat, his body still feeling the reminiscent sharpness of the icy freezer. Judging by the way Sherlock’s coat strained at the seams, he’d either just completed an extremely effective arm workout, or he’d done the same.
They hadn’t spoken a word about how they’d fallen asleep the day before, and a heavy silence hung in the air between them, weighing both men down with unspoken words, suppressed feelings, and a multitude of emotions neither wanted to sift through. Truth be told, John ‘I’m not gay’ Watson was surprisingly alright with falling asleep entangled in Sherlock’s long limbs, though he would never outwardly admit that to anyone—especially himself.
When they arrived at the crime scene—which thankfully was inside a warm building, sheltered from the rain and not a single freezer in sight—Donovan ushered them towards Lestrade, who was standing over a body, mouth tight in a grim line.
“Thanks for coming,” Lestrade greeted them. “What do you make of it?”
Sherlock immediately dropped to his haunches, silver-blue eyes taking in every single detail, looking far too cheerful considering the circumstances. Then again, the man did equate murder with Christmas.
The two of them watched in silent awe as Sherlock examined the body, wordlessly gathering evidence in his mind and unraveling theories. He rose with a slight uncharacteristic grimace, stretched his back with feline grace then flitted off, presumably to piece together the last of the evidence.
“Right then,” Lestrade said. “Want to take a look?”
“Sure.” John limped towards the victim’s side—apparently, having a rather significant amount of weight cutting of the circulation of one’s leg, which was previously ailed with a psychosomatic limp, for more than five hours was a bit not good.
It seemed Lestrade took notice, his brow furrowing in concern.
“Slept on it funny, eh?” he asked.
“Someone did,” John grumbled, though from the way Lestrade’s eyes widened in shock, John hadn’t been nearly quiet enough.
“Sorry, what?” Lestrade stammered.
“You really don’t want to know,” John said, hoping that Lestrade didn’t press the issue further.
Lestrade stared at John for a moment, mouth agape before looking over to where Sherlock was currently stretching out his back again, and then back to John with an expression of pure bewilderment, seemingly putting two and two together. He was a detective, after all. Despite his shortcomings during particularly vexing homicide investigations, the man wasn’t blind. Lestrade gave his head a slight shake and wandered off to find Donovan.
Great, John thought. Now people would really talk. Apparently, sleeping curled up on top of your friend like a pretzel did not do wonders for one’s back.
John hastily finished examining the body and headed off in search of Sherlock, masking his returned limp as much as possible.
“John!” came a shout from directly behind him.
John was fairly sure his heart had momentarily stopped functioning and he turned to glare at Sherlock.
“John? Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sherlock asked, voice the perfect picture of innocence.
John clenched his jaw. “How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me?”
Sherlock looked positively affronted. “I didn’t.”
“Christ, Sherlock–” John suddenly became all too aware of the copious number of eyes on the two of them, suspicions probably growing by the moment.
“Never mind,” John said. “Have you solved it?”
“Of course I’ve solved it,” Sherlock scoffed.
“Well?”
“Victim died from poisoning. Snake venom. I believe Lestrade will find the boyfriend has a snake. He thought she was cheating on him, he killed her out of jealousy.” Sherlock paused, eyes locking intently onto John’s. “Love is a strange thing, John,” he said softly.
John blinked. Narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. Rather odd, he thought. What was the madman on about now? John shook his head, clearing the haze from his thoughts.
“Right, so– You got all that from–?”
“Her purse,” Sherlock pointed to a large brown leather bag resting on the ground a mere few meters from the victim.
“Her purse,” John echoed.
“Yes. Her purse.”
“Amazing,” John breathed, the praise slipping from his lips before he had any chance of stopping it.
Sherlock blinked, his eyes glazing over slightly as though his brain had just undergone a massive malfunction and subsequently experienced a temporary shut down. Just as soon as it had appeared, the look was gone, replaced by the usual visage Sherlock wore, hiding his feelings from the world. Only John had been lucky enough to be offered the occasional, treasured glimpse at what was hidden behind the mask. He quite liked what he saw there.
