Title: Hot Cocoa For The Soul

Author: Indigo Night

Summary: A case almost ends in tragedy and John fixes a sweet beverage to soothe Sherlock foul mood.

Feedback: Yes please, yay reviews!

Pairing: SherlockxJohn, though not necessarily sexual.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the characters I'm just borrowing them for fun.

Spoilers: None.

Warnings: Fluff, vague slash.

Author's Note: I myself was drinking some hot chocolate tonight, and it was delicious, so I decided Sherlock and John might like to have some too. A note on Sherlock and John's relationship, I just finished reading this (http(colon)(slash)(slash)archiveofourown(dot)org(slash)series(slash)7346) fantastic series in which they're in a sexless/asexual relationship and it's really brilliant, everyone should read it; so that sort of influenced their interactions in this fic. Read, Review,

Enjoy!

They were tense and silent as they returned to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was sulking and apparently nothing John said was going to pull him out of it, so John had given up and just let the silence rest.

Sherlock stormed directly into the living room once they were through the door and began ripping down various crime scene photos and notes he'd taped to the wall in order to help him organize the facts in his mind. It was a job John usually did because Sherlock didn't care enough, he would have just left them there forever and simply tacked the evidence from the next case over top of them. But not this time, he wanted to erase this case from sight and mind.

The case, in the end, had gone as well as all the others; Sherlock had come up with a brilliant deduction in just the nick of time and caught the criminal with all his usual elegance. But Sherlock didn't see it that way; because the great Sherlock Holmes had made a mistake, a nearly fatal one. Of course, as far as everyone else wasn't concerned it wasn't really a mistake, especially since none of them had caught it either. Sherlock had missed one minor piece of evidence, one tiny little hair out of place, and he hadn't seen it until the very last second; until John was seconds away from a bullet in the brain.

Sherlock insisted he should of seen it earlier, that if he had everything would have been neatly rapid up much more quickly; and John never would have been in danger, was the part no one said out loud but they were well aware of.

John didn't mind of course. Danger was par for the course living with Sherlock; he had accepted and embraced that long ago. He didn't blame Sherlock for missing the clue either, he in fact didn't see this much at all different from many of their other cases. And yet Sherlock perceived it as a failure, and there was nothing John could do but wait patiently until Sherlock put it behind him and let the mood pass.

He watched with a sigh as Sherlock viciously binned the photos and notes. Once the evidence was out of sight Sherlock installed himself in his favorite armchair, drew his knees to his chest, and settled in for a sulk.

John sighed and shook his head indulgently, retreating to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He paused a moment, leaning against the counter top to take a few deep breaths; it had been a close call that night, but nothing as bad as Sherlock was making it out to be. Shaking the last of the adrenaline off he reached for the tea bags but stopped, eyes landing on the box of hot cocoa mix he'd bought earlier.

It was winter, only weeks away from Christmas, and the tips of John's fingers still tingled from the cold; hot cocoa, he decided, would be an excellent idea. And it just might help pull Sherlock out of his black mood as well, a double win.

He hummed pleasantly under his breath as he prepared the cocoa, pleased with himself for the idea. It had not been until well after their acquaintance that John had discovered Sherlock's secret weakness. While the man regularly turned up his nose as such human trivialities as food and sleep, Sherlock did have the most peculiar fondness for sweet things. Sherlock might steadfastly refuse something as simple as toast for days on end, and yet he would regularly indulge in anything from lollipops to chocolate bars to the occasional piece of cake. It certainly wasn't healthy, but eventually John had learned to be grateful for any calorie intake Sherlock's poor, neglected body received and he'd begun ensuring that there were always sweets of some kind in the flat.

Once the milk was steaming and he'd stirred in the powdered chocolate, John began digging through the pantry for the marshmallows he knew were in there somewhere. He'd just snagged the bag and was about to close the pantry door when he spotted the box of candy canes he'd bought last week in futile attempt to bring some festive cheer to the flat; Sherlock didn't care much for holidays.

Grabbing the box as well John returned to the waiting mugs and added four marshmallows and one candy cane to each. Stirring the beverages until the marshmallows were thoroughly soaked and the candy canes beginning to melt, John put all the supplies back where they belonged and carefully grasped a mug in each hand.

Returning to the living room he saw, unsurprisingly, that Sherlock hadn't moved. Balancing the mugs carefully so as not to spill he carried them over to Sherlock's chair and perched himself on one of the arms.

"Here," he said as he handed Sherlock his mug, voice soft but stern, "Drink."

Sherlock blinked at him, vaguely startled. John by now had learned that it was usually best to simply let him be until his moods passed and didn't bother him. But John was in no mood to put up with it that night, which Sherlock could clearly read on his face. Besides, the hot cocoa smelled extremely inviting. So reluctantly he uncurled his arms from under his armpits and accepted the mug. He took a cautious sip, and yes, it did taste just as good as it smelled.

John gave a quiet, self satisfied smirk and remained on the arm of Sherlock's chair as he sipped his own cocoa. Sherlock's shoulder pressed slightly into John's side as he subconsciously leaned closer to the smaller man and John didn't mind at all. He let the hand not holding his cocoa drape casually around the nap of Sherlock's neck, idly fingering the curls there.

They sat like that for some time in silence, feeling no need to talk as they let the cocoa warm them both inside and out, and slowly John felt Sherlock relax beneath his fingers.

"I should have seen it earlier," Sherlock said at last, breaking their comfortable silence, his hands gripping his mug just a little too tightly.

"You saw it in time, that's what matters," John assured him gently, and his fingers tightened just a little too, responding to Sherlock's tension.

Sherlock just made an irritated huff and took another drink of his cocoa. John leaned down and kissed the top of his head soothingly. "You were brilliant; you solved a case no one else could," he assured.

"But I almost lost the only thing that matters," Sherlock retorted sharply.

John's breath caught a little at Sherlock's words and the intensity in them; he knew how Sherlock felt of course and made it no secret that he returned those feelings, but they still didn't say it out loud much. As soon as he recovered himself he carefully took Sherlock's mostly empty mug from his hands and set them both aside on the coffee table. "Come on," he urged quietly, "Time for bed."

Twenty minutes later found them both ready for bed and Sherlock curled up miserably at the very edge of his side. John sighed; the cocoa had helped certainly, but clearly not enough. Crawling under the blankets and resting his head on the edge of Sherlock's pillow he reached out and tugged the taller man until Sherlock's back was resting against his chest. He tucked one arm through the crook of Sherlock's neck and wrapped the other around Sherlock's chest until he could clasp his hands together over his heart. He pressed his face into the back of Sherlock's shoulder and breathed in deeply, letting the lingering traces of Sherlock's cologne surround him with peace and security.

"I'm right here," he assured quietly, hoping the words would sink, "I'm right here, and I always will be."

"Don't say things you know might not be true," Sherlock retorted, but he didn't pull away.

John sighed. "All right then," he corrected patiently, "I'm right here, and I have no intention of going anywhere any time soon."

He felt Sherlock relax a little against him, pressing closer as though seeking his warmth. Neither of them said anything further, both simply laying in silence until John had nearly drifted off, comfortable and content.

Just as he'd been about to fall asleep he felt Sherlock shift against him, rolling over until he could rest his head on John's chest just over his heart. John let his hand automatically smooth over the back of Sherlock's shirt, remaining wrapped securely around him.

"I'd miss you if you died," Sherlock admitted in a whisper, soft enough that John wasn't supposed to have heard it or not. So he didn't answer, just let himself shift a little closer and relax against the taller man's body.

Within minutes they were both asleep and everything was, for once, peaceful at 221B Baker Street.