It's always hot in John's dreams.

The sands of Afghanistan burn beneath his hands as he falls, as he runs, as he desperately tries to quench the warm flow of redness from his compatriots' bodies. He sweats, in his dreams, in his bed, perspiring under a distant sun that burns his skin and sears his eyes.

When he wakes he shivers and can never win the battle between his hands, which try to clutch the blankets closer, and his mind, which threatens to burst with claustrophobia.

It's warm in 221b.

Despite Sherlock's penchant for hiding the bills in the most imaginative of places, the heating always remains on and the temperature of John's bedroom is always comfortable.

He stops dreaming of Afghanistan once he begins chasing Sherlock through damp streets and collapsing on the sofa, exhausted, sweat beading along his hairline. After particularly invigorating chases, they turn the heating down and John sleeps shirtless.

After a while, after John has commented several times about how warm it is in the flat, after the first time they make it to Sherlock's bed, after Sherlock convulses and moans John's name and clings to him without the slightest intention of letting go, they both sleep naked.

London winters are cold, but John and Sherlock mould themselves together and warm the space between Sherlock's blankets quite adequately.

The chill in John's bones as he watches Sherlock stumbling to his knees, a knife embedded in his side, is indescribable.

The numbness of the next twenty-four hours is worse.

It's boiling hot in the hospital.

John shifts and tugs at his collar to no avail. He is more uncomfortable than he was when he slept on Sarah's sofa. Somehow, though, John's discomfort is lessened by the knowledge that Sherlock is sleeping next to him, if not completely healed then at least no longer in danger of losing his life.

The heat does not stop John slipping into the bed next to Sherlock and holding him close until he is convinced his detective is safe.

Sussex is warm, and cool, and beautiful, and peaceful.

Sherlock entertains himself with beekeeping and John contents himself with knowing that there will be no more waterfalls, no more unexpected wounds, no more criminals, no more danger.

At night they warm themselves quite successfully, and sometimes well into the afternoon, because to be perfectly honest there's not a lot else to do out there.

It's cold without Sherlock. John warms himself with memories.

The loss is sudden, which is not to say it's not expected. But it's always sudden.

John's dreams are cold - the fresh, biting cold of London, of running through side-streets with the wind cutting into his cheeks.

When he wakes he pulls the blankets closer and tries to catch the last remnants of Sherlock's smell that are engrained in the fabric.

Sherlock is waiting for him, somewhere. He understands this as he understands that the earth and sky fit together.

When, in the middle of John's dreams, in the middle of a rain-drenched street, Sherlock holds out his hand, John takes it without a word.

The heat fades from his body and his skin grows cold. Yet somewhere, John is running.