My eternal thanks to my darling best friend, Captain Evil, for being my guinea pig and sounding board.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Sadly. And I'm also not a doctor, so don't take what I say as proper medical procedure...

Cold Feet

Sherlock gave a sigh of contentment as he snuggled closer to his pillow. He couldn't remember being this comfortable or warm in a long time.

"Mmm…"

It was just a fleeting sound, but almost bordered on a sleepy moan. Now that brought his brain fully back online. Fighting the urge to panic, Sherlock took note of his surroundings before opening his eyes. Soft bed, silky sheets—definitely his own bed, but not his pillow—firmer but…nice. Warmth; the smell of tea, wool (sheep in the rain?), spicy cologne—all of the smells he associated with home; arms around him—John. John was in his bed. Nearly naked, he assumed as he could feel so much of his own skin pressed against his doctor. Needing to have visual proof as well, Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

They were lying facing each other, with Sherlock's head cradled in the crook of John's neck and shoulder. Ah, that explains the near moan—Sherlock's lips were ghosting over the sensitive scar tissue on the older man's left shoulder. Their arms were draped over the other's waist, holding their partner closer. Sherlock discovered that his right leg was thrown over John's hip and the doctor's left leg was wedged between his own—his thigh putting just the right amount of pressure on Sherlock's scrotum to feel deliciously arousing. He wiggled around slightly and looked down between their bodies and Christ, they were completely naked.

That was definitely a problem. Well, for Sherlock at least. If he didn't find some way to extricate himself from his current position, he was going to be incredibly embarrassed when John finally woke up. Sherlock thought back to the previous night, trying desperately to remember how they ended up like this—not that he was complaining, but he was sure that they had not partaken of carnal pleasures…oh. The case…

***Nine Hours Earlier***

"Damn it, Sherlock! Christ—John! Is he breathing?" Greg panted as he raced to the bank, skidding to a halt in the mud, nearly falling over the doctor.

At that precise moment, Sherlock took a great gasping breath the coughed the Thames out of his lungs.

John was so relieved, he nearly wept with joy. "Yes—yes! He's breathing! Thank God, but he's freezing. We need to get him warm before he succumbs to hypothermia."

"Ambulance is on its way—should be here any second!" Donovan shouted to Lestrade.

The doctor shrugged out of his jacket and tried to bundle Sherlock in it the best he could without letting the man out of his arms.

"J-j-j-john-n-n-n?" the consulting detective stuttered, eyes wide with fright as he reached up and grabbed his flat mate's bicep with a soggy gloved hand.

"Shh, shh! Its okay, Sherlock. You're okay. You're freezing, but you're okay. Ambulance is on its way," John reassured his best friend.

"Th-th-the sus-p-p-pect-t?" demanded the Holmes popsicle.

"In custody. We're bringing him in," Greg stated. "But for the love of God, Sherlock, can you for once try not to get yourself killed?! It's a good thing John saw you go over the edge or we might not have found you in time, you great bloody idiot! Next time you seriously need to wait for my team first before you go barging in!"

"W-would have g-g-got-ten aw-way—" Sherlock tried to explain, attempting to glare down the DI. The effect left something to be desired since he didn't look all that intimidating with his teeth chattering and his wet curls plastered down around his face and neck.

The ambulance finally arrived, saving them from further argument. Sherlock was wrapped in a heated blanket and the medics were telling John and Lestrade that they were going to take Sherlock to the A&E.

"N-n-n-n-no hosp-p-pitals!" demanded the man in question.

"Sherlock, you should go! You need to go," John insisted, barely able to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"B-b-but you're m-my doct-tor!"

Signing in resignation, John turned to the medics and told them, "I'm his doctor. I'll take full responsibility for him."

Without waiting to be asked, Lestrade had Donovan pull one of the cars around and helped John load Sherlock into the back seat.

"I'll call tomorrow," Greg declared as he slammed the cruiser's door shut. He saw the barest hint of a nod from the doctor before Sally peeled away from the river bank like a bat out of hell.

John had to give Donovan credit; despite being on the opposite side of London, she got them back to Baker Street in record time. Faster than John was sure was possible. Or safe, for that matter—though he did fully appreciate it nonetheless. She even helped him haul the frosty Sherlock up the seventeen steps to their flat.

"Anything else you need?" she asked hesitantly, not sure if further help from her would be accepted or wanted. Donovan knew that John felt that she was partially responsible for the mess that happened prior to The Fall, as they all referred to it secretly. After everything that came to light in the months after Sherlock's funeral, she had tried to make amends with the army doctor. She really had nothing against John—in fact she quite liked him. She just questioned his choice of companions. They would never be mates, but she was making a sincere effort for nothing but John's sake. To atone for her sins, she had even gone out of her way to be nicer to Sherlock upon his return—though the two still managed on occasion to jump down each other's throats on particularly bad days.

