Warmer, Colder

"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed, crashing out of his room with a theatrical swirl of his house robe. "What have you done with them now?"

John blinked at Sherlock over the rim of the mug of tea he'd been about to enjoy. "Done with what?"

"My new secret supply, John. They were in… they were hidden and now they're gone. What have you done with them?" Sherlock shifted from foot to foot impatiently, hands on his slim hips.

John set his mug down on the table beside his chair. "I see."

"I'm waiting, John."

John crossed his arms, his face stern. "I thought you were quitting? You've been doing so well."

"I'm still waiting."

"I'm certainly not going to just give them to you. Find them yourself if you want them so badly."

Sherlock scowled and looked around the room. He lunged at the mantle and picked up the skull, peering inside.

"Colder," John said.

"What?"

John made his face carefully expressionless. "You're getting colder."

"No, I'm not. I'm next to the fire."

John sighed. "Sherlock, when you get closer to what you're looking for, I say 'warmer.' When you get farther away, I say 'colder.' It's a game."

"Why should I play a game to get my own cigarettes?" Sherlock sneered.

"Well, maybe I'm bored for a change. And this would entertain me." John smiled at Sherlock's outraged expression and pointed out smugly, "And you're not going to find them any other way."

"Oh, we'll see about that." Sherlock threatened.

"Colder," replied John mildly, picking up his tea and taking a satisfying swallow. He relaxed back into his chair.

Sherlock growled under his breath and flung himself at the desk, rifling through drawers and flinging the contents across the room haphazardly, muttering to himself furiously.

"Colder."

Sherlock scowled and began to describe aloud what sounded like a random combination of places he would look next and ways he wanted to revenge himself on John, with a couple of ideas that could somewhat alarmingly fit into both categories. He ran into the kitchen.

John heard the clang of cookware being distributed across the floor. "Colder!" he called.

The clanging stopped. The refrigerator door opened and there was some more muttering and then a sort of squelchy sound.

John cringed and quickly said, "COLDER!"

The refrigerator door closed. Sherlock marched from the kitchen and headed determinedly toward John's room, casting the blackest of looks at John.

"Colder."

Sherlock spun in a full circle in place, adding some creative invective to his ongoing dialogue.

John snickered as he heard him thunder and curse his way down the front stairs. "Repressed oral fixation. Too much coming out, not enough going in."

"What did you say?" Sherlock yelled from the staircase.

"I SAID COLDER," John yelled back.

Footsteps clattered back up the stairs. Sherlock walked to the center of the room, stopped next to John's chair, and glared.

"Oh. Warmer." John took another sip of tea.

Sherlock's expression instantly changed from annoyed to engaged and he peered at John. "Warmer?!"

John raised his eyebrows silently.

Sherlock cocked his head and examined the chairs. He flopped onto the floor in front of his leather chair and poked at the cushions.

"Colder."

Sherlock turned on his knees toward John's chair and glared at him again. "You're really enjoying yourself, aren't you? Sitting there all…" he waved a hand abstractedly in the air. "Cute and cozy while I suffer."

"Yes, very much! So I'm 'cute' now, am I?"

Sherlock frowned.

"By the way, warmer."

Sherlock eyed John's chair. "Get up!" he ordered.

"Oh, rude." John shook his head. "Colder."

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his nose. "Would you stand up… please?"

"Of course." John took a leisurely sip of tea before he stood and smiled. "Warmer."

Sherlock looked under John's pillow and stuck his fingers under the seat cushion.

"Colder."

Sherlock looked thoroughly puzzled for a moment, then stood abruptly and planted himself directly in front of John.

"Warmer."

Sherlock looked John up and down very carefully and his expression transitioned smoothly from surly to forlorn. He dropped his head so he could look at John through his long dark lashes and jutted his lush lower lip out in a pout. "John? Can't you see I need your help? I really need this. Why won't you just help me?" Sherlock touched John's arm softly.

John cleared his throat, it had gone a little dry. "Oh, very nice try. Colder."

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh, straightening to his full height and looking haughtily down his nose at John. He frowned. He looked closely at John. Stared at him. Tilted his head.

John felt a flush creep up his neck to his face, but he lifted his chin and waited.

Sherlock seemed to come to some sort of conclusion based on his scrutiny and a small, intrigued smile crept across his face. He reached out and patted the front of John's jumper, feeling for any uncharacteristically boxy lumps.

John smirked. "Warmer."

Sherlock spun John around and patted down John's back and arms.

"Warmer," John said over his shoulder.

Sherlock stuck his hands into the back pockets of John's jeans. John did squirm just a little as Sherlock ran his hands down the back of his legs. It tickled.

"Warmer."

Sherlock spun John around roughly and gave him a little shake, as if cigarettes might fall out of him like a stuck vending machine.

"Oi! Colder."

"Sorry," Sherlock knelt in front of John and smirked up at him, gentling his hands as he ran them across John's front pockets, closely down the front of John's legs, and over the tops of his feet.

John thought about unpleasant medical conditions. "Warmer," he said a little huskily.

Still on his knees, Sherlock took a deep breath and stared straight ahead for several seconds, then seemed to notice where his gaze had landed and quickly looked up. He took a another breath. "John. Your 'clues' have implied that my secret supply is concealed somewhere on your person; however, I have searched you thoroughly now with no result. And yet you keep saying warmer. Unless you're suggesting I that I next perform a full cavity search—which would require some additional supplies—" He flashed John an utterly menacing look. John gulped. "I am starting to form the impression that you—" His teeth clenched again. "Do. Not. Have. My. Cigarettes."

John pursed his lips. "You're right. There are no cigarettes. I binned your secret supply last week."

"What?" Sherlock stood up.

"There are no cigarettes," John repeated in a slightly louder voice. "You're quitting. We agreed it, remember?"

"But you said warmer. You weren't playing fair. If I wasn't getting warmer then what was the point of all this?"

"Well… you were distracted, weren't you? And, well… if you're open to it, I might… be able to also offer… an entirely different kind of distraction." John licked his lips and reached out to take Sherlock's hand, moving his thumb to stroke the softer skin on the inside of Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock blinked at him. "Because I'm feeling quite a lot warmer now." Sherlock's eyes widened. His lips parted. And to John's surprise, his cheeks began to flush. "What do you think?"

"So…" Sherlock's voice dropped. "This isn't the game any more? "

"No," John stroked Sherlock's wrist again and looked solemnly into his beautiful eyes. "This isn't a game any more."

Several minutes later, Sherlock had indeed forgotten about his cigarettes entirely.

xxx

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