Thank you to, RittannasFire for the prompts: winter skyline, and, Dagger.

Watson's Warrior, your prompts are next!

Please review :D

The first snowflakes were just starting to fall when Sherlock stepped out onto the sidewalk.

He hadn't been outside for more than two weeks, and the bright light hurt his eyes. He blinked several times, and felt his brother's hand brush the small of his back, a comforting gesture.

"Is John safe?" He whispers, breathes really, as he exhales in a sigh and schools his features into a neutral expression.

"Yes," Mycroft says, just as softly. "I have seen to that. You should go soon, Sherlock. Moriarty's web spreads everyday with news of his death."

Sherlock nods, and flips the collar of his coat up against his cheekbones, John's voice laughing in his mind, Turning up the collar of your coat so you look cool.

His throat tightens and he swallows hard, raising a hand to call for a taxi to take him to the airport across the world to track down the killers who would hurt his friends, his only friends in the world, if given the chance.

The wind slices through the lining of his coat, stinging his newly stitched wounds and making him shiver, but he welcomes the cold, it takes his mind off of-

No. He would not think of the endless falling, Moriarty's laughter, the blast of a gunshot, John's scream-

Stop!

The taxi diver pulls up in front of him and he slips in without a word to his brother. Mycroft will be in touch.

Resting his head against the coolness of the cab window, he thinks of John and his friendship and his PTSD and his laugh, and the time with Henry in Baskerville when John had tried to help him, of his girlfriends and his need for adventure...

The snow was falling harder by the time he stepped out of the car, and bent his head to fend off the wind.

John would have laughed at the way Sherlock's scarf blew across his face, at the way he spluttered indignantly and tried to flip it back.

And he would have sighed and said something comforting and awkward and so john when Sherlock bowed his head against the icy gray back drop of the winter skyline, and cried.

The dagger was soaked in blood.

John fingered it experimentally, not really believing his eyes. "Sherlock, what is this?"

The detective sauntered into the living room, wrapped in a sheet with his hair rumpled like a four year old's, his eyes half lidded with tiredness, his expression saying that he was in a devious mood. "What's what, John?"

"This dagger?" John held it up.

Sherlock blinked at if for a moment before grinning. "Oh, that...Lestrade gave it to me yesterday. The blood's a nice touch, don't you think?"

"What?" John was thoroughly confused.

His friend laughed and threw himself down onto the couch. "Oh, John. If Anderson thinks I'm a physcopath and can't be convinced otherwise, I might as well play the part well, don't you think?"

John rolled his eyes. "Just don't tell me where you got the blood from Sherlock, I really don't want to know."

"Don't you?" the detective murmured, fingering his violin with absent, restless hands. He smirked at John's raised eyebrow. "We'll see about that, Doctor Watson."