The Case of the Shivers

John cautiously watched Sherlock from where he was crouched by the frozen riverbank. The detective had spied something on the icy surface of the water, declared it to be important to the case, and had taken off before John could warn him against it. John, knowing better than to tempt the fates with both of their weights combined on the ice, stayed at the edge of the river and contented himself with shouting warnings at Sherlock, who brushed him off with unparalleled skill.

John turned his attention to the ice itself. He gently prodded the ice before him. It was rough, covered with ice crystals, and thick here, at the edge. However, that said nothing about the ice that Sherlock was currently standing on. Out in the middle of the river, the cold water underneath was bound to be rushing against it and keeping it from thickening. John worried his lip with his teeth as he looked out at the ice underneath Sherlock, hoping that the ice was thicker than it seemed, knowing that he was probably just anxious about nothing.

Sherlock was crouched down, examining something closely. He scooted around in a circle on the ice, looking at the thing from several different angles. He glanced up and called out, "John! Come over here and take a look at this!"

John raised an eyebrow sharply and shook his head vehemently. "No, thank you! I'm quite fond of having a pulse!"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side in a gesture that clearly said 'oh, come on, really?' He then quirked his eyebrows and, not to be defeated, said, "Fine, then I'll just have to bring it to you." With that, he fished something that looked suspiciously like an ice pick from his coat pocket, and began to chisel at the ice with it.

John's eyes widened and he stared at Sherlock, amazed at the genius' stupidity. He then frantically waved his arms in an attempt to get the detective's attention, and stepped out onto the ice.

"Sherlock, I really wouldn't do that! The ice is probably much more fragile than it looks!"

Sherlock ignored him, and continued chipping away at the ice around his precious evidence.

"Seriously, don't do that!" John walked unsteadily toward the center, attempting to both keep his balance and discourage Sherlock, and succeeding in neither.

Sherlock had almost broken through the ice. He raised the pick above his head, and let out a loud "HAH!" before plunging the tool down to break his evidence free.

"SHERLOCK, NO!" John took several stumbling steps toward him, scrabbling madly in the air in front of him, and promptly slipped and fell.

The ice broke, and Sherlock's face split into a grin as he plucked his prize from the ice. He stood up, holding the object close to his face.

A massive crack split the ice with a sound like a gunshot, and several fractures split away from it. The ice underneath Sherlock collapsed, and he fell into the cold, dark water.

John scrambled to his feet, horrified. He tried to simultaneously run to the spot where Sherlock had disappeared and leap away from the cracks forming around him, and only managed falling again. He pushed himself back up and cast about wildly, looking for some sign of his friend. He then spied his dark figure being swept downstream, trapped underneath the ice.

Acting on instinct and adrenaline alone, John sprinted to the riverbank and raced alongside the dark blur, thinking frantically. An idea finally popped into his mind and he didn't bother to question the sanity of it. He willed his legs to run, and moved ahead of Sherlock. His hand delved into his pocket and withdrew his gun, and aimed it at the ice ahead of them. He fired several times; the ice broke up and bobbed on the dark water. John leaped onto the surface and dove to the hole. He thrust his arm down into the water, ignoring the cries of protest from his body, and watched as Sherlock drew closer.
Then, suddenly, his hand found Sherlock's and gripped it tight. John fired a few more rounds at the ice to widen the hole, and hauled him out of the water and onto the ice. He dragged his unconscious body to the riverbank and laid him down a safe distance away from the river.

His fingers worked quickly, removing the soaked scarf and coat and unbuttoning the suit jacket. He leaned down and pressed his lips against Sherlock's, forcing air into his lungs, and then applied a few sharp compressions to his chest. He repeated the procedure over and over, all the while murmuring to himself in a panicked voice.

"You daft, stupid, dippy, mad fool of a man! Bloody hell, you had better wake up right now, you hear me? Dammit to hell, Sherlock, why did you have to go and do a stupid thing like blow a sodding hole in the ice?"

Finally, after one especially firm compression to the chest, the detective spat out a lungful of water and gasped, coughing hard and spluttering. John pulled him up into a sitting position and held him upright until he had stopped choking and could actually breathe. While holding him still, John pulled out his phone and dialed the taxi service. He called in a taxi, telling them in a sharp tone that it was extremely important and that they had better send a cab on the double, and that the cabbie had better be at least halfway decent at driving quickly.

