My second attempt at writing a Sherlock story. Cowritten with the lovely Quadrophenia73. Enjoy, everyone.

Disclaimer: Not mine!

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Snowflakes.

Each one unique, dancing on the frigid breeze on its slow descent from the heavens above.

As a child, John Watson had enjoyed dancing around in the snow, as most children do. As an adult, he saw the danger in them.

He brushed them off his cheeks as he and his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, tromped through the freshly fallen snow. Sherlock was going on and on about the case they were currently involved in and John only half-listened. He was becoming quite adept at tuning out some of Sherlock's rants since Sherlock often used him simply as a soundboard. His eyes landed on Sherlock's ever moving lips and he was carried away to one night weeks before this, when one evening had changed everything between them. It was so awkward and perfect, but Sherlock refused to discuss it since, merely attributing it to stress. John had been hurt by the dismissal; he had often imagined he would have been the one with a problem adjusting to this thing between them, not Sherlock. Things had settled down somewhat now, but the rejection still ate at John, leaving him floundering in every sense of the word.

A small cry interrupted John's introspection. He reached out and stopped Sherlock with his arm. "Did you hear..."

It was clear by the expression on Sherlock's face that he had indeed heard it.

Ever the soldier and protector of the people, John began searching their surroundings. The cry came again and he began moving toward it, leaving Sherlock behind.

After about twenty paces, John saw something in the distance. A glint of red against a sea of white accompanied by another cry. This time it was louder, but somehow weaker. His heart jumped in his chest as his mind reached its conclusion.

It was a child.

John didn't seem to hear Sherlock as he took off across the snow. He came to a small clearing where he found the source of the cries: a small girl, four years old at the most, was sitting in the snow and sobbing softly. The sound tore at John's heart. "Hello there," he called out kindly.

The girl looked up. Her face was streaked with tears and one of her mittens was missing. She sniffled loudly. "I want my mummy!"

"I know you do, love." He continued toward the girl. "I'll help you find her."

Sherlock let out an impatient sigh as he caught up with John and the frightened child. He knew that John would insist on reuniting the little girl with her mother before venturing out to the crime scene that Sherlock desperately wanted to visit.

Nonetheless, he opted to beg. "John, it's not every day I get to find a serial murder who buries his victims alive in the snow. This is a holiday for me."

"Sherlock, stop!" John bit out. Not wanting to scare the girl, he smiled kindly and bent down, holding out his hands to her. "What's your name, love?"

"Jenny," the girl whimpered.

"Jenny. That's a pretty name. My name is John."

Slowly, hesitantly, Jenny reached up and grasped John's fingers.

Keeping his movements slow, John gathered the girl into his arms. "There we are..." He opened his coat and tucked her inside.

Huffing and muttering, Sherlock spun around and stalked away. John couldn't bring himself to smile at his best friend's temper tantrum. In fact, whereas he might have found it endearing before, he found it downright infuriating now. He took a step and something felt odd beneath his foot. There was a deafening crack followed by a dull roaring in his ears as he started to fall.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned at the frantic call, but he was unable to prevent his best friend from falling through the thin ice. He lunged forward and grabbed John by the hand. "John!"

The frigid water knocked the breath out of him and Jenny's cries rang in his ears as he grasped Sherlock's hand. With every ounce of strength he possessed, John pushed the girl upward toward Sherlock. Then he yelled, "Get back, Sherlock!"

Sherlock gripped John's hand tightly and slowly backed away, easing John and the child out of the icy gap. The ice creaked under their weight threateningly as if about to crack again.

Shaking violently, John clawed at the icy surface and tried to breathe without passing out. His clothes were heavy and more snowflakes hit his face as he heard Sherlock frantically yell his name. He felt the ice crack further beneath him and he willed Sherlock to back away with the child. The ice finally gave way with a groan and for a moment, John felt himself float before he slipped back into the frigid water. His soaked clothes pulled him down and he struggled against the current.

John, don't.

I need you, John.

Stay with me.

Don't go.

Sherlock's voice reverberated in his ears, blocking out everything else. John's body jerked and just as blackness threatened to claim him, a familiar hand grabbed his arm and jerked him up, up toward the sunlight.

