Written for an LJ prompt, and beta'd by lj user Humantales. She did an amazing job cleaning this up and teaching me a few things which I plan to implement from here on out.

Some mild slash and some light fluff, to help fight off the cold weather blues.

Today hadn't been going well from the start. But at least now, John thought, it couldn't get much worse.

Following the criminals on their own had been a bad idea. It always was, but Sherlock had been stubborn as usual about not calling in the police until they knew all the facts. He claimed it was because the detectives would slow him down, but John suspected it was really because he liked to make a big show of solving the case, of putting all the facts together in one stunning display of intellect. And while normally John loved those moments, he realized now that Sherlock's stupid pride had gotten them into a rather serious mess.

The sun was going down, the temperature was dropping, and they were trapped. It appeared to be some sort of small closet in an old warehouse. John had no doubt that Sherlock knew exactly where they were, given his perfect mental map of London. But for all John knew they could be on the bloody moon. All that really mattered at the moment was that it was small, it was cold, and it didn't seem like they'd be getting out any time soon.

Sherlock was fiddling with the lock for the hundredth time, but without any proper tools it was proving futile. That door appeared to be the only way out of this damn cupboard, and so far the lock was proving too much for Sherlock's bare hands and strength of will. It simply wouldn't budge.

John had already accepted this, and tried to convince Sherlock to let it be for the moment and stop fussing about. John had realised that they were trapped at least for the night, and he had begun to plan accordingly.

This couldn't have happened at a worse time. It was the middle of January, the coldest time of the year. The day had been clear and mild, but nights had been dipping down below the freezing point, and probably would again this night. He could already feel the temperature dropping around them, and it was only just dusk. They were in for a long night.

He had tried to explain this to Sherlock, but the detective was too busy insisting that he would find a way out to listen. He seemed the closest to frantic that John had ever seen. He was pacing (as much as the tiny space would allow, which effectively meant he was spinning around in circles) and rifling his hands through his hair, as if trying to pull a solution from his head.

The criminals had, of course, confiscated their phones, wallets, and John's gun, leaving them almost nothing to work with. John had already concluded that there was no way they were getting out without outside assistance. Their only hope was that Mrs. Hudson would get worried when they didn't return home and call Lestrade. Though even that was unlikely to happen until at least tomorrow, and even then Lestrade would have to find them without any clues. Sherlock had, once again, insisted on not telling anyone where they were going. John made a mental note to start leaving messages in future, whenever he went out, anywhere. Because things like this frankly happened far too often for comfort.

But with the prospect of rescue so distant he had to focus on the present. The temperatures weren't dire, but neither of them had eaten in hours (in Sherlock's case, maybe days), and they had already spent most of their energy in the preceding struggle. They were both tired and stressed and that left them even more vulnerable to the elements.

John had been trained to recognize and treat hypothermia. Most people didn't realise that the mountainous areas of Afghanistan were much colder than the desert regions, and the winters there could be downright dangerous. Along with the usual gunshot and explosion wounds, he had treated several cases of minor frost bite, and even more instances of disorientation and exhaustion, exacerbated by the weather. They had been damn lucky nothing more serious had befallen them.

John began to make plans. They would need to remain as still as possible to retain energy and heat. That meant getting Sherlock to stop pacing and sit down. Easier said than done.

"Sherlock," he called softly, and then again more firmly, breaking the detective out of his thoughts.

"What is it?" Sherlock snapped. "Can't you see I'm thinking here? Not that you're being much help." Excellent, John thought, this was going to be so much more difficult with an irritable Sherlock.

"Sherlock, please, come over here. The temperature is dropping and you're wasting energy. You need to stay still. Come sit." John patted the cold floor beside him.

Sherlock did stop pacing, but he didn't make any move to join John. Instead he just glared. "Is that what I need to do, doctor? Stay still? Because it seems to me what I need to do is get us out of here. So if it's not too inconvenient for you, I think I'll do just that." He gave a huff of irritation and resumed pacing.

John only sighed. When Sherlock was determined, there was little he could do to stop him. He would have to wait for Sherlock to either grow bored or see reason.

It took about another hour of pacing and mumbling before Sherlock finally stilled. John patted the floor again in invitation and Sherlock came over, looking like a chastised puppy.

