The Ash Is In Our Clothes belongs to Sleeping At Last. Sherlock belongs to Mofftiss and BBC, also Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Okay, so this song is instrumental, I'm working by title alone. To be honest, I can see this song being used in BBC Sherlock it's just so emotive, powerful and beautiful.

This is kinda Wholock because it's loosely based on the Christmas time when the Sycorax ship was destroyed and ash rained on London.

The cigarette in his slender hand burned with a deep red, a fiery shade like that of the embers of the fire in Afghanistan they lit to combat the freezing desert nights. Sherlock drew in a deep breath on the end of it, the smoke coiling around his face like he was something otherworldly. The bright flash of his eyes complimented this idea, the iridescent blue/green that John could not pin down penetrating the curling and ever shifting veil of smoke around his angular features.

"Stop it." Came the rough drawl that John had grown accustomed to. "You're staring. Stop it." For someone who had no concept of personal space, of human emotion or anything of the sort, Sherlock was hyper aware when he was getting stared at, and for some reason it unnerved him.

"Sorry." John sipped his tea and returned his gaze to the bright white computer screen in front of him, the cursor of his blog taunting him. His shoulder ached and he sighed, staring past the screen until it turned into a blurry combination of pixels. He had nothing to write, nothing he could think of writing. There had been no cases in a while, which was why he'd allowed Sherlock to smoke.

"Want one?" Sherlock blew a perfect smoke ring and stared at John with a piercing gaze. He waved his lit cigarette at the soldier, the ash dropping onto his black trousers. John stared.

"A...?"

"Cigarette, yes. Do you want one?" Sherlock sighed, not moving to brush the ash from his clothes. John focussed his attention to the tiny flakes and gave a small sigh, standing to brush them away from Sherlock's lap, mindful of the actual cigarette. There was a silence that seemed to stretch forever, as John stared up at Sherlock. Sherlock turned away and gave a small cough, and then the spell was broken.

"Sorry. Again." John withdrew his hand, a soft powdery white amount of ash clinging to his skin. Sherlock looked down at him with luminous eyes and mindfully stubbed the cigarette out, a small amount of ash dropping around the two of them, dusting the hem of John's jeans ever so slightly, and lying like snow against Sherlock's dark shirt. John stood abruptly and shook his head. "And no, I don't."

"Oh." Sherlock stretched out on the sofa again, gazing at the ceiling and fingering the nicotine patches on his forearm that weren't helping. John squeezed his arm and gazed out of the window behind him, staring at the slowly falling snow, like the ash of before. Sherlock was beside him in a moment, staring out at the welcome relief after weeks of iron grey skies and bitterly cold winds.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" John murmured softly, still staring at it as it drifted past, like a cleansing fire had just finished and the ash was settling now, covering the ugliness of the bustling city, bringing everything to a glittering and long awaited halt. Sherlock looked down at John beside him and reached for his hand, squeezing slightly as he stared at the window turning white.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was soft and broke a little. John seemed to become aware that they were holding hands, but didn't pull away. If anything, he shifted his hand so that Sherlock could hold it better. Sherlock squeezed again and gazed at the skyline, the purply grey clouds far above them thick and heavy, pregnant with the snow drifting down.

"We should go out." John squeezed his hand tentatively, his hand fluttering around Sherlock's like butterfly wings. "I mean, in the snow not..." Sherlock nodded and released his hand reluctantly, before turning his gaze onto John.

"Both." Sherlock murmured, the small flakes of ash on his clothes drifting to the floor. John turned, a little in shock and his blue eyes wide.

"Both?" He queried as they moved to the door. Coats and other warm clothes were disregarded and they slipped out into the street. It was strangely warm, heightening the idea of ash that swirled and settled in their clothes, landing on their skin with a chill that was welcome in the warm air. John settled against Sherlock as the strange snow drifted around them, settling in their clothes and hair, landing on his hands and drifting to the floor.

"If you want." Came Sherlock's whispered reply. John turned and looked at the consulting detective to see if he was being sincere. The snow had settled against his alabaster skin and on his shoulders, and the man was gazing at the sky, enraptured. John squeezed his hand again, not pulling away this time.

"I want." The snow continued to swirl around them as they stood, the world for once so silent and still that John swore he could hear Sherlock's heartbeat in tandem with his own. John gently turned and let himself be held instantly by Sherlock's arms, the taller man holding him against his chest. The ash from before fell onto the small drifts of snow and was buried by the cascading flakes. Sherlock gave a soft chuckle.

"We look like we're covered in ash." It was true, the snow had settled on their hair and shoulders, on their clothes. John's hair was peppered with white, and Sherlock just looked as though he'd been artfully dusted. John tilted his head.

"What an odd thing to say. Apt, of course, and right as always. Just... strange." John murmured into his shoulder, breathing him in. The scent of fire from the lighter he'd used to light the cigarette, the scent of smoke from the cigarettes, and something that was all Sherlock. Sherlock shrugged a little and squeezed him before releasing him to stare at the snow all around them, the queer purple/orange light that was hazy around them.

The snow was in their clothes, in the upturned collar of John's shirt, in the hem of his jeans. In Sherlock's shirt and sprinkled along his neckline. It was like ash, it got everywhere, it covered them in a light sprinkle of something that had seemed magical when falling and remained to be so until it melted into their clothes. For some reason, Sherlock likened the snow to ash, and when they had changed and their wet clothes were hung up to dry in the bathroom and John was settled safely in his arms, Sherlock murmured that the ash was in their clothes.

He was right, the memory of that night stayed with them, the touch of the snow could not be forgotten. It was like ash, delicate and gentle and always there but not to the point of annoying. The ash was in their clothes, but they both found that they didn't mind.

Please review if you have time, I am horribly conscious that my writing might not be that good/in character whatever.