7

"Well, we found you. You," Lestrade nodded to John, "were passed out on Sherlock's chest. Still had his hands in between yours."

"I... don't recall," John replied.

"You also weren't wearing gloves, or a jacket, or a scarf," Lestrade voiced.

John blinked slowly. "I wasn't? I... well, the last I remembered, I was. I remember Sherlock passing out but I don't remember much besides that..."

"Paradoxical undressing," Sherlock stated from the couch. "You should have expected that, John."

"Just because I'm a doctor and know of stuff that can happen, doesn't mean that it won't," John replied dryly, flashing a glance towards the detective.

They had been released from the hospital not an hour ago, and Lestrade had shown up at their flat shortly thereafter. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, seeming to be completely recovered and back to his old self. John didn't feel particularly bad, either, asides from feeling a bit sick. Thankfully, it seemed like enough time had passed between their exposure and their release from the hospital.

"You should have been prepared."

"Be prepared to be locked in an industrial freezer? That's a bit harsh, even for you, Sherlock," Lestrade said, frowning towards the consulting detective.

Sherlock only grunted in reply, curling over onto his side. John rolled his eyes, looking back to Lestrade. "He won't be talking much now. Can I offer you a cuppa?"

"You could, but I would have to decline," Lestrade replied jokingly, smiling. "Wife's expecting me. We're going out to dinner tonight."

A thin "No you're not," trailed from the couch.

John chose to ignore it. "Well, the best of time to you, then."

Lestrade left shortly thereafter. He didn't have a reason to linger; John knew that he had just come to check up on them when he had realized that they had gone home. Plus, he had the dinner date (that may or may not be entirely cancelled).

Sherlock unfolded from his position on the couch, stepping over the coffee table. John glanced up at him as he returned to his chair, reaching for the Daily Mail discarded on the floor.

"So, did you just really not want to talk to him?" he asked, unfolding the paper without looking away.

"What? Oh, him. No. I don't care." There was the slightest noise as Sherlock sank into his armchair.

"You don't have to be so rude. He saved our lives."

"His inability to move faster almost killed us."

"The road's were closed, Sherlock. We weren't even supposed to be out," John reminded him, glancing towards the window. The snow had stopped for now. It figured, didn't it?

"Well, we almost caught a murderer." Sherlock's voice was annoyed.

John glanced at him. "It bothers you. We almost died, and it bothers you that we missed a murderer."

"Of course it does," Sherlock replied curtly.

John shook his head mockingly, turning back to the newspaper.

It wasn't twenty minutes later when John decided that the Daily Mail had had an off day, by the looks of all of the gossip floating around, and folded the paper up. He caught sight of Sherlock, his fingers pausing on the newspaper.

Somehow, in the middle of John reading the paper, Sherlock had fallen asleep. That was something new, but not totally unexpected, considering their ordeal. However, Sherlock had moved his chair, angling it towards the fire glowing in the fireplace. His head was hanging over the back of the armchair, towards the warmth of the fire. Otherwise, he was completely sprawled out, arms limp, legs stretched out. He looked... peaceful.

John smiled slightly.

He was also going to get an awful neck ache if he stayed like that all night.

Despite that fact, John couldn't bring himself to disturb the sleeping, consulting detective.

He sighed and stood, traipsing back towards Sherlock's room. He did a quick search of Sherlock's closet (which was, surprisingly, experiment free), not finding the one thing he wanted. Grumbling mentally, because Sherlock Holmes would be the one man who didn't have a spare blanket in his closet, he closed the door to Sherlock's room. He doubled back and stepped out into the landing, taking the stairs up to his room. He pulled one of the blankets off of his unmade bed (living with Sherlock Holmes brought out an unhealthy amount of laziness in John if it didn't involve chasing criminals) before turning and heading back down.

He crept back into the living room and proceeded to drape the blanket over Sherlock.

"Whadd'rya doin'?" Sherlock slurred, shifting slightly.

John flinched, almost jumping, at Sherlock's statement. "Sorry, just... go back to sleep," he muttered, letting the blanket fall haphazardly on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock muttered something else, but it was lost in the mumbling of one too tired to properly open his mouth.

John smiled faintly and turned away, flipping off the light.

Aaannnd that's all for this story. I hope you guys enjoyed it~ Thank you for the continued support and the favs/follows/reviews. I appreciate it it greatly! Thank you again!