"I can't do it," he admitted grumpily, curling his knees up to his chest and hugging them close.

"I know. It's fine. We'll figure something out." John thought it was best not to point out the hopelessness of their situation right now. It wouldn't help anything, and it would only frustrate Sherlock further. And Sherlock had undoubtedly already figured it out for himself. Instead he settled for a companionable silence, distracting himself by calculating how cold it might get and how quickly they would lose heat in these conditions. It was a grim line of thought.

He was distracted by Sherlock shifting, pulling his legs closer to his body and trying to stretch his coat over them. John had begun to feel the chill, but Sherlock seemed to be feeling it much more acutely.

"Sherlock, you're shivering." John placed a hand on his arm and could feel the frenetic movement beneath his fingers. Sherlock wasn't just shivering, he was trembling violently. That wasn't a good sign, not already. It was still early and if Sherlock was already losing this much heat he would be in trouble.

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted tersely, shrugging off John's touch. But John knew Sherlock well enough to see through his bravado.

Without a word John pulled Sherlock's scarf from around his neck and unfolded it. Sherlock gave him a confused look, but John continued unabashed. He pulled the scarf open and laid it over Sherlock's head, wrapping it snugly around his ears and tying it under his chin. Sherlock remained puzzled but didn't try to remove it. Actually, his trembling seemed to have calmed a bit.

"The head is a primary site for heat loss; this should help keep you warm, at least a bit." Sherlock nodded his understanding and pulled the scarf a little tighter. But then he looked at John uncertainly.

"What about you?"

John waved him off. "I'm not that cold. Used to it, I guess. I'll be fine." He sat back quickly and hugged his arms to his chest to hide his own shivering. It was best not to worry Sherlock, now that he had finally gotten him to cooperate a bit.

They sat in silence for a while, each lost in thought. John was considering these new developments and the best steps to take. Sherlock was thinking about, well, who knew what, but probably the case, John guessed. So he was surprised when Sherlock turned to him.

"You're not fine, John." John could only gape for a moment before his mind caught up. But Sherlock continued without letting him answer. It hadn't been a question, anyway.

"You are shivering. You're trying to hide it, but I can feel it, this is a very small space. And you're clenching your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, I can see the muscles working. Your nose and ears have turned red and your hands are alarmingly pale. It doesn't take a medical degree to recognize the signs of hypothermic distress." His firm expression told John he wasn't going to accept any further prevarication.

"Fine," John said and the breath hung in the air for a moment, visible in the low light. "It is…rather cold." John always had been one for understatement.

Sherlock began pulling off his coat and it took John a moment to realize what he was doing.

"No, Sherlock, you can't," he said as his friend draped the wool coat over his crouched knees and tucked it firmly behind his shoulders. It was perhaps the kindest thing Sherlock had ever done for him, but in these circumstances it was just plain stupid. Without the coat Sherlock would be in serious danger. And while John appreciated the gesture, he would rather have Sherlock alive and functioning than chivalrous.

But he could only sigh at the look of stubborn resolution of Sherlock's face, as he tried his best not to shiver violently at the loss of warmth.

"Look, Sherlock, I appreciate it, but this isn't going to work." He pulled the coat off and sat up to face Sherlock straight on. "I am grateful for your willingness to sacrifice, but what would actually be more helpful is if you shared your body heat, not your coat."

Sherlock looked blank, so John continued. "Look, our bodies are both losing heat through radiation, right? But if we stay close together we can both absorb the heat the other is giving off. It's a survival technique they taught us in the army."

Sherlock considered then nodded approvingly. "It makes scientific sense," he said

John paused before continuing. That was all well and good, but how would Sherlock react to the details?

"Well the most effective method is to be…unclothed. Not entirely!" he added quickly, reassuring himself, or Sherlock, or maybe both. "But at least partially. That way none of the heat is getting absorbed by the clothing and lost."

This really wasn't the time to be embarrassed, but John couldn't help the slight feeling of awkwardness. He was suggesting he get mostly naked with his rather gorgeous flatmate, after all. In other conditions it may have been a dream come true, but he had to remind himself that this was about survival and necessity. Definitely not the time to be feeling excited.

But Sherlock accepted the suggestion without hesitation. He waited for John to instruct him, but otherwise showed no qualms about the situation.