"John! Hold onto me!" Sherlock shouted, gripping John under the shoulders and edging backwards, taking care to avoid the thinnest layers of ice.

John tried to grab at Sherlock's arms but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. His lungs ached with each breath he drew and he could feel the cold penetrating every inch of his body. Somewhere he heard Jenny crying and Sherlock swearing. The younger man was dragging him to safety, he deduced. But shock was quickly setting in and soon hypothermia would threaten to shut his body down.

"Stay with me," Sherlock demanded. He felt that he was on solid ground and quickened his pace. John's eyelids flickered, and Sherlock tightened his hold on him.

He could feel his heart beating violently in his chest as he called for an ambulance. Kneeling on the cold ground, he lifted John's shivering torso against his lap. Sherlock's own coat was damp, but he bit his lip to prevent his teeth from chattering and moved the jacket aside, allowing John to nestle into his warm side. Then he wrapped the jacket around the shaking man.

"John," he said firmly. "Focus on me."

"The girl," John managed through violently chattering teeth. "Sh-She's okay?" His lips were turning blue and he was struggling to focus on Sherlock's face above him.

Sherlock glanced away for a moment. Jenny was frightened and slightly damp but appeared physically unharmed. "She's fine." He scanned their surroundings, trying to find a building. He spotted a small cabin approximately fifty yards away.

Returning his attention to John, he noticed how pale his friend had gotten and light blue tinge of his trembling lips. "There's a cabin over there. Can you walk?"

"N-Not sure..." With Sherlock's help, John tried to stand. But the moment he put pressure on his right leg, it collapsed. He fell into Sherlock's chest with a barely-stifled cry of pain.

Sherlock staggered back a step when John collapsed against him. He wrapped a long arm around the shorter man's waist and hooked John's other arm around his shoulders. "Lean on me. We'll try to make it to that cabin."

John nodded and leaned heavily on Sherlock. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jenny follow behind them, her little head bowed. A surge of relief flowed through him. If they hadn't been there, the ice could have easily gave way and Jenny would have drowned. The thought made him sick. He sagged against Sherlock and tried to breathe through the agony that flared with each measured step they took. His breathing became labored and his jaw ached relentlessly as his teeth chattered.

The consulting detective made his way toward the cabin, taking care not to jostle John's injured leg and supporting almost all of his friend's weight as they slowly trudged through the accumulation of white snow and slippery ice that covered the ground. Sherlock bit his lip against the cold, tightening his coat around John. The cabin hadn't seemed very far at first sight, but it seemed to take an hour to reach the doorway.

Considering the run-down appearance of the wooden building and the lack of lights inside or vehicles outside, Sherlock didn't bother knocking. He turned the knob and pushed firmly, gritting his teeth against the force of the wind as the door opened. He ushered Jenny inside and half-dragged John to an unmade bed in the corner. He gently eased his friend onto the bed.

John's hands trembled violently as he tugged his soaked jacket and shirt off, tossing them to the floor. Then, with Sherlock's help, he removed his pants. His right leg was swollen and red, clearly broken in at least one place. John tore his eyes away and pulled a blanket over himself. The room was spinning and he struggled to keep his eyes open.

Sherlock rummaged through the closet, finding extra blankets and pillows. "Here." He laid the blankets over John and placed one of the pillows behind him. "How's that?"

"St-Still cold..." John managed as he gazed up at Sherlock from beneath heavy eyelids. "Hy-Hypothermia... B-Body w-warmth..."

Sherlock contemplated for a long moment before slipping into the bed next to John. He could feel John trembling against him in the bed, close enough for his skin to touch Sherlock's. His mind went back to that night, weeks ago... He pushed that aside and wrapped his arms around the blond man.

Surprised by the contact, John froze for a moment. But when Sherlock pulled him into his chest, he melted against the detective and closed his eyes. "Tired..."

Sherlock adjusted the covers and rubbed John's arms soothingly, hoping to warm his cold friend. "You can rest."

He sighed, letting his head loll against Sherlock's chest and his eyes close. "Hmm..."

John still trembled in Sherlock's arms, but the blue tinge of his lips had faded considerably. "How's your leg?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Hurts," John breathed. He was still shivering uncontrollably in Sherlock's arms. "Fractured, likely broken."