John shook his head, as he started to half drag Sherlock towards the bathroom. "No, that's it. Thank you, Sally. Just going to get him out of these wet clothes and try a gradual temperature increase shower."

She nodded then headed out the door, and called back over her shoulder, "Any time. If you need anything else tonight—or rather, this morning—call me. I'll be up."

John simply grunted in acknowledgment as he staggered into the bathroom room. He leaned Sherlock against the wall between the tub and the sink momentarily so that he could turn on the shower. He made sure the water wasn't too warm before turning his attention back to his friend. Without hesitation or preamble, he started peeling off Sherlock's wet layers. John hesitated at removing the younger man's pants, but knew that he would in the end have to take them off anyway, so off they went. Knowing that there was no way the genius could be left to his own devices, John striped down too before he pulled Sherlock into the tub with him.

"W-what are you d-d-doing, J-j-john?" Sherlock stammered, bewildered at the state of their mutual nudity.

"I can't have you take a bath because you'll most likely drown yourself. No offence, but since that's nearly already happened this evening, I'd like to avoid a repeat performance. And as strong as I am, I've used a lot of energy dragging you out of the river. I don't think I can haul you out of the tub once you're seated," John calmly explained.

"I und-derst-stand that," Sherlock spat, "b-but why are y-you in the sh-sh-shower w-with me n-now?"

"Christ, Sherlock, because you can't bloody well stand up on your own at the moment and this is the quickest way to get you warm again," clarified the doctor.

Trying to prove differently, Sherlock attempted to push away from John, but his knees refused to do their job and support his weight. So instead of liberating himself, he only found John's arms once again wrapping around his waist. He sighed in frustration and just gave in as he realized this was a losing battle. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, really. He was still freezing and John was oh so warm. And there was the small matter of that fantasy he had that happened to include this very scenario—without the mild case of hypothermia of course.

John had gradually increased the water temperature until it was hot and steamy. When Sherlock was no longer shivering uncontrollably, the doctor shut the faucet off and retrieved the biggest, fluffiest towel they had and wrapped it around his flat mate. "Can you manage to dry off?" he asked.

Sherlock did a quick internal body scan. Once he deemed that he was in fact stable enough stay vertical unassisted, he gave a brief nod. Having obtained the confirmation, John quickly dried himself off and wrapped his towel around his hips as he strode out of the bathroom with purpose. Sherlock heard the clinking of tea cups and the kettle from the kitchen. Then before the water had time to boil, he heard John's footsteps padding down the hall to his room. There was the sound of rummaging in hall cupboard before the creak of the bedroom door. Try as he might to focus on what exactly John could have been doing, he couldn't. His brain just refused to cooperate. He felt disoriented, lost.

Before he had time to panic, John was back with him. "Come on then," the doctor ordered as he guided Sherlock into his bedroom. Immediately the younger of them saw the results of John's handiwork. His bed had acquired several more quilts. He was pleasantly surprised when he slid under the covers to find that John had also added a heated blanket. Sherlock moaned in delight as he sank down into the warmth of his bed.

"Ah, alright then. I'll be right back," John stated before he made a hasty retreat to the kitchen. Sherlock wasn't sure if he imagined the blush on his best friend's cheeks or not as he scurried out.

When John returned, he perched on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock and demanded that the hot cup of tea was to be gone within the next ten minutes. When both of their cups were empty, John collected them and got up to leave.

Say something! Sherlock's mind screamed at him. There were too many times in the past where he had taken advantage of John's good nature, but the aftermath of The Fall and the resulting two years in exile had shown him that there were just certain things one couldn't take for granted. Not anymore. Not after what had happened between them. And he was extremely grateful for John's presence in his life. Sherlock tried to be more thoughtful and express his gratitude for the other, especially since he was all too aware of how close he truly came to losing John altogether.

"Wait! John! I—" he called out, but his body was racked with violent chills.

John turned back to him instantly and unceremoniously dumped the tea cups on the dresser. Without a second thought, he flung off the wet towel hugging his lower half and slid into the other side of bed. He gathered Sherlock in his arms once more before pulling the blankets securely around them.

"Body heat. Best thing I can offer you right now," the doctor answered the unasked question before it could be voiced.

Sherlock smirked into the dark. "If I w-w-wasn't fre-ee-ezing, I m-m-might find th-this enj-joyable!"

Chuckling, John just pulled Sherlock closer and kissed his forehead. "Maybe later. When your hands aren't so bloody cold!"

In retribution, Sherlock stuck said body parts into John's armpits. It was his turn to giggle as the doctor squeaked out in surprise at the chilled touch.

John huffed in feigned annoyance and demanded, "Turn over with your back to me." Sherlock did as asked and found himself enveloped in luscious warmth as John spooned him. The last thought he had before he surrendered to sleep was: If this is what an impromptu dive into the Thames in the middle of winter gets me, I should do it more often…