They wake up to six inches of snow and more still falling, the weatherman advising London residents to stay inside and expect the storm to last through the day. John calls the surgery to make sure he’s not needed and sighs in satisfaction after pocketing his phone. Sherlock’s standing at his favorite window with a mug of coffee in his hand, looking into the weak light.
“Can you stand to stay in this flat the whole day?” John says.
“I don’t have a reason to leave,” says Sherlock. He peers over his shoulder at John.
“I could eat.”
John has the leftovers of Sherlock’s coffee, brews tea, and nukes the buttermilk scones he brought home yesterday from a bakery. Steam rises from their insides when he cuts them open and arranges them face up on a big plate. He and Sherlock sit across from each other at the sitting room table, the plate between them, and slather the scones with cream and jam and butter. They drink several mugs of tea and don’t speak much.
Sherlock builds a fire in the fireplace while John does the dishes, and soon, they’re sitting on the sofa in front of the telly, buried in the comforter that belongs to Sherlock’s bed, now never used because they sleep in John’s. Sherlock lies curled on his side, head in John’s lap and nose in John’s sweater, and John finds him dozing off like a lazy, well-fed cat. He caresses Sherlock’s curls and watches the news with only vague interest, fingertips scraping at Sherlock’s scalp.
After an hour, John prods at Sherlock and they rearrange themselves, lying face to face, pressed together and cocooned in the comforter. The top of John’s blonde head pokes out but Sherlock’s in the warm dark, arm wrapped around John’s waist as he nuzzles into John’s sweater. He loves the cable-knit sweater, regardless of his stylistic objections to it. It’s soft and smells of John, always. Now, Sherlock can smell their laundry detergent and jam and tea and deodorant and the sweet, mysterious scent that belongs specifically to John Watson.
John’s hand on his back is a pleasant weight, fingers curled inward and scratching, almost eliciting purrs. Sherlock increases the pressure of his palm on John’s back and breathes in with his eyes closed, utterly content. John could ask him, don’t you want to read or pick up your experiments or play your violin? But he doesn’t ask because he can tell Sherlock wants nothing more than to stay right where he is until John disentangles himself to make them lunch.
Lunch is tomato soup and toast, and the power goes out right around twilight, the whole street by the look of it. Mrs. Hudson hollers from downstairs and Sherlock rebuilds the fire.
By ten o’clock, the electricity still hasn’t come back on and their mobile batteries are on one bar and it’s cold in the flat and the only thing for it is to shove the armchairs out of the way and set the lilo in front of the fireplace, piled with pillows and Sherlock’s comforter. John spoons Sherlock, still wearing his sweater, and Sherlock, who’s prone to get cold easily, is in one of John’s other sweaters because he doesn’t own any himself. They keep their socks on, and John’s breath is warm on the back of Sherlock’s neck.
“Not a terrible way to spend a Saturday,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice low and thickening.
“Not at all,” says John and kisses the base of his neck briefly, on a knob of vertebrae.
They fall asleep with the firelight on their faces.