A/N: I have a headcannon where Jawn obsesses over Sherly's cheekbones and... um... This happened. It's set before the Fall.



John was on the old, battered couch of apartment 221B when his flatmate walked in, bits of snow and ice in his hair.

Did I mention that it was midnight?

Or that it was basically a wall of ice out there and that Sherlock had promised to be home two hours ago?

Naturally, John had been worried sick, so it was no surprise that he jumped up almost instantly and ran over to his flatmate. "Sherlock Holmes, where have you been?!" he shouted, quickly pulling Sherlock's scarf off of his neck and helping him out of his coat.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"I'm on it, dearie." John sent up a silent, thankful prayer that Sherlock had gotten home safely and that he "I'm on it, dearie." John sent up a silent, thankful prayer that Sherlock had gotten home safely and that they had the best landlady of all time as Mrs. Hudson put the kettle on for some tea and turned up the dial another five degrees.

"Sorry, John, I just had a case." Sherlock mumbled, almost collapsing into his flatmate's arms. John shoved away any thoughts he should not be having about Sherlock as he half-dragged the other man over to the couch.

"I don't want to hear any of your excuses. Did you walk all the way here? Oh, of course you did." John mumbled, trying not to yell at Sherlock. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, made in the USA for their summers, not winters in Britain. John sighed at Sherlock's stupidity as he covered his flatmate with the thickest blanket he could find and poured the tea that Mrs. Hudson had served them before running off to find some dry clothes and thick blankets for Sherlock, bringing the damp clothes that John had removed from Sherlock.

Gosh, his cheekbones look amazing. John tried to shove the thoughts from his mind, only causing them to pour in faster. Perhaps he'd get warmer faster if I held him. Is he warm enough? Gosh, John, he's your flatmate, not your littlest son. He's a grown man. He's fine. John shook the thoughts away, successfully this time, as Mrs. Hudson returned.

"Is he warm enough?" She asked, lifting his head on the pillow and covering him with another blanket.

"I don't know. Should I be worried?" The worst thoughts flashed through John's mind, the main one of them being the snow-covered grave of Sherlock Holmes.

"Are his lips blue?" Thank the lord for Mrs. Hudson.

"Only slightly." A quick inspection provided John with the urge to kiss those soft, almost perfectly fitting together lips that were slightly open as he rested against the pillow.

"Make him warmer, as warm as you can. Build a fire and give him some tea. Is he awake yet?"

"No ma'am. Should we worry?" John had no clue why he was asking that, because he was terrified no matter what.

"For heaven's sake, John, wake him up!" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen. God bless that woman, John thought as he gently shook his flatmate awake.


"Oh, thank-" John didn't bother to finish the sentence as he enveloped Sherly in a hug. Gosh, I want to kiss your cheekbones.

"I take it you were worried about me?"

"Sherlock, what the h-"

"John." Sherlock cautioned before letting him continue.

"What were you thinking, Sherlock Holmes? Call somebody who's got a car, take a taxi, something! Never walk home in weather like this again! You had us worried sick! Now drink your tea and I'll take you up to bed." John dropped down on the couch next to his flatmate and watched him take every sip, the long, trembling fingers rising the cup to those perfect lips again and again until the cup was empty.

"Would you like some more?" John made as if to get up and head over to the teapot, but he was halted by Sherlock's shaking head.

"No, thank you, I believe I won't." The tone of his voice made it clear that he wanted to sleep, but John wasn't having it until he was absolutely certain that Sherlock was good and warmed up.

"I insist."

"I won't drink it."

"Sherlock, stop acting like a child and take your tea. John is trying to do something for you, and I suggest you take the offer. Lord knows when it's going to happen again." Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen next door, entering the room with a jug of milk. "Milk in your tea, John?"

"I'll do it, no need for you to. Go on upstairs and rest; I need a word with Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson nodded after handing the milk to John, walking up to her room with a knowing smile.

"Sherlock, I don't understand you. You're one of the smartest men in the world, but you can be so stupid sometimes!"

"Leave me alone, John." Sherlock replied, drinking the tea in one sip, John following suit. "I'm a little cold, so I think I'll go to bed."

"Mind if I join you?" Seeing the look on Sherlock's face, John quickly amended his request. "Not like that, I mean, just to make sure you get the right amount of sleep and all..." The sentence awkwardly trailed off, causing Sherlock to nod.

"If you want to."

John's lips ran from Sherlock's chin, up one cheekbone and down the other, his hands leaving angry red lines on Sherlock's naked back. "Sherly." John moaned against Sherlock's warm skin, Sherlock just sighing in reply. "Jawn. You beautiful person."


"John. John!" John sat up in his chair, his head whacking that of the man in front of him.

"You were muttering. Nightmare?"

"Yeah... Nothing, really. That was it." This was the third time this week that that had happened, and him being in Sherlock's room hadn't helped matters much.

John had fallen asleep in a chair next to Sherlock's bed after standing up for the third time to cover Sherlock up.

"It wasn't a nightmare, was it?" How does he do that?! Crap, he knows. "You were dreaming about your girlfriend, weren't you? What's her name, Jeanette?"

"Charlotte." John corrected, feeling a twinge of annoyance amidst the relief.

Let me tear into your jumper with these scissors. Sherlock glanced up at John Watson, his hand going to his chin as he flipped through the newspaper. Let me throw you to the ground as I rip the tattered remains of that jumper you're wearing from your body. Let me kiss you. He was mouthing the words from behind his newspaper, his hands crumpling the pages slightly.

"You mad, Sherlock?" Thank goodness Jawn was terrible at deducing.

"Yes. Anderson's face glaring up from the front page of this newspaper is maddening." Sherlock replied, flipping the paper around to show John the picture. And I'm also mad at that jumper. Take it off, right now. It's hiding you from me. Sherlock mouthed, looking away from John. "That jumper a Christmas present?"

"Yes. Why? Do you like it?" They were in the awkward small-talk stage that came from spending the night in the same bedroom.

"Not at all. In fact, it's annoying me greatly."

"All right. Fine." John pulled the jumper over his head and tossed it into Sherlock's bedroom, it landing a foot from the bed.

Sherlock's eyes widened, him visibly surprised at the sight of John Watson standing shirtless in his living room, so much so that he had to stand there and take in the entire thing for a moment.

Then he followed suit, tossing his shirt with an expert arm so that his landed right on top of John's.

"How long have you felt this way?" John whispered as they lay there together, Sherlock's lips skimming over his collarbones and chest softly, gently.

"A while." Sherlock replied, not bothering to elaborate as he nipped at John's earlobