A.N. - A fluffy gift for Clarinetchica, who wanted John and Sherlock and the first snow. And then was lovely enough to beta it for me and not get cross when I ignored most of what she suggested and stuck with the nonsense. If it's all nonsense, it's totally my fault.

"It's going to snow."

"It's not cold enough."

"It bloody well is."

"Do you want to borrow my gloves?"

John looked up in surprise. Sherlock just looked back in bland question.

"Uh, no, erm, thanks. You're alright. The train'll be here in a minute."

John was right, about the snow, and the train. They stood up from the cold metal bench together as it pulled into the platform, and stepped out from the sheltering roof into the sprinkling white. It should have been warmer in the carriage. Perhaps it was. Perhaps John had just been cold for so long it had seeped into him so far he was permanently chilled. He sat closer than necessary when they found their seats, as if he could absorb some of Sherlock's warmth through all their layers of wrapping.

Sherlock had snow in his hair, tiny flakes of white melting to translucency as they clung on determinedly. "Better?"

"Yes," John lied. His teeth weren't chattering, but he ached. Everywhere.

"Good." Sherlock was not fooled. He leaned even a little closer as he fiddled on his blackberry. "We'll be in King's Cross in two hours."

"Precisely?" he teased.

"Ok, we'll be in King's Cross in one hundred and thirteen minutes, discounting chances of holiday or weather based delays."

"Do you think it'll be snowing in London?"

Sherlock was still distracted by his phone, his tone light and careless, "I hope not."

"Inconvenient?" John guessed at his meaning, but didn't agree. Snow could never really be inconvenient, not in his opinion, not in the small amounts he was accustomed to getting. Any set-backs it caused were simply more chances to pause and watch its peaceful fall. If ever a person wanted to watch a peaceful fall, it was John.

"No."

"Hmm?" He'd lost track of where they were in this conversation.

"Not inconvenient."

"Oh." Oh?

Sherlock sighed and slipped his mobile into the inside pocket of his coat. There was a puff of warm air dispersed as the lapels plopped back into place. Sherlock-scented air. John breathed it in and let it warm him from the inside.

"I like snow."

"So do I," John smiled into his scarf, but still wondered where the statement was going.

"London spoils the snow," he explained. He shuffled down a little in his seat until he was slumped almost level with John. His leg pressed alongside John's, sharing heat through the fabrics. "It drifts serenely, pure and pristine. If it falls upon the hills it settles on the ground, undisturbed, automatically accepted and adored by its compatriots.

Sherlock may still have been speaking off-handedly, but John could hear the emotion behind the fanciful words. "But?" he asked. Because there was a but, there always was with Sherlock, even when he was waxing lyrical about something-or-other. Even if he only said it with his eyes.

"If a snowflake falls on London, the unique ice crystal formation, quite fascinating to study you know, if somewhat frustrating, will be greeted by the ever-present welcoming cloud of pollution. They are all masked into identical grey wet fluff and fall onto harsh ground of sodden tarmac where they proceed to melt and die in a dirty slushy puddle."

John wanted to laugh, but managed to contain it into a snort. He thought for a minute. It was all a bit poetic and twirly for him, but he could see the point clearly. "London corrupts and contaminates even the snow."

Sherlock looked at him, as if startled by his understanding. Then he seemed to shake it off, "Plus it causes unnecessary and frustrating delays."

John chuckled, and nudged Sherlock's shoulder with the side of his head, "You soppy git."

He felt the body beside him tense. Shit. Too much. Too close. Too affectionate. He leaned away a little and let a space of air slip between their thighs. It wasn't exactly awkward, just uncomfortable. Only John was unsure whether his lack of comfort was because of the tumble of his guard or the chill creeping back into him. Or the fact that he had a guard in the first place.

.oOo.

