Cold Feet

John understood that it was relatively cold out. Okay, so it was really cold out, temperatures dipping in the negative single digits. It wasn't like it was impossible for London to get that cold... It was just that they generally didn't have such a cold reception.

Sherlock had spent most of the day shivering away at a crime scene. Of course he did, because the man was skin and bones and, despite the appearance it gave, that coat was not actually that warm. He had gone straight to get a steamy bath when he had gotten home and had just now - going by the sound of the adjoining bathroom door to Sherlock's bedroom - just gotten out. So much for any hot water in the next two hours.

John wasn't as bothered as Sherlock. Yes, it was cold and yes, he hated it - especially after the heat of Afghanistan - but he had a little more bulk and he liked to wear jumpers under his coats. Sherlock (who didn't even own a jumper, as far as John knew) wore only a cotton shirt and the blazer, for 'appearances' that wouldn't even be seen.

Sherlock padded out of his bedroom then, sighing heavily.

"Oh, there you are. Thought maybe you died," John said, glancing up.

Sherlock glanced over at him, flopping bonelessly into his chair. His face was flushed and he looked positively exhausted. If it were anyone else in that state after a horrifically long shower, John would question what they'd been up to. But not Sherlock; John's deduction was that Sherlock had filled the bath precariously close to overflowing with steaming hot water. The deduction was spurred on by the intermittent sound of the tap running John had heard and the billow of steam that had gone into the hallway when Sherlock opened the door, like a warm breath on a cold day.

"Not likely," Sherlock muttered.

"You know that's very unhealthy."

Sherlock looked up at him blearily. "What is?"

"Hot baths."

"No, they're not." Sherlock was immediately on the defensive of his precious baths. (John was more the shower type.) "They have health benefits."

"Okay, when that much steam comes out from the bathroom, I can imagine how hot that water was and, if you've got blood pressure problems - which wouldn't surprise me in the least - you're going to end up flat on your face one day."

Sherlock scowled and waved his hand dismissively. It fell limply back onto the armrest and Sherlock sank a little lower. "I take it slow when I'm light-headed."

"You shouldn't get light-headed from a bath," John said defiantly.

"Yes, well." Sherlock pushed himself up again and unsteadily got to his feet. "It's freezing cold out and I hate winter. Not to mention Scotland Yard slowed me down today." He padded into the kitchen.

"You didn't have to go out in the first place," John replied calmly. They had already had a conversation very much the same on the cab ride back to Baker Street.

"Crime doesn't care if it's cold or hot and, for that reason, I can't, either."

"And yet, you still find it in you to complain."

"Afterwards," Sherlock replied. There was a clank of a mug and then the pouring of liquid. He shuffled back into the sitting room with a steaming cup of tea and returned to his chair, crawling into it slowly.

John didn't know why, but he just happened to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's feet disappearing under his legs as he tucked them up, criss-cross applesauce. And they were black.

Now, John knew quite a bit slipped from his conscious knowledge, but he knew that Sherlock Holmes's feet were not black.

"You got socks on?"

Sherlock glanced over his mug. "What? Yes. Of course. Hardwood floor and negative temperatures don't mesh, not to mention I just got warm."

"... I've never seen you wear socks," John admitted.

"I wear socks all the time."

"Yeah, beneath your shoes and they both come off first thing when we get home. You parade around barefoot all the time. I've never seen you wear socks just around the flat."

Sherlock sipped at his tea. "Oh, intriguing that you care so much," he said idly, closing his eyes and slouching down a bit.

Just the toes of his right foot stuck out slightly from beneath his leg and John squinted towards the fabric. They were black, all right, but they seemed to have white splotches...

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock jumped slightly, opening his eyes. "What?"

"Do your socks have skulls on them!?" John demanded.

Sherlock frowned infinitesimally, tucking his toes back under his legs. "Yes, if you must know, they do."

John stared before laughing out loud. "Why?" he asked.

"Why not?" Sherlock paused to yawn slightly over his mug. "These are made from a mixture of cotton, fleece, and spandex. They're incredibly soft and warm. The skulls were just an added bonus."

John couldn't help but continue to grin. "Do you talk to them, too?" he asked jokingly. He rarely got an opportunity to take the piss out of Sherlock Holmes and he was going to run with it as long as he could.

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. "Of course not. I only talk to Billy." He took another slow sip of his tea. "I'd rather talk to you, actually."

"But only because the skull attracts attention," John reminded.

"Mmm... True. But also you can carry on a semi-lucid conversation and it helps to pass the time." Sherlock offered a small, sleepy smile as a form of understanding: this was his version of 'teasing'.

John laughed again. "Yeah, thanks." He watched Sherlock yawn again. "You should go to bed."

Sherlock sighed. "It's not even gone nine o' clock yet."

"So? You're warm and cosy with your little skeleton socks-"

"Skulls," Sherlock interrupted. He seemed completely nonplussed and John realised just then that he actually probably was.

"Okay, you're cosy with your skull socks and your tea, you've just had a relaxing hot bath... Go crawl into bed and hibernate until morning."

"Hmm... I did put the electric blanket on my bed," Sherlock mused. He sat in thought for a moment before taking the last few drinks of his tea. "I think I may. It certainly sounds better than negative temperatures. Good night, John."

"Good night..." John grinned. "Are you sure you don't want to say good night to Billy?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock replied. "I only talk to him when you aren't around." With his skull socks making his footsteps silent, Sherlock glided back to his bedroom and closed the door with a gentle snap.

The only other sounds that followed, barely audible over the crackling of the fire, was the squeak of Sherlock's mattress and the slightest shift of fabric as Sherlock, presumably, snuggled down.

John just shook his head slightly and looked at Billy on the mantelpiece, smiling ever-so-slightly at the skull staring blankly in the direction that Sherlock had just vanished.

Inspired by the warm and fuzzy and incredibly soft orange skull knee-high socks I just bought myself. xD Sherlock in socks is strangely cute. His adorable pyjamas and some adorable socks and bedhead. Ugh, why isn't Sherlock real or why don't they at least do some sleepy!lock?!

I don't own Sherlock, because there'd be a lot of domestic!lock if I did. Your thoughts would be lovely. Thank you!