After he hung up, he gathered Sherlock's coat and scarf, put one arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled his arm around his own shoulders and, holding the detective's violently shivering body tight, hauled him to his feet. They slowly made their way away from the river and toward the street, where he had told the cabbie to go. As they went, John did some quick thinking as to where they should go.

In almost every other case, he would have said "hospital" without a second thought. However, this was Sherlock Holmes, who always responded much better to a bit of TLC in his own home than to the best medicines the doctors could get into him. Besides, what Sherlock needed most right now was warmth, and if he went to a hospital he would be put in a cold bed in a cold room, where they would drip cold fluids into him and poke him with cold hands. John shook his head. No hospital today. They would go home.

The cab turned the corner and stopped at the side of the street just as the pair had stumbled to it themselves. John opened the car door and carefully slid Sherlock inside, and then leaped in himself. He looked at the cabbie to tell him where to go, but the young man was staring wide-eyed at the soaked and shaking man that had just been deposited into his taxi.

"Is he a'right?" The young man asked, turning to John with dumb surprise on his face.

John nodded grimly. "He will be. Just get us to 221b Baker Street, fast as you can."

"Er, well," the cabbie began, looking uncertain. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but shouldn't we take this fella to the hospital?"

John met his eyes in a hard stare. "No. I'm a doctor; I know what I'm doing. We need to get this man home. Now."

"Er, a'right, sir. What's the address again?" The cabbie turned to face the front, looking wholly unnerved by the entire encounter.

"221b Baker Street."

"Right. Be there on the double."