Finding a blanket of her own, Jenny went to the only other piece of furniture in the cabin-a chair-and curled up in it. She quickly fell asleep, exhausted by the day's events.

Sherlock reached one hand into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone, letting out a frustrated breath when the display still announced that he had no signal.

He held John tighter, mindful of his injury. The cabin was considerably warm, but John's skin felt cold to the touch.

Unconsciously seeking warmth, John's hands slid under Sherlock's thick shirt. "Someone'll be looking for us...when we don't show at the crime scene," John mumbled, burrowing deeper into Sherlock's arms.

"I guess we'll have to wait, then." Sherlock absently ran a hand over John's short light hair. "Any warmer?"

"A little." His fingertips lightly dug into Sherlock's skin. "You should try to go for help." He absently noted that his words were starting to slur.

Sherlock looked skeptical. "I don't want to leave you here."

Truth be told, John didn't want Sherlock to leave him, either. "I kn-know...but I n-need a hospital s-sooner rather than l-later."

He's right, Sherlock thought to himself. Reluctantly he slipped out of bed and bundled the blankets around John. He picked his damp coat off of the floor and cringed when the cold cloth met his skin.

He pocketed his phone. "I'll try to find help. I'll be back as soon as I can," he mused.

Reaching out, John grasped Sherlock's wrist tightly, his fingers wrapping around Sherlock's pulse. His lips parted and he started to speak, but something stopped him.

Sherlock paused. "What?"

His eyes closed. "Never mind," he whispered.

Sherlock nodded stiffly and turned up his jacket collar. He gave John's arm a reassuring squeeze before opening the door. A brief gust of cold wind drifted into the cabin before he closed it behind him.

The wind and snow nipped at his face. He shoved his hands into his pockets and eyed his surroundings. He couldn't see any houses or a hospital within hundreds of yards. The wind blew harshly, causing the falling snow to prick his face like needles.

The snow was falling harder and faster, and a grey fog had settled. Sherlock never liked to admit he didn't know something, but he hadn't the faintest idea where he was.

And back in the cabin, John was freezing and injured in need of help.

John struggled to stay awake, but eventually he succumbed to his body's need for sleep. When he awoke, he felt a warm body pressed up against his. His eyes struggled open and he saw Jenny curled up beside him, sleeping peacefully with her thumb in her mouth. Satisfied, John allowed his eyes to close again. When he awoke, Sherlock would be back. He had to keep believing that.

Sherlock trudged through the deepening snow, feeling snow seep through his shoes. He briefly considered returning to the cabin, but he knew that he had to get help for his friend.

Despite the fact that he had left the cabin less than twenty minutes ago, the bitter coldmade him feel as if he had been struggling through the snow for at least an hour.

After another twenty minutes of walking, Sherlock's phone began to chime. He snatched it from his pocket and grinned as he called for an ambulance.

Everything was going to be okay.

"He's in here!"

The bang of the door opening startled Jenny. She sat up and scooted closer to John, who was still sleeping. When she saw Sherlock's face, she relaxed and waved at him.

Sherlock nodded towards her and placed the back of his hand against John's cheek. His best friend's eyelids fluttered, and Sherlock let out a reassured breath.

The paramedics hauled in a stretcher. "What's his name?"

"John Watson," Sherlock responded impatiently.

John muttered Sherlock's name before slipping deeper into sleep.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. The paramedics loaded his best friend onto the stretcher, somewhat roughly. Irritated, the consulting detective gave the paramedics a hardened glare.

"Be careful," he growled.

"Sorry, mate," one of the medics muttered. They allowed Sherlock to climb into the back of the ambulance and sit beside John's head. As the ambulance pulled away from the cabin, one of the medics tended to Jenny while the other focused on John. He removed the blanket Sherlock had wrapped around John and replaced it with a shock blanket before he began checking the unconscious man's vital signs. "Breathing is slow and shallow. Core temperature is dangerously low." He scribbled a few notes on a clipboard.

Sherlock briefly rested a hand on John's head. "Get him to the hospital. Quickly," he barked, though he knew that his demands would not speed the ambulance through the deep snow.

"We'll move as fast as the snow allows." Another blanket was produced and tucked around John's prone form.

John began to move restlessly beneath the blankets. "Sh-Sherlock..."

