I do not own, nor do I profit from. Thanks to Verity for making this so much better than it was before, helping me through frustrations and for giving me the perfect title too. You are fantastic! :D

Snow continued to fall on London and John smiled as he looked out the window. Nearly three inches already and two more expected before tea. As a child John had loved being outside when the world was magically covered in white. It was time spent happily building snowmen, trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue and pitching the odd snowball in his sister's direction. Of course any snowballs aimed for Harry had been strictly self-defence.

No, it wasn't the snow that kept him inside that afternoon. It was the minus two temperature. Only a week and a half earlier he and Sherlock had been enjoying surprisingly warm conditions while ladybirds spiralled in the genius' bedroom and now snow was accumulating on the ground outdoors.

No amount of snow or low temperatures could keep Sherlock Holmes indoors, though. When Lestrade had texted a few hours earlier with a few questions that needed immediate answering at the Yard, Sherlock had quickly thrown on his scarf and coat before tearing out of their living quarters. John heard, "Won't be long!" as their door slammed and chuckled quietly, knowing that the phrase could mean an hour... or the rest of the day.

Finding there wasn't anything good on the television he had eaten lunch and then stretched out on the sofa with David Copperfield in hand. It was an old and well read copy that John had been given by his parents many years earlier. He had always admired Dickens' work and especially loved the character of Betsey Trotwood. The likeness to John's own Gran warmed his heart and he now read the novel once a year.

With the flat quiet, the entire sofa to himself, a pillow under his head and a blanket keeping him warm, John enjoyed his free afternoon. Glancing at the window every few minutes, John would smile and sigh at his general feeling of contentment. Moriarty was still on the loose, he was due another 'kidnapping' from Mycroft, and Sherlock could be a nightmare at times but life was good. And John was smart enough to realise it and be thankful.

John had just reached the chapter where young David was sharing a nice meal with his mother and Peggotty, when he heard the front door open. Glancing at the time he realised it was nearly four o'clock. Six hours, not too bad, he thought. Turning back to his novel he felt the outdoor air enter the room with Sherlock.

"All taken care of?" he asked, still reading.

"Yes, yes, I answered all of Lestrade's questions and managed to solve two cold cases as well." Sherlock walked to the end of the couch where John's feet were tucked under the blanket. "Move over," the detective commanded while taking off his gloves.

"It's a good thing I understand those two words really mean - John would you please be so kind as to sit up and move over so that I can sit beside you? – you know. And the answer is 'No'. There are two perfectly good chairs nearby, either of which you can rest your designer clad posterior on quite comfortably."

Sherlock responded by lifting his right foot and using it to nudge John's knees. No response encouraged him to repeat the action with a little more force. Still no response. "John, move. I want to sit down."

"As I said before, two empty chairs are waiting close by." John gestured towards their general direction.

It wasn't often John was able to have the entire sofa and he was determined to savour it. Continuing to read, he could feel Sherlock's stare. No, not staring, John thought, more like focusing really hard so I'll get uncomfortable and then move. Well, Sherlock Holmes, do your worst.

After four more pages John heard Sherlock huff in annoyance. Giving no outward indication of his amusement, he ignored the, louder than necessary, steps his flatmate took to hang up his damp coat and scarf. Trained to be aware of his surroundings and alert to the nearby enemy, John instinctively tensed when Sherlock did not move immediately away from the coat rack. He marked his spot quickly in the book then put it on the floor just beneath the sofa for safekeeping.

As Sherlock made his way back to the foot of the sofa John tucked his feet even tighter and made certain the other blanket end was secure under his arms. Confident the spread could not be ripped away by long fingers, he rested his hands over his abdomen. By the time Sherlock stopped by the side of John's feet, his gaze was met with a wide smile.

The 'stare' returned.

"Yes? Anything I can do for you?" John inquired.

"It would be wise of you to vacate at least half of the sofa." Sherlock warned, as he crossed his arms.

Even as a child John had exhibited a stubborn streak as well as a daring nature. It helped him deal with his sister, kept him alive in Afghanistan and gave him the ability to accept Sherlock with all of his brilliance and glaring faults. Because of this John Watson was not going to back down now. Not when the sofa was rightfully his. So John relayed his answer, thanks but no thanks, to Sherlock by setting his jaw and levelling a mulish look in his direction.