It was snowing in London. Sherlock had been right; it was wet grey blobs stinging people's eyes and turning into slushy puddles on the floor, where it presumably took pleasure in ruining shoes and soaking trouser bottoms in its dying moments. If it was nice settled stuff, fluffy and crunchy, John would have suggested the walk - it was only half an hour or so.

Sherlock didn't even entertain the idea, just steered them straight down to the Underground. The tube wasn't busy, they both got seats easily, but still sat beside each other, even though it pressed them together from knee to shoulder with a digging elbow and a plastic armrest somewhere in the middle.

"I wish we had a remote controlled kettle, so I could switch it on on the way and just pour away when we get in."

"She's called Mrs Hudson." Sherlock deadpanned for about two seconds before he chuckled to himself.

It was only three stops. John felt the brisk air slapping his face as they jogged up the steps to the street. He was going to take a swift walk home, get in, put the kettle on to boil, change into his thickest pyjamas and wooliest jumper and huddle down into his chair with tea and book. That was the plan.

The plan was disturbed when he stopped to watch the snowflakes stick in Sherlock's hair. They fell quickly, but landed gracefully. He was warm enough from the Underground that the first few melted instantly, but a few more stubborn ones clung on a little longer.

"What?" Sherlock noticed his faltering steps.

"The snow likes you too," he smiled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Sherlock grumpily ruffled his hair, attempting to dispel the white spots, but in fact just making himself appear more dishevelled. His cold-pinkened cheeks pinked even more.

John huffed a little laugh through his nose and threw caution to the wind, "You look quite cute actually."

Sherlock threw him an odd look, half confused, half disbelieving. But none angry and none offended.

"Alright, not cute, just more... uh..."

"You find me attractive with snow in my hair?"

John bit his tongue. I find you attractive all the time.

"You have snow in your hair too," Sherlock pointed out, patting his pockets for his keys as they rounded the corner.

"Aye, but it hides in the grey."

Sherlock's newly ungloved hand reached up to brush some flakes from the top of John's head. "Indeed, there is more than first appeared."

John just narrowed his eyes at him and took his own keys out. Sherlock stepped out of the way to allow him access to the door, but stayed close behind him. Almost against his back. No understanding of personal space, this man. Or maybe there was understanding and just simple disregard. With anybody else it would have made John uneasy, but with Sherlock he just enjoyed every opportunity. It would be so easy to just turn around and make it into some sort of embrace. But it was easier to just open the door.

The flat was warm, John's room possibly the warmest of all, being on the top floor, and it was nice to get out of his stiff cold jeans and into soft pyjamas. He put a jumper on over his t-shirt and woollen socks on his feet before padding back downstairs. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock had made the tea. He turned to say thank you and found his flatmate at the window with his back to the room.

"The snow is better now." It was Sherlock's way of saying 'come and watch it with me'.

John stood beside him and watched the small fluffy bundles falling. They were starting to settle a little, on rooftops and car windscreens. Everything felt a little quieter, a little more muffled already. Sherlock stepped sideways once, so his arm was in contact with John's. It was probably an unconscious movement, and meant all the more for that.

"Are you warmer?"

"Yes, thank you." It wasn't a lie that time.

They descended back into silence, just the sounds of the mantel clock and their own quiet breathing. A car horn honked outside, but managed not to break the peace.

John looked around and up, probably with a mind to saying something, but forgot all about it when he found Sherlock looking back. They moved together, slowly, automatically; Sherlock taking John's tea and putting it on the desk, John lifting a hand to place his palm along Sherlock's jaw. Then they were kissing, as if it was something they did everyday, or every time it snowed. They fit together like practised lovers, thin lips against full, stroking and sucking gently. Long fingers crept up the side of John's neck, cautious and tender. Eyelashes brushed cheeks, like the tickle of a snowflake.

John let his mouth cling on until the last possible second as they pulled apart, sweeping forward for one last kiss, another and one more.

Sherlock looked down at him, completely serious, but still lightly all the same. "I like snow," he said.

"So do I."