Sherlock licked his lips and tugged at John’s sleeve like an impatient child. “Let’s go home,” he insisted.
******
Once back at the flat, Sherlock hastily divested himself of his coat, replacing it with one of his many dressing gowns—a deep blue one this time. Instead of curling up in his chair like he usually did, Sherlock sprawled across the couch, which was rather…odd.
John glanced at Sherlock, a silent question written across the slight furrow of his brow. Sherlock stared back, unblinking, his piercing silver-blue gaze locked firmly onto John’s, silently willing him to make the correct deduction.
It only took John a moment to notice the purposeful space left at one end of the couch, enticing him over. John accepted the silent invitation without a moment’s hesitation, dropping onto the cushions beside Sherlock.
Outside, the rain still pattered softly against the windows, creating a soothing lull of calming noise. Sherlock shifted, rearranging his limbs on the couch until he was pressed against John’s side, nuzzling into the doctor’s neck.
“Cold,” Sherlock murmured, his voice rumbling against John’s bare skin.
It was an awfully transparent excuse, but that fact was easily ignored with Sherlock pressed so close against John.
******
John startled awake what was likely a few hours later, judging by the moonlight streaming in through the windows of the flat. Sherlock was still curled up against John’s side, his dark curls tickling John’s cheek where they brushed against it. John gently attempted to extricate himself from the tangle of Sherlock’s limbs without waking him.
He was about halfway freed when Sherlock finally shifted and blinked open his eyes.
“John?” he asked blearily.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“’S all right.”
John hesitated for a moment before sliding off the couch. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“G’night.”
John didn’t walk up the stairs.
Instead, he became locked in a rather unusual staring contest of sorts with Sherlock, the detective’s piercing gaze boring directly into his very soul and surely deducing far more than John had intended.
Sherlock tilted his head sideways in a questioning glance, his sleep-tousled hair falling over to rest on one side of his head. John forgot to breathe.
Afraid of what he might do if he stayed, John stumbled backwards and up the stairs mumbling another goodnight to Sherlock, who remained seated on the couch. John could feel Sherlock’s gaze follow him all the way up the stairs.
For some reason inexplicable to John—probably just because he was so tired—he left his door open when he climbed into bed.
******
John had fallen asleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow. Apparently almost freezing to death is a rather exhausting feat.
It’s not until John felt his bed dip that he woke again. He blinked against the harsh light coming in through his door from the stairway.
“Sherlock, what are you doing in my bed?” John asked, rolling over to find Sherlock’s face alarmingly—but not unwelcomingly—close to his own.
“You left the door open,” the detective explained. “I thought–” he paused for a moment, searching for the right words before settling on, “it’s cold, John. My room is especially drafty.”
John decided not to mention that there wasn’t any wind at all that night.
“Alright,” he agreed softly.
They laid there for a while, simply watching each other. They seemed to be gravitating towards one another and before John knew it, he could feel Sherlock’s warm puffs of breath ghosting across his face.
“Still cold?” John whispered.
Sherlock nodded, the motion nearly imperceptible in the darkness of John’s bedroom. In a move emboldened by the unassailable cover the darkness provided, John reached out and found Sherlock’s hand under the covers, lacing their fingers together.
“Better?”
“Still cold.”
John shifted, working his leg in between Sherlock’s, hooking his foot around the detective’s ankle and pulling him closer.
“Still cold,” Sherlock all but demanded.
John closed the gap between them, pulling Sherlock into his arms. The detective responded in kind by wrapping himself around John until they were so entwined, John wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to untangle themselves from one another. Not that he’d want to. He’d be more than content to spend the rest of his life like this, in Sherlock’s arms, and he was quite certain that Sherlock felt the same.
They fell asleep clinging to one another, warming each other not just with their bodies, but with the love that filled their hearts full until they were nearly bursting with it.
Needless to say, from then on, only one bedroom was needed in two twenty-one B Baker Street.