A/N: Wow, another fic! Yowza! But no, really this isn't a big deal. I wrote it as my piece for the 221B Advent community on LiveJournal, and it took me like a month to complete. I'm not quite happy with it; my characterization is wobbly, and the plot is rather illogical and contrived. My writing style and quality waver throughout, mostly because I wrote like a few sentences every day for about over a month to get it done. Oh well. It's done.

Please note this fic was neither betaed nor Brit-picked, but I used what British vocabulary I do know. Feel free to point out any errors or plot inconsistencies.

Warnings: Slight Reichenbach Spoilers, mentions of frostbite and hypothermia.

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I'd give us a Christmas Special each year.

Damn. Damn, damn it all! John shuffled from foot to foot, trying to regain the feeling in his toes. This is all his fault. Damn him! The ex-army doctor blew warm air into his hands, rubbing them together in an attempt to generate heat. That idiot, just pushes me right out the bloody door! He could have at least let me get more than my jumper on! Or socks! But no, we're at a bloody crime scene, I'm in my slippers and a jumper, and of all the days for it, it's snowing! John stamped his feet and tucked his head deeper into his shoulders, shivering violently. I'm going to catch my death of bloody pneumonia! And does he give a damn? Nope!

John shot a glare at his flatmate and the team from Scotland Yard, Sherlock in his warm coat, scarf, and gloves, standing next to the body that lay half-covered by drifts, Lestrade and his new team standing by with thick jackets and steaming coffees. The DI was giving Sherlock a run-through of the facts so far, while the consulting detective silently cataloged the information for later deductions.

John took a moment to regard the two trainees who had replaced Donovan and Anderson after Sherlock's return. John's brows creased at the mere thought of the sergeant and the forensics officer. Damn cowards they were, "conveniently" switching divisions when Lestrade announced he was bringing Sherlock back on board. Probably in their best interests, though. If I'd seen their sorry faces again… the ex-army doctor chuckled rather darkly, inducing another fit of violent shivers. He quickly uncrossed one arm to discreetly wipe his nose on the sleeve of his jumper, then swiftly stuffed half-numb fingers back into barely-warm armpits. Well like I said, it was in their favor that they left.

John was jolted from his thoughts when he registered his name being spoken aloud. He shook his head to clear it, and directed his attention to the speaker. "Sorry Greg, I didn't catch that." "Sherlock wants your medical opinion. As per the usual way." "Ah. Yes, right. Sorry."

John moved to step closer to the snow-covered body, glancing at Sherlock as he did so; but stopped short when he saw the consulting detective had fixed him with a strange look that was half-quizzical, and half a new expression John had never seen on his flatmate's face before. Which was odd, because John had spent enough time furtively studying the younger Holmes to know all of his expressions by memory. Though being who he is, there's not much variation. John thought wryly.

A moment passed in which the two men regarded each other with puzzlement for just a second, before the ex-army doctor elected to sort out this new expression later and just get this over with; and switched his gaze to the frozen corpse. If I don't get warmed up soon, I'll look just like this poor bloke.

John winced slightly as he crouched down beside the body, stiff joints groaning with the effort, his bad shoulder in particular. A resigned sigh escaped him as snow began so seep through his left knee where it rested on the concrete. He breathed once more on his hands to warm them, before clumsily snapping a pair of latex gloves over frosty digits. This shouldn't be all that difficult. Just check the body, Sherlock will solve the case, and then I can go warm up by the hearth.

Once he started the examination, however, things were a bit easier said than done. John's shivers had become so violent, his teeth were actually rattling, and as he tried to move the victim's arm away from her chest, his near-numb fingers couldn't seem to find purchase on the ice-encrusted limb. Also, he thought the knees of his trousers might have frozen to the concrete.

Frustration growing, John struggled to keep his head, giving up on attempting to move the arm, and started looking elsewhere for a cause of death. The ex-army doctor tensed, steeling himself to tear his knees free and move around the body, when several things happened at once.

Suddenly, Sherlock was crouched down on John's right side. The consulting detective swiftly unbuttoned his coat, slipped his left arm out of the sleeve, and then threw the left side of the garment, along with his now jacket-less arm, around John's shoulders. Sherlock then stripped off his leather gloves, tucking them in the coat's right pocket. He then pulled off John's latex pair, tossing them over his shoulder, and pressed the leather pair into the ex-army doctor's hands. "Put these on." John started, confusion clouding his face "Um… right. Okay."

Gloves in place, Sherlock tucked the hand currently around John's back under his friend's left arm, gently pulling him to his feet. He then moved to stand half behind John, left hand holding the coat around the older man's shoulder, crouched slightly so that it would still mostly cover himself as well. If it wasn't utterly ridiculous, the consulting detective thought, I would almost think that John was made to fit in my arms. Holmes blinked in surprise. Where did that come from? No matter, I'll deal with it later on.

Sherlock turned, guiding John along with him, and faced DI Lestrade and his team. "John is not well. As a result, we shall be leaving now." "But- Sherlock! The case!"

Under the coat, John felt Sherlock bristle with irritation. "I suggest you find yourself a new team, Lestrade, as this pair seems to be just as incompetent as the last one. This was not a murder. The young woman here died of hypothermia, when she attempted to make her way home in a snowstorm while drunk. If you look one foot to the left of her feet, you will find a small purse likely containing a mobile and some ID. If you have any brains whatsoever, you should be able to identify her and contact her parents, whom I can tell she still lives with from the toes of her shoes. They should be able to tell you what I could see from the condition of her hairstyle; their daughter went out for drinks with friends at around 8:00 last night and, evidently, did not return home. Now, if you'll excuse us, I have a doctor to attend to." He said it all with a cold fire of frustration and temper in his eyes that, while invisible to John, made Lestrade swallow thickly.

