I Am Sher-Locked Up

Snow

A/N:

Here's some Christmas fluff for you guys! Merry Christmas you filthy animals!

-Hannah

***

Sherlock

Snow was falling.

Sherlock stares out of his screened window at the fat flakes drifting through the inky darkness that British winters were so famous for.

He never got the appeal of snow. Little children squealed with delight, lovers sat on their front step huddled together, commenting on the beauty of the snow, but Sherlock never got it. It was just frozen water falling from the sky that turned to sludge on the sides of roads. Nothing magical, nothing special about it. Kind of like him, really.

A quick knock on the door startles him and he turns to see Lawrence standing in his doorway.

"Hey Sherlock, buddy, we have to go. Chow time, mate."

"Not hungry," Sherlock automatically says, even though he felt as if a wild animal was gnawing at his gut.

"Yeah, that won't work with me, Holmes. Maybe with the night shift nurse, but not me. Let's go."

Sherlock considered protesting but was too exhausted from his therapy session a half hour ago to come up with anything worth saying. He just hoped he would be rewarded for eating with a visit from John afterwards.

***

John

After about a million times reading the letter, he was still undecided about whether to talk to Sherlock about it or not.

He decided at last that he would bring it up casually, but not force him to talk about it. That was a good idea, yeah? John hoped so.

Now 7 o'clock was approaching soon, so John threw on his coat and, after a moment of thought, he grabbed Sherlock's  coat (not the scarf, seeing as it was against hospital rules to have anything resembling a rope).

Once he arrives, he scans the room for his flat mate.

"Hi, Sherlock." He says upon finding the man.

Sherlock looks up, and John wants to think that his eye bags were less deep and his face was fuller.

They chat for a while, about nothing of importance. After about half an hour, the conversation dies down and John decides to tell Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock, mate...."

Even through his exhaustion, Sherlock stiffens at the change in John's tone. He says nothing but indicates for John to continue.

"So...I wanted to say something--not talk about it, necessarily, but just, you know, bring it up--"

"Do stop yammering, John, it's annoying and very unattractive," Sherlock interrupts, shooting a look at the other man (was that fear in the detective's eyes?).

John blinks, his resolve weakening, but eventually spits out, "I got your letter. From the bin. The one you threw away a while back. I know you probably didn't want me reading it, but--"

"And you are correct, John Watson. Bravo. Let's leave it at that, shall we? I'll forget your blatant disregard for my privacy and you'll forget about everything that was written in that note. Sounds good, yes?" Sherlock spat out with icy cold venom.

John's face creases with anger and hurt for a minute, but he composes himself quickly. "Alright. No problem, mate. Just thought it would be a good idea--"