John could tell the message had been received and was quick to note the mischievous glimmer in Sherlock's eye as his body tensed. It took just a moment and poor John was ill prepared. Anticipating hands that would first rip away his covering and then attempt to relocate his person to the floor, John braced his feet while his fingers grabbed for as much of the blanket as they could.

Unbeknownst to John, he reacted exactly as Sherlock had calculated and therefore made himself an easy target. John realised his mistake as Sherlock launched himself off the floor but by then it was too late. Seconds later John found himself effectively pinned to the sofa by a smug consulting detective. Pinned and attempting to regain air that had been knocked abruptly out of him.

Knees straddling John's, Sherlock rested most his body fully on his flatmate and strategically placed his elbows beside his friend's arms, thus preventing John from lifting his hands very high. Raising himself up an inch or two so John could catch his breath, Sherlock looked down with a smile. "Having problems, Doctor Watson?"

John gave a huff at the mocking tone and tried to dislodge the unwelcome weight but knew it was useless. He settled for glaring at the man hovering above him. Unfortunately, this only resulted in laughter from Sherlock.

Part of John wanted to continue feeling irate at the unexpected turn of events but it was overruled instantly. Too much of John was secretly pleased. Pleased that he felt no panic in his current situation which again reinforced his belief that Sherlock was an exception to the rule. Others touching him may make John uncomfortable but Sherlock's touch was different. The man was physically restraining him, not that he couldn't break away if he honestly wanted to, but John's unwavering trust prevented any thoughts of panic, and this was a very good thing.

John couldn't help but also be pleased with Sherlock's laughter. False smiles and strained chuckles were all Sherlock offered to the rest of the world, but alone with John he was different. True acceptance meant that Sherlock could giggle and laugh without inhibition, as he was doing now. And it made John's heart skip a beat with happiness.

"You think you're quite clever don't you?" John queried, attempting to sound annoyed and failing.

"A foolish question, don't you agree? When we both know that I am," Sherlock replied.

"Is that so? Then what are your plans now?" John challenged. A few seconds later he started giggling. "I think I can actually hear the gears in your brain turning. Loud and rusty things they are."

John's laughter continued as Sherlock retaliated by shaking his head sharply from side to side, moisture drops falling from his dark curls where white snowflakes had melted. Pretending he desired release John began squirming and Sherlock tightened his hold as his own giggles added to John's.

"All right, I give!" John cried, as Sherlock's right hand brushed against his ribs.

"You concede?" Sherlock questioned, his hand hovering over John's waist.

"Yes," John answered. "Yes, I give up. You win."

"Hmm…about time." Sherlock placed two soft kisses on John's lips then pulled back slightly. "You must realise it is necessary for your earlier behaviour to be corrected. Such obstinacy cannot go unchecked."

John fought to appear penitent.

"Your amusement does not help your cause. I strongly advise you follow my directions. Is that understood, John?" Sherlock challenged.

Not trusting his voice, John merely nodded his head.

Sherlock rose elegantly from the sofa. "Move closer to the edge of the couch. Make sure you do not remove the blanket and remain on your back when you are finished," were his instructions.

John wasted no time budging over and he saw Sherlock remove his shoes and suit jacket before stepping onto the sofa cushion his feet rested on. Sherlock then moved to lie down on his side facing John. Taking hold of the blanket, he gave it a tug and John lifted it up to share. The phrase packed like sardines ran through John's mind as Sherlock's head settled on his chest and an arm wrapped around his waist.

"So, this is my punishment?" Pulling his right arm out from underneath his 'sofa sharer', John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes, please be good enough to behave in a proper manner next time so this entire debacle can be avoided."

John supposed the phrase was meant to have a condescending tone but Sherlock was simply too comfortable to carry it off.

"Perhaps next time you could just ask for a snuggle instead of choosing to sound like Her Majesty giving a royal command?" Sensing a rant about to start over his word choice, John added hastily, "Because I will be glad to share each time if you do."

"I should hope so," was the mumbled response.

Taking a deep breath, John looked out of the window a final time. The street lights had turned on and he could see the snow fall was slowing. His quiet sigh of contentment echoed around the room. Yes, he thought, resting his cheek on Sherlock's curls, life was good.