"Uh, right then, just shirts should do fine," John said in his best professional voice. He was a doctor right now, he reminded himself, looking after a patient who could be in very serious danger. This was business. Strictly business.

But as he snuck a glance at Sherlock unbuttoning his shirt, he couldn't help the jump in his heart rate. Oh, damn it all.

John pulled off his coat and laid it on the ground to provide some measure of insulation from the icy cold concrete. He pulled off his jumper and t-shirt and balled them into makeshift pillows. He looked over to find Sherlock shirtless and waiting patiently for further instruction. His skin was even paler in the cold light, almost translucent. But the beautiful, smooth skin was disrupted by patterns of goosebumps prickling the surface. Even so, Sherlock's flawless grace made John's own body feel so inadequate, riddled with scars and imperfections.

John mentally shook himself. This was definitely not the time to be checking out Sherlock's body. He had to focus.

He lay down on the coat and curled himself up as tight as he could, knees to his chest to help keep in warmth. Sherlock lay down beside him, imitating the position and pulling his coat over them like a blanket. Thankfully it was a long coat, but not terribly wide, given Sherlock's thin frame. They had to huddle closer to both fit fully underneath it. When they were finally settled they were practically nose to nose, their legs intertwined to make more space. John could feel Sherlock's breath on his face and the faint waves of heat coming off his skin.

Whereas John's thoughts only moments before had strayed into dangerous territory, what he felt now was more like comfort and security. It was like a baby being swaddled and held to its mother's breast. The heat and proximity of another human body was immensely soothing, and John felt himself slowly relaxing. It was still cold, and this didn't solve their major problems, but it felt right, and he had absolutely no desire to break this peaceful moment. He could almost imagine that the circumstances were different, that they were lying in a real bed, in non-fatal circumstances. But that was a dangerous road to start down, and he quickly curbed the thought.

Sherlock was the one who broke the silence first. "Is that better?" John felt his voice as much as heard it, rumbling through his chest. A little of the desire he'd felt earlier returned.

"Yes," he answered simply, in response to whatever Sherlock meant. Because it was, all around, better.

Sherlock was quiet for another moment before speaking up again, this time his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry, John."

John blinked in surprise. Maybe the cold was getting more severe than he thought, he'd heard that people sometimes hallucinated when they went into shock. But the look in Sherlock's eyes told him he had not been mistaken.

"I dragged you into this. You wanted to call Lestrade but I insisted that we do this alone. It's my fault that we're trapped here. I'm sorry you have to go through this because of me." His eyes were sincere and John knew he genuinely meant it. That brilliant brain that never shut off must have been going over the day's events over and over, berating himself for every mistake and bad decision that had led them here. It must be torture.

The annoyance John had felt earlier was mostly gone. Yes, it was a bad habit of Sherlock's to charge into dangerous situations without a fully formulated plan. But he never intended any harm; it was simply overconfidence. John could relate to that. There had once been a time when he had felt invincible, like he could take on the world. Until he had been wounded, and then suddenly the world had seemed a much more daunting place. But Sherlock had returned some of that confidence to him. Running across rooftops and facing down killers, it had made him feel brash and alive and useful in a way he had almost forgotten. That feeling made the danger and the blunders worth it. He had never once regretted following Sherlock, not even with a bomb strapped to his chest. And certainly not now.

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock," he said with a wry smile. "I follow you of my own volition. It's not like you force me to come on these foolhardy adventures. If I had really wanted to, I could have stopped you, or made you call in the police."

Sherlock looked affronted for a moment but then smirked in response. "Yes, I believe that if you really wanted your way there's little I could do to stop you. What with your being a crack shot and all."

John chuckled. "So you see, then, that this is as much my fault as yours. I chose to come with you, and I only wish I could have been more useful."

But Sherlock shook his head fervently. "I don't need you to be useful, John. I don't actually care about your skill with a gun or your medical knowledge, you know. Although they do come in handy." He paused in consideration. "But it's more important to have someone beside me who understands and who doesn't question or judge. I've never had that before you."

Sherlock was staring at him intensely now. John had never examined his eyes from so close before, and even in the low light he could see the little flecks of colour that made them such a fascinating, indeterminate shade. John was sure that if his blood was still capable of circulating he would most definitely be blushing. This was probably the first time that Sherlock had honestly expressed his feelings for John in anything more than an offhand comment.