"I'm here, John." Sherlock edged slightly closer.

John's eyes suddenly opened and there was a panic in them that Sherlock hadn't seen in a long time. He tried to push himself up on the stretcher.

Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders. "John, calm down. I'm right here. What is it?"

"Moriarty," John choked out, grabbing desperately at Sherlock's arms. "He's here... He's going to kill you!"

"Moriarty's not here, John." Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and turned to the medics. "Why is he hallucinating?"

"Disorientation is a side effect of hypothermia." The medic didn't miss the way his patient reached for the dark-haired man. "The only thing we can do is try to calm him down. If I have to sedate him, it could cause his heart rate to drop even further, and that could potentially shut down his heart."

"John, listen to me. Moriarty isn't here. It's just us," Sherlock spoke lowly, rubbing John's arm as if soothing a child.

The fear didn't leave John's eyes. Without warning, he launched himself from the stretcher and into Sherlock's arms as though his presence would be enough of a deterrent to keep Moriarty from harming Sherlock. Burying his face in Sherlock's neck, John locked an arm around the younger man's shoulders and clung to him like a frightened child.

Startled by John's sudden embrace, it took Sherlock a moment to respond. "It's alright, John." He held the terrified man close, rubbing small soothing circles on his back.

"I can't let him hurt you," he whispered hoarsely. "I can't."

"He won't," Sherlock insisted. "He's not here, John. He won't hurt me."

The medic leaned forward and gently grasped John's elbow. "John-"

John snatched his arm away almost violently. "Get off me!"

Sherlock glared at the medic. "John, you need to relax."

The medic withdrew his hand and John allowed his head to settle into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

"Won't let him take you," John muttered stubbornly.

Sherlock sighed. "How long will he be like this?" he whispered to the medic.

"Probably a few hours. We'll know more once we reach the hospital."

The pain in his leg muddled John's hazy mind. He sighed, comforted by Sherlock's close proximity.

"A few hours?" Sherlock repeated harshly, more to himself than the medic.

"S'okay, Sherlock," John mumbled, his eyelids too heavy to keep open anymore.

Relieved that John had settled, Sherlock lowered him against the stretcher. "You alright now?" he asked softly.

John winced at being jostled and tried to get comfortable on the stretcher. When Sherlock tried to pull his hand away, John held onto it with a ferocious grip. "Stay where I can see you," he commanded sleepily.

Sherlock settled near John's head. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good. Good." John's eyes closed again and a silence fell over the ambulance as it rushed toward the hospital.

When they arrived at the hospital, Sherlock was separated from John, much to his chagrin. He tried to stay with his best friend for as long as possible, but in the end he was relegated to a waiting room like any other concerned family member. He paced the floors and stared at the clock, wishing John was there to tell him what to do.

After four or five hours, Sherlock was finally allowed into the room John had been settled in. John's entire body was covered in thick blankets except for his broken leg, which had been set and placed on a pillow to keep it elevated. As Sherlock stared at the cast, John's eyes fluttered.

"Sherlock…"

"John." Sherlock pulled a chair next to his best friend's bedside. "Any better?"

John finally opened his eyes and looked at his best friend. "'M'okay." He held up his hand which had an IV taped to the back of it.

Sherlock noticed that some of the color had returned to John's skin and he was somewhat more coherent. "Good." He gave John's bicep a squeeze. "That's good."

Blinking slowly, John gave Sherlock a lazy grin. "You were worried."

Sherlock stiffened. "I wasn't."

"Yes, you were." His grin widened. "You were really worried about me."

Sherlock shook his head childishly. "I don't get worried," he argued.

"You do! You care about me!"

"Maybe that's true," Sherlock said in defeat, a stubborn look still plastered on his face.

The injured man laughed gleefully. "I knew it! You love me!"

Sherlock choked, John's drugged choice of words catching him by surprise. The distant look in John's eyes proved that he hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about. "Uh... no..." Sherlock insisted.

John's smile turned into a pout. "Of course you do. You have to, because I..." His fingers began absently plucking at the tape holding the IV in place.

"Because you what?" Sherlock stopped John from picking at the tape.

John heaved a sigh. "Because I love you."

Immediately his mind went back to the night. John had spoken those same words and Sherlock had acted as if he hadn't heard them. He always told himself he didn't care about people. He shunned the idea of feelings. But then John came along and changed that.