"Thank you."

~~~~~~~~~~

The cab rolled to a stop outside of their home several minutes later. John paid the cabbie, thanking him fervently and telling him to keep the change, and hauled Sherlock out of the car and to the door. He pounded on the door, not being able to unlock it without letting go of Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door, looking slightly baffled as to why John hadn't just let himself in. However, when she saw Sherlock, her question was answered and she dived to his other side, helping John bring him upstairs and asking an endless stream of concerned questions, which John answered patiently.

Mrs. Hudson moved as if to put Sherlock on the couch, but John shook his head.

"No. I'll help you take him into the bathroom, and then you'll need to get him out of these wet things and into some warm pants. Thick socks would be good on his feet. No shirt; it'll only get cold and damp right now. Try to dry his hair with a towel. I'll bring his mattress out here and get a fire going, and put some tea on."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, anxious to help in any way she could. John left her to do her work and quickly went to Sherlock's room. Somehow, he managed to haul Sherlock's mattress out of his room and into the living room without incident, although in retrospect he had no idea how on earth that had happened. He placed the mattress in front of the fireplace and set to work with wood and matches.

Several minutes later he had a roaring fire going and water heating for tea in the kitchen. John went into the bathroom to aid Mrs. Hudson.

She had changed Sherlock into his pyjama pants and was currently trying to dry his hair with a towel. John grabbed another towel and helped her, and when he had deemed it dry enough, the two brought Sherlock back into the living room and laid him down on the mattress, piling several blankets on him. John turned to the kitchen to get the tea, but Mrs. Hudson stopped him.

"John, you'll be doing Sherlock no good if you get sick yourself."

John looked at her, mystified. "What?"

"Did you not even notice? You're quite soaked as well. And shivering. You ought to take your own advice once in a while, you know."

Truth be told, John had noticed that he was cold, much colder than usual, but he had pushed that to the back of his mind. Now that Mrs. Hudson had mentioned it, it rushed forward again with renewed vigor, and John promptly sneezed violently. He looked at Mrs. Hudson, slightly abashed, and flashed her an apologetic and grateful smile before disappearing into his room to change into warmer, dryer clothes.

He came out a few minutes later feeling much warmer and calmer. When he entered the living room he saw that Mrs. Hudson had left, but had placed two cups of steaming tea on the mantel. He smiled and sent a silent blessing to their landlady before taking a cup and pulling Sherlock upright, waking him just enough to get him to drink some tea. Once his friend had sipped some of the hot, soothing liquid down he lowered him to the pillows again, where he promptly fell asleep.

John frowned slightly. Sherlock was still shivering, and his skin was cold to the touch. John touched a hand to his own skin. It was quite warm. He let out a sigh, and, silently hoping that Lestrade wouldn't suddenly barge in with news about the case, pulled his sweater and shirt over his head and cast them aside. He lifted up the blankets and slid underneath them, lying next to Sherlock. A warm body nearby would greatly help get his body temperature back to normal. He scooted close to Sherlock until their skin touched ever-so-slightly, and then tried to arrange his limbs in a way that was as comfortable as possible without getting too friendly with his flat mate.

His efforts were in vain. As soon as Sherlock had felt something warm next to him, he rolled over in his sleep, flinging one arm over John's stomach and holding him close, his head resting on John's chest. The detective snuggled close, his fingers twining themselves in John's blonde hair.

John felt his face flush deeply as he was turned into a human pillow. He made a vague attempt at squirming away and stammered, "Um, Sherlock, you-you can let go of me. It's, um, John."

Sherlock's grip only tightened, and he let out a sleepy whine of, "Go 'way, Mycroft. I dun have the pie t'day."

John let out a small snort of laughter. He would have to make sure to ask Sherlock about the story behind that one later.

Sherlock exhaled softly, his breath tickling John's stomach. John cleared his throat, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red.

If he were honest with himself, he wasn't blushing because he was uncomfortable with Sherlock's proximity. If anything, it was purely because he had not been expecting it at all.

A realization struck John. It should have hit him like a train, but John simply thought it, realized it to be true, and accepted it. It went something like this:

My heart is racing. Why? I would only react that way if I loved…

Oh, well, that explains it.

John closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. A small chuckle escaped him and he shook his head slightly, amused by himself for not realizing this sooner. He extracted one arm from under his flat mate and, on a bold whim, put it around Sherlock's shoulders, hugging him closer. He smiled to himself.

This also explains why I have such tremendous patience for all of his strange little quirks, like leaving disembodied fingers in the butter tray and cyanide in the coffee creamer.

John lost himself in his thoughts and in the feeling of bliss that had come with his realization. He banished any thoughts of "well, this can never happen again, unless Sherlock falls in icy water and nearly dies of hypothermia some other time" and tried to replace them with "oh my God, he's touching me, we're cuddling, holy crap, oh my God," and was, for the most part, successful.

They lay there like that for a long time, Sherlock asleep on John's chest, John holding him close and thinking about nothing in particular except for how ridiculously happy he was right now. After a while he absentmindedly began to stroke the smooth skin of Sherlock's shoulder, which by now had grown warm. John smiled at that, pleased that his plan had worked.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open blearily. He let out a content sigh as he was immediately greeted with warmth and comfort, his mind still too thick with sleep to fully comprehend the reasons behind this coziness. As he slowly woke up, he began to notice that he wasn't in his bedroom, but he was on his mattress, and that he was holding something close to him, but it wasn't an inanimate object.

Giving off warmth; not an inanimate object; i.e., a living thing. Not furry, therefore not an animal. Human, male, in my flat. Conclusion: I somehow fell asleep next to John. And both of us are shirtless. Hmm. Interesting.

…Ah, yes. I fell into the river. Silly of me. I suppose that explains this. I must have been cold. Makes sense that John would have tried to warm me.

John had not yet noticed that Sherlock had regained consciousness, lost as he was in his thoughts. It was then that Sherlock noticed that John had one arm around him, and was caressing his side gently. He also realized that his own arms were wrapped tightly around John and holding him close.