"Well," John cleared his throat a bit, trying to fight back the embarrassment, "surely you know that I'd follow you anywhere."

Sherlock smiled in response, and for once it was the kind of genuine smile that shone through his eyes. "Yes. I know." Sherlock's expression was languid and dreamy and John couldn't help but be mesmerized.

Until the rational part of his brain kicked back into gear and he realized what that look meant.

"Sherlock," he warned sharply, "do not go falling asleep. That would be a very bad idea, don't you think?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped wider and he shook himself a bit. But it was little use. His eyelids began to droop again immediately, and his breathing was slowing. John didn't even know the last time Sherlock had slept, and these conditions would only make his lethargy worse. The cold might not be enough to kill him, but sleeping could still be dangerous. It was best to avoid it if at all possible.

John tried to distract Sherlock's attention to keep him awake. "Tell me the facts of the case again," he suggested, knowing that engaging Sherlock's mind was the best way to distract him.

But that mind seemed to be slowing down along with the rest of his body.

"The thieves work in a small band, but they're tied to a larger organization," he began slowly, trying to focus his mind.

"Yes," John encouraged, "and how did you deduce that?

"The…targets," Sherlock continued. "All large shops, brand name goods, things that can be sold on the…black market."

"Good, good, and what about the warehouse, how did you find that?"

"The mud on their shoes…" Sherlock was fading fast now.

"Sherlock," John practically shouted, "Sherlock, listen to me. Do not fall asleep, do you hear me? If you do…if you do, I'm going to tell Mrs. Hudson where you keep the skull! Do you hear me? Sherlock!"

John tried shaking him, but the detective was passed out, completely unconscious. The only thing he could do now was keep an eye on him and make sure he remained as warm as possible and breathing steadily. John drew himself closer so he could feel the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, and placed one hand around his wrist to keep track of his pulse.

The steady rhythm of breathing and heartbeats was soothing, and before he was even aware of it, John was joining his friend in exhausted sleep.

John awoke some time later with a start. He had no idea what time it was, their little dungeon having no windows. He couldn't tell how long he'd been asleep, but he distinctly remembered that he shouldn't have been sleeping at all. It took him a moment to piece together the rest of the events of the previous night. He felt a rustling beside him, and it was only then that John noticed the arm wrapped around him.

In his sleep Sherlock had thrown an arm around John's waist, pulling him closer. No doubt for the additional body heat, John reminded himself, but it made his heart race all the same. He'd be lying if he said he'd never imagined waking up next to Sherlock Holmes. Though these weren't really the ideal circumstances he had envisioned.

His movements had roused Sherlock, who was stretching beside him. It reminded John of a cat, all long lines and lithe limbs. He tried his best not to stare. But when those grey eyes opened to meet his he was sure Sherlock could probably see exactly what he was thinking. Fortunately he chose not to acknowledge it.

"Good morning, John," he said amiably, as if they were waking up in Baker Street on a normal morning, and not half naked in a cold cupboard of some abandoned warehouse.

The incongruity, and the sheer relief at making it through the night alright, made John laugh. The kind of half-crazed laughter that usually came after they'd done something particularly stupid and escaped unscathed. Sherlock watched him, bemused, but then joined in a little. After a night like that, there was very little else one could do but laugh.

"So, what now?" John asked, trying to turn back to business. "If Mrs. Hudson even notices we're gone, she might contact Scotland Yard today. But they have no way of knowing where we went." His brow furrowed in concern, but Sherlock continued to smile.

"Oh, I think you give both of them far too little credit," he drawled, pulling the coat tighter around himself and settling back in. His arm, John noticed, hadn't moved.

John was about to ask what he meant when he heard voices shouting outside. Oh God, he thought, the thugs have come back for us. His body tensed in preparation for another struggle, but Sherlock maintained his grip on John's waist, effectively holding him down.

John was about to demand what the hell was wrong with him when suddenly the door burst open, letting in a blinding stream of daylight.

John blinked the spots out of his vision and saw Lestrade standing in the doorway, gun drawn, flanked by Donovan. The detective surveyed the scene before him, a look of sardonic amusement on his face.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Have a pleasant night?"

John was gaping with both relief and astonishment. But Sherlock simply remained lying as he had been, eyes still half closed.