"What I said before, John. I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one," he remembered calling after John one day months ago.

Is that what they were? Friends? It hadn't taken Sherlock long to consider John a friend rather than a colleague. Were they more than friends? Sherlock couldn't deny the attachment he felt towards John.

He cleared his throat. "John, maybe we should talk about this when your medication wears off." It was evident that John was still under the effect of the strong painkiller, but there was a faint tone of seriousness to his voice that most people wouldn't catch.

"Mm..." The injured man turned slightly toward Sherlock, one hand bracing his ribs. "S'not gonna change it."

Sherlock sighed. "I know..."

"Good." John nestled his head into the pillow and closed his eyes.

"Just get some rest." Sherlock leaned back in the chair he had dragged beside John's bed.

John smiled again and let himself doze off, feeling safe and protected under the watchful eye of his best friend.

The next morning, when John was feeling up for visitors, Jenny and her mother stopped by.

"I just wanted to say thank you for saving my little girl," the woman murmured, watching as Jenny scurried over to John's bed.

"It was nothing, really," John insisted.

Jenny leaned against the bed and grabbed John's hand. "Thank you, John." She turned her head and beamed at Sherlock. "You have the bestest boyfriend!"

Jenny's mother gasped. "Jenny!"

"We're friends," Sherlock corrected.

Jenny just grinned before she threw her arms around Sherlock's neck. She squeezed briefly, then ran back to her mother. After her mother thanked the men again, they were gone.

Once they were alone again, John closed his eyes and smiled. "Don't sound so offended."

"Why would I be offended?"

"When she called me your boyfriend. You could do worse, you know?"

"Oh, she's just a child. Children never know what they're talking about," Sherlock argued.

"Right." John looked away from Sherlock and to the window on the other side of the room.

"John..."

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

"No. No, you're not."

"John!"

Startled by the familiar voice, John swung his head in the direction of the door. To his shock, his sister Harry stood in the doorway with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. "Harry?"

Dropping her bag on the floor, Harry quickly crossed the floor and gathered her little brother into her arms. "Johnny...are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine."

Sherlock tried not to let out an impatient breath due to the interruption, but a barely audible grunt of annoyance escaped his lips.

She squeezed him once more before reluctantly releasing him. "I came as soon as I heard."

"You didn't have to, Harry."

"But I wanted to. You need someone to look after you for a bit."

"That's what he has me for," Sherlock interrupted.

Harry looked over her shoulder and her expression didn't inspire confidence in John. "We haven't met, but judging by your air of superiority and arrogance, I assume you are Sherlock."

John barely stifled a soft groan. "Harry..."

"What?" Harry protested. "He's the only one you ever talk about, and anything I've ever heard about him-"

"Stop it," John bit out. Harry gave him a surprised look as he pushed a button and slowly raised himself into a sitting position. "Just stop it. Yes, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is my sister, Harriet."

Harry gave him a cross look, which he ignored.

"Harry isn't as tactful as I am."

"Yes, I did gather that," Sherlock scoffed.

"Fascinating." Harriet glared at Sherlock before returning her attention to her injured brother. "As I was saying, John, I took some time off work to look after you. I spoke with your doctor just now, and he seems to think you can go home tomorrow."

"Great," John enthused, though the look on Sherlock's face gave him cause for concern. "But honestly, Harry, you don't have to look after me. I'll be fine."

"With a broken leg and an upstairs flat? I don't think so."

Sherlock studied Harriet for all of fifteen seconds before picking up everything he needed to cause a scene. "Your clothing is wrinkled. You've slept in them for at least a day, most likely hungover. You claim to be sober now, but you're obviously still drinking. Your fingernails are chipped from removing beer can lids and you're wearing extra makeup to cover dark circles under your eyes. There's a bottle of aspirin in your bag, and judging by the sound it's half empty, so you've been trying to take care of a headache. You drank until you passed out last night and only today slept off a hangover on your living room sofa. You also smell like cheap perfume and mouthwash, but it doesn't entirely cover up the smell of alcohol. I'd suggest a shower," he deduced, speaking at a rapidly increasing pace.

"Sherlock!"