…I suppose I ought to feel embarrassed right about now. But I'm not. Just…comfortable. Huh. That's interesting.

A few moments later, it occurred to Sherlock that it might be rather entertaining to give John a slight start. Without moving or varying his position, he said in the most innocent voice that he could muster, "What do you call it when a bunch of mediocre people stick together?"

John jumped with a quiet yelp, his arm flying away from Sherlock like it had been burned, and he squirmed away, startled. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sat up and threw his head back, cackling in delight at his success.

"Never, ever do that to me again! Dear God, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"
John gave Sherlock a wide-eyed glare, his hand clutching at his chest.

Sherlock flashed him his cheeky grin. "Don't be so dramatic, John."

His flat mate said nothing.

"Oh, come on, you know that was a good one."

After a moment of silence, John rolled his eyes and relaxed, smiling faintly. He admitted, "Yeah, alright, it wasn't half bad."

Sherlock's face split into a wide grin and he launched into a quiet fit of giggles.

John shook his head. He asked, sounding amused despite himself, "So, what do you call it when a bunch of mediocre people stick together?"

Sherlock snorted and replied, "Salierity."

John's eyebrows quirked. "I don't think I get it."

"Not surprised. Few people do." Sherlock dragged one of the blankets around his shoulders before continuing. "It's a pun on 'solidarity' and the name 'Salieri'. He was a great composer in Austria, and Mozart's greatest rival. However, he was, to put it kindly, quite mediocre in his musical talents in comparison to Mozart. Hence, mediocre people sticking together equal 'Salierity'."

John chuckled and shook his head. "I think that's the first time I've ever heard you make a bad joke."

"Wordplay puns in my family," Sherlock replied with an impish grin.

John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, smiling in amusement.

"No, really. Just spend a bit of time around Uncle Othello; you'll understand."

"Othello?" John asked a bit dubiously.

"My family's got quite a penchant for old, regal names."

"Ah," John suppressed a giggle badly.

The pair fell silent, John staring off into space and Sherlock's quicksilver eyes glancing over John in careful scrutiny, his mind working rapidly.

He is relaxed, much more so than I have seen him for a while. He is currently shirtless, but doesn't seem bothered by this or by being in my company, myself also being without a shirt. A bit odd; usually he's quite bashful and very modest.

His eyes slid over John's chest for a split second.

More in shape than I had originally thought. Undoubtedly a result of the military..

Sherlock felt a slight tug at his mind. It wasn't unpleasant, and Sherlock prodded at the feeling with an air of somewhat startled curiosity.

Hmm. Do I find him…attractive?

After a moment's consideration, he discovered that he did.

Well now, that's very interesting. Of course, I shouldn't be too surprised. I've always known it, I suppose.

He paused to mull over this for a short while. Then, he cocked his head to the side slightly, considering John.

Now, the question is, does he feel the same about me? I must test this.

Sherlock shrugged the blanket from around his shoulders, looking as casual as could be. The motion caught John's attention, which had been wandering in no direction in particular.

Sherlock purposefully avoided meeting John's gaze, but kept a careful eye on his flat mate's expressions. He stretched his arms above his head and took a deep breath in before letting it out in a huff, and fell back on the pillows behind him. He ruffled a hand through his dark curls and then let it settle on his chest, surreptitiously scouring John's face for any hint of a reaction to the motions.

He got one. He saw John's eyes dilate and the pulse in his neck quicken slightly as the doctor watched Sherlock's actions. He caught John's breath catching for the tiniest of moments and his cheeks taking on a deeper shade of pink. John, although he had adopted a near-perfect poker face, nevertheless showed every sign of feeling attraction to another being.

Sherlock couldn't suppress his smile, which was a mixture of victory and, unusually for him, genuine happiness.

John saw Sherlock's smile and gave him an inquisitive look. He tilted his head to the side and asked with guarded curiosity, "What? What is it? You look as though I just passed some sort of test or something."

Sherlock's smile only widened. His gray eyes, usually hard and glittering with intelligence, were now softened into a warm, searching gaze, which flickered across John's face. "Well, I suppose that's because you did, in a way."

"Huh?" John looked as though he couldn't decide whether he was alarmed, pleased, or just simply amused. However, Sherlock gave him no time to make up his mind.

The detective, having decided that he had held back all emotions for quite long enough, sat up quickly and threw his arms around John in a tight embrace. He curled the fingers of one hand in John's hair and held him close, his eyes closed and a tiny smile played upon his lips.

John froze as Sherlock embraced him, caught very much by surprise. His eyes widened and he gasped quietly, at first refusing to believe what had just happened. But, after a moment of sitting  perfectly still and his heart hammering so hard he thought it would surely burst, he relaxed. He wrapped his own arms around Sherlock and hugged him tight, shivering slightly at the feeling of their bare skin touching. He nuzzled the side of Sherlock's neck gently, smiling to himself.

Sherlock could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in, and slowly let it out. His stomach felt strange, but it wasn't a feeling of nausea or pain.

This must be what people refer to as 'butterflies'.

After a long moment of holding each other close, enjoying the feeling of each other's bodies, Sherlock broke the silence. He quietly murmured, "I suppose, then, that this is what…love…feels like."

John was somewhat surprised to hear the faintest trace of uncertainty in Sherlock's voice. The man was always so firmly assured of himself that it was a bit odd to hear him like this – fragile, acting only on emotion and not on rational thought, unsure of himself and whether or not he was right. It only made John love him all the more.

John gave Sherlock a squeeze and pulled back slightly, so as to look Sherlock in the eye. He smiled at him and held one hand against his face, stroking a pronounced cheekbone with his thumb. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. John replied softly, "Yes, I suppose it is."

Sherlock breathed out, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. His eyes opened and flickered over John's face for a moment before he leaned forward, enveloping John's lips with his own in a tender kiss.

They pulled apart after a moment that seemed both endless and far too short. Sherlock rested his forehead against John's, who gave a breathy chuckle. Sherlock looked into John's eyes and smiled.

"Love feels good, John."