"Must you be so loud first thing in the morning?" he demanded.

"So sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. But he gave John a conspiratorial grin.

John had never been happier to see the Detective Inspector. He was even a bit happy to see Sally, though that would probably fade as soon as she opened her mouth. There was no way she'd let this scene pass without comment.

"Have you caught the criminals, then?" Sherlock demanded, still making no effort to move. John had carefully begun to extricate himself from Sherlock's grip and put his shirt back on. He imagined how this must look from Lestrade's perspective, and he knew he would never live it down. All of Scotland Yard would know about their sleeping arrangement by noon, he was sure.

"Yeah, we caught them late last night, though it took a couple hours to get them to talk. Didn't even know they'd had a run in with you two until one of them accidentally let it slip. You're lucky bastards, you know, you could have been rotting in here forever." His tone was chastising, but he looked relieved, and more than a little amused by the whole thing.

"Yes, well, maybe if you had done your jobs properly we wouldn't be in this predicament, now would we?" But Sherlock's insults were only half-hearted due to the lingering sleepiness in his voice. Lestrade only smirked in response.

"Right, well, I'll leave you two to get yourselves…sorted. There's a car waiting to take you home, though I expect you to come in for statements later today, go it?" He turned to go, pulling Sally along with him, though she obviously seemed inclined to stay and ogle a bit longer.

John turned to Sherlock. "Are you feeling all right? Not dizzy, disoriented? Any stiffness? Can you move all your fingers and toes?" He leaned down to check Sherlock's pulse and examine his hands, checking for any signs of early frost bite.

Sherlock only grinned at him.

"What is it?" John demanded.

"I can't remember the last time I slept so well," Sherlock explained, looking perfectly content.

"Well, of course, your body shut itself down to preserve energy and heat. Hypothermia can produce a very deep sleep, but one which people usually don't wake up from, so consider yourself lucky." John didn't want Sherlock getting any incredibly stupid ideas from this experience. He was an incorrigible thrill seeker, after all.

"That is a fine medical analysis, Doctor, but not quite what I had in mind." Sherlock had turned on to his back and was stretching again, hands above his head. John watched the skin stretch tightly over his ribs, noticing the subtle ripple of muscles beneath.

John swallowed, pulling his eyes away. "Oh? Then what did you mean?"

He turned to busy himself with pulling his jumper back on, an excuse to hide his face. Suddenly, he felt arms wrap around him from behind, settling around his waist.

"You're very comfortable, you know," Sherlock mumbled in his ear, chin resting on his shoulder.

John chuckled, shifting uncomfortably. "What, now I'm your pillow, too?"

Sherlock let out a low laugh. "Friend, doctor, pillow, isn't it all the same?"

John turned to deliver a sarcastic retort, but Sherlock caught him off guard with a soft kiss to the lips. When he pulled away John's eyes were still wide with shock. Sure, he'd imagined kissing Sherlock many times, in many different scenarios. But this exact situation had never crossed his mind, not even close. But he found it was better than anything he could have imagined, cold floor, stiff muscles, and all.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, "for looking after me, for putting up with me. You really are the most useful pillow anyone could have."

John grinned. "Oh, shut up," he chided before kissing him again. It was sweet and lingering.

They probably would have been content to stay like that if it weren't for Lestrade calling for them, sounding quite impatient.

"Suppose we'd better get going," John admitted reluctantly, getting up and stretching his aching limbs. A hot bath was definitely in order as soon as they got home.

"Yes, a bath would be lovely," Sherlock saidcommented, reading his thoughts. John didn't even have the energy to be surprised.

"Fine, fine, you can go first," John conceded, gathering up their coats. He was too exhausted to argue over the bathroom.

"Actually, I thought we might share." And with a quick flash of a grin he was off, striding towards the waiting Lestrade, leaving a stunned John in his wake.

John just shook his head. He'd thought Sherlock's displays of affection the night before had merely been a side effect of the cold and exhaustion. But it only seemed to be stronger this morning, if anything. And he'd be damned if he were going to waste this opportunity by questioning things too deeply.

"John!" Sherlock called, shaking him from his thoughts.

"Yes, coming!" John called back, trotting after his friend- lover? Hell, what did it matter. They had each other and John was willing to get on this ride and hold on tight, wherever it might take them.