Harriet's eyes narrowed dangerously. "So you think you know me, Holmes? Know this: John is my brother. You're just some detective wannabe who can't sustain a serious relationship or even an acquaintanceship. You may be some genius who runs around playing with the police all day, but at the end of the day, you're just some lonely freak."

Sherlock snorted. "Just because you share fifty percent of your DNA doesn't mean you care about him. You haven't even spoken to him in a year."

"And just because you share a flat with someone doesn't mean you know what's best for them!"

"I would think he'd be in better hands with someone who can stay sober."

"Both of you, stop!" John finally exploded, effectively silencing his flatmate and his sister. "If the two of you can't be civil toward each other, I'll not go home with either of you."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock muttered.

"Do you really want to test me, Sherlock? I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would love someone to fuss over."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'd just drag you upstairs."

"Sherlock..."

Harry shook her head unhappily. "I'm really worried about you, Johnny. You're my baby brother. Let me do this."

"I know you're concerned about me. So is he. He just has... an odd way of showing it."

"Freak," Harry muttered.

"Harriet, call him freak one more time and I'll tell the hospital staff not to let you back in here!"

"Oh, John, don't be so dramatic," Sherlock said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Pay no attention to empty minded comments."

Infuriated, John burrowed into his pillows and braced one hand against his ribs. The pain medication he'd been given earlier was wearing off but he fought to hide his discomfort from the two people who mattered most to him. Thankfully Harriet didn't seem to notice as she continued to glower at Sherlock.

Sherlock noticed. "John?"

"I'm fine," John muttered. His cheeks began to flush and he shifted to alleviate the pressure.

Sherlock ignored his response. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Sherlock, I'm fine!" He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. "Maybe you should both go for a while. I'm very tired."

Harry frowned and rested her hand on John's arm. "But I just got here..."

"I said go!"

Hurt, Harry nodded and kissed John's temple. Then she quietly left the room.

Sherlock stood firmly in place, unfazed by the rising of John's voice

Even without opening his eyes, John knew Sherlock was still in the room. "Can't you listen, Sherlock?"

"No." Sherlock shrugged innocently.

"I just want to sleep."

Sherlock sat down in a chair. "Then sleep."

"Without you here," John clarified, tugging the blanket tighter around himself.

"I'm not going out there," Sherlock insisted as if John had asked him to venture into a forest.

"Then go back to the flat. I don't need you here."

"The flat's too dull when it's just me."

John waved a hand in exasperation. "Fine, Sherlock. Do whatever you want."

"Good." Sherlock leaned back in the stiff chair.

Still uncomfortable, John turned back toward the window and closed his eyes.

"Do you want to go home today?"

"Of course I do." He didn't relish the idea of spending another night being poked and prodded.

"Then let's go." Sherlock stood and grabbed his coat.

Huffing, John slowly sat up in the bed. "A little help?"

Sherlock helped John stand up wrapped an arm around the shorter man's ribcage. "Alright?"

The room spun for a moment and John closed his eyes as he leaned heavily against his best friend. Once he was ready, they made their way out of the room.

John's doctor strongly advised against his departure, but John argued that he would recover faster in his own home. After a long argument, John was given a pair of crutches and Sherlock smirked as he kept his hand on the small of John's back and they left the hospital.

After picking up John's prescriptions, they finally arrived at home. But as they approached the staircase, John frowned and hesitated.

"Hold onto the rail with one hand," Sherlock advised, gripping John's other arm tightly.

John nodded and followed Sherlock's lead. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, his face was red and his body trembled from exertion. He leaned more heavily into Sherlock.

Sherlock practically dragged John to his bedroom. He lowered the other man onto the bed and pulled the covers back.

Grateful to be back in his own bed, John sank back into the pillows and watched with curiosity as Sherlock grabbed a pillow and tucked it under John's broken leg. "Thanks," he said softly.

Sherlock disappeared, soon returning with an armload of case files, undoubtedly filled with gruesome crime scene photos. He reclined on the bed beside John, flipping open the file on top.

John had been resting with his eyes closed, but when the bed dipped, he frowned. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Looking at crime scene photos."

"Oh. Hmm." Without a word, John scooted closer to Sherlock and rested his head against the younger man's hip.

Sherlock resisted the urge to smirk. "Cold?"