Satisfied that his point had been made, Sherlock's tone warmed as he uttered a quiet, "Come along, John." which, combined with slight pressure from the arm around his shoulders, snapped him out of his startled state.

"Right, yes. Um…" the ex-army doctor glanced over his shoulder as they moved away, to where Lestrade was directing his team in uncovering the purse. "Happy Holidays, Greg!" The DI nodded in acknowledgement, swiftly returning to his work.

Well, that was a bit awkward. Aw, who am I kidding, that was just straight-out strange! John looked up at his flatmate, who was occupied with flagging them a cab. I mean, since when does he- John's felt his thoughts stutter to a halt at the sight before him.

Sherlock, his face just within his line of clear vision, was breathtaking. Near-black curls stood out in sharp contrast to the grey-white backdrop of snowy skies, and a few flakes had lodged themselves in the dark mass. The normally stark cheeks and nose were flushed a light pink, lips pursed and brow furrowed in slight concentration at the task the task of hailing a taxi.

A cab pulled over in front of them, and suddenly Sherlock turned his gaze to John, and the older man felt his frozen ears go even darker red as he looked away in embarrassment. Shit! Was I staring? Oh god, I was staring. Shit! Sherlock, however, seemed not to have noticed; the consulting detective simply slipped out from under the coat to open the door and slide inside. John dazedly stuffed his right arm into the now-empty sleeve, and the climbed in after his flatmate. They were halfway back to Baker Street before John realized that the strange expression he'd seen earlier had been worry.

~ A few hours later ~

John emerged from the toilet at 221B with a bundle of damp clothes held at arm's length. Dressed in a clean jumper and flannel pajama bottoms, he made his way over to the hearth, where Sherlock crouched, stoking the quickly-building fire. The doctor reached to the side of the fireplace and pulled out a fold-up wire clothes rack, which he unfolded in front of the grate and carefully hung his wet clothes on. He then grabbed Sherlock's coat from the back of his chair, carefully hooking the collar over a nail in the mantle that was holding up a festive garland.

Satisfied, John took a half-step back and gazed into the flames. However, as was ever-more-often the case, he soon found his eyes drifting to where his flatmate still sat, resting on his heels and pondering the blaze. As he took in Sherlock's profile, John couldn't help the feeling of peace that came over him at seeing the shine of the fire in the younger man's eyes and the ever-thoughtful expression on his face. The doctor could almost see the thoughts racing beneath the slightly damp mop of dark curls.

He is so incredibly complex. Really, I don't even care if I'll never fully understand what his mind does sometimes (most of the time). I love it. Even if he is a right git sometimes. Damn him. John smiled wistfully. Someday I'll figure out how to tell him how I feel. But not today.

The deep voice of his flatmate, and the detective unfolding himself to stand beside John, brought him back to earth. "About earlier, John…" The younger man paused as though gathering his thoughts. But that's stupid, no, he's always sure. It's Sherlock, for god's sake! "I am truly sorry for dragging you outside without proper clothing on. It was… inconsiderate of me, and… I promise it will not happen again."

John gaped incredulously at his flatmate, who finally turned his gaze from the fire to look John in the eye. "…I do hope you will forgive me, John. I never meant to bring you any harm." Grey eyes flicked back to the floor, as Sherlock began to pick at a loose thread on his blue dressing gown. "…I would never do anything to hurt you. I did enough of that when I… erm… Well as I said, I am sorry." Please don't be angry, John.

When John remained silent, Sherlock felt his heart drop. Not really, of course. My heart is firmly fixed within my chest cavity; there is no capacity for movement without a rupture of several arteries. What a ridiculous notion. He still hasn't said anything. He's angry. He won't forgive you. You've messed up. Again. Sherlock shot glance at his friend's face and was stunned by what he found there. He's smiling?

"Of course I forgive you, you great git!" Oh. Suddenly John's arms were around him, face buried in his neck. OH. How…unexpected.

Just as Sherlock raised his hands to place them on the older man's back, John's own hands grasped his shoulders pushing him back to arm's length, and the consulting detective found himself fixed with a stern blue gaze. "You've put me through a hell of a lot worse than some snow, and I still came back then, didn't I? Sherlock, if I could forgive you for faking your death for three years, I can forgive practically anything else you can do. Okay?

Sherlock nodded, staring in slightly wonderment. "Right, of course, how foolish of me."

John beamed at him, cautiously sliding his right arm around the taller man's torso as they both turned back to the fire. His caution was not warranted, though, as Sherlock wrapped his own arm around John's shoulders, pulling his friend to stand close to his side.

The consulting detective couldn't help the smile that crept over his face. I suppose Molly was right, about the holidays. You spend them with the ones you love. He glanced down at John, nestled against him. Remarkable. My earlier observation was correct; a perfect fit.

Outside, a bell began to toll in a nearby church, signalling a new day. As they rang on, John yawned, and murmured sleepily into his flatmate's robe "Happy Christmas, Sherlock." The Holmes bent slightly to press a soft kiss onto the blond head tucked into his left shoulder.

"Happy Christmas, John."

A/N: There, it's done. Review, please, and tell me how bad it was!

Happy Christmas/Apocalypse Day!