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A Walk in the SnowNotes: It was a beautiful winter day when I wrote this. Thanks to Tehomet for the Britpick.
The forecast had called for snow and by the time they leave St. Bart’s at 11 pm, London is covered in a thick blanket of snow. The streets are deserted and it is almost eerily quiet, yet there is a strange, peaceful beauty to it as well – the snow is untouched, glinting brightly here and there in the streetlights, the sharp edges of the city softened. There isn’t a cab in sight and John knows there’s no chance of getting one to come out to them in these conditions.
“I don’t suppose I could convince you to take the Tube?” John asks, hopefully, turning his collar up.
“Not a chance.” Sherlock tightens his scarf and pulls his gloves on.
John didn’t think he would, but he was hoping the cold weather might convince Sherlock to agree. He hasn’t been able to figure out why, but Sherlock’s aversion to the Underground borders on phobia. And even if he thought Mycroft’s driver could make it through this mess, he knows better than to ask if Sherlock would consider calling his brother for a favour. John sighs quietly and resigns himself to the cold walk home. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, hunches his shoulders and, for the first time since he’s returned from Afghanistan, he regrets not letting his hair grow out a bit.
Sherlock’s in one of his quiet phases, trying to sort out all of the data that’s in his head, so John leaves him to his own thoughts and quiet mutterings. They’ve gone about half the distance and John is thinking that maybe he ought to invest in a heavier winter coat or maybe some thicker jumpers when one of Sherlock’s feet flies out from under him and Sherlock skids several inches. Immediately, John puts a steadying hand to the small of Sherlock’s back.
“That’s what you get for wearing those ridiculous shoes,” John says gesturing down at Sherlock’s feet, clad in exquisite designer Italian leather, likely ruined forever by the snow. “You should get something more practical for the winter months.” John stomps his feet to draw Sherlock’s attention to his heavy soled boots.
“I like these shoes,” Sherlock replies.
“Oh, vanity,” John mutters beneath his breath, his hand still lightly resting on Sherlock’s back, to stop him from skidding once more.
“I am not vain!” Sherlock exclaims.
John laughs and then laughs harder at Sherlock’s outraged expression. “Right, that’s why you look like you just walked out of a copy of GQ.”
“Just because some of us take an interest in our appearance, doesn’t mean we’re vain,” Sherlock replies haughtily.
“I will push you into a snow bank.”
Sherlock grins down at John. “You’ll have to catch me first.” And with those words, Sherlock takes off, his long legs building up a fair bit of speed which he uses for momentum as he breaks into a fast slide down the length of the pavement.
“Do keep up, John,” Sherlock calls back, laughing, as he starts to run again.
Oh, it is so on, John thinks, before taking off after him.