"Ah, yes. That's it. I'm cold." John draped his arm over Sherlock's lap and yawned deeply.

Sherlock pretended to focus intently on the photo he held, but he absently started rubbing the arm that John had sprawled across him.

Soon John fell asleep, comfortable and warm against Sherlock's side.

A comfortable silence fell over the flat for a while as Sherlock absorbed himself in his reading. But just as he turned a page, there was a loud banging on the front door and a familiar voice yelled John's name.

Sherlock ignored the sound. Fortunately Mrs. Hudson wasn't downstairs to open the door. The banging and shouting only became louder before Sherlock heard the door open.

Harriet scowled as she let herself into the flat. She had rushed to her brother's home after finding him missing from his hospital room. She had found a note left intentionally to worry her and now she was infuriated. She was going to wring Sherlock's neck with her bare hands once she made sure her brother was okay.

Sherlock groaned and slipped out of bed, quietly leaving the room as to not wake John. "Hello."

The sound of his voice only angered her more. As soon as she saw him, she laid into him. "You... Who on God's Earth do you think you are, checking my brother out of the hospital before he was ready?"

"I actually don't know the answer to that. But I do know Anderson could use someone to help him lower the IQ of the area, if you're interested." He grinned in amusement. "Bye now."

"I'm not going anywhere until I see John."

"He's sleeping."

"I don't care," Harry growled. "He shouldn't have left the hospital! And was it your sick version of a joke, leaving that note behind?"

"Of course it wasn't my sick version of a joke. It was to test you."

"Keep testing me and I'll make sure you never see my brother again."

The smug smirk on Sherlock's face vanished like a lightbulb that had burnt out. "Oh, you will? Says the sister who didn't speak to him for a year because you were too busy sleeping off hangovers?"

"Never underestimate my brother's loyalty to me. I practically raised him."

"John's loyalty to you? And what about your loyalty to him? Why come all of a sudden now?"

"Sherlock?" John's sleep-laden voice rang out, interrupting Harry's reply.

She looked at Sherlock and moved past him, hellbent on seeing her brother.

Sherlock was faster and easily slipped past her as he reached the doorway. "John?"

John raised his head slightly and pushed away one of the many files strewn out on the bed. "Come back in here. I'm tired."

Sherlock sneered childishly in Harry's direction before perching on the bed next to John.

Happy to have Sherlock back in arm's reach, John locked an arm around the younger man's waist and tugged him closer. Then he buried his face in Sherlock's side and closed his eyes, groaning contently.

Sherlock grabbed the edge of the blanket that John had strewn aside and pulled it over the injured man, who clung to the brunette consulting detective.

At a loss for words, Harry stared at the two, her brother and the freak. John clung to Sherlock as though his life depended on it, and though he didn't say anything, Sherlock's affectionate gestures were more than enough. Feeling out of place, Harry finally backed out of the room and left the flat.

Back in the bedroom, John nuzzled his face against Sherlock's side. "Don't leave again," he slurred, his movements clumsy and sluggish.

Sherlock chuckled at the drugged sound of John's voice. "I was only gone two minutes."

"Don't care." He sighed happily. "Why'd you go?"

"We had a visitor."

"Yeah." Sherlock adjusted himself so that his arm draped around John's torso.

Tightening his grip on his best friend, John closed his eyes. "Ignore the door next time," he muttered, rubbing Sherlock's side possessively.

"I didn't want you to wake up." John's grip around his waist was quite reminiscent of a child clutching a stuffed animal.

Rolling over, John dragged Sherlock with him until his face was buried in Sherlock's chest and he could feel the younger man's heart racing. He smiled sleepily when Sherlock's arms tentatively went around him.

"You should go back to sleep." Sherlock turned the lamp off with one hand, finding it difficult to wrestle his arm out of John's grasp.

"Hmph." John nuzzled Sherlock's chest and yawned. A few moments later, Sherlock pulled him closer and buried his face in John's blond hair. Sometimes John didn't understand Sherlock, and sometimes he did. Before he could contemplate the thought any more, John fell asleep snuggled against Sherlock's chest.

He was one lucky man.

Finis.

A/N: A little fluffier than planned, but I hope everyone enjoyed it nonetheless. Thanks so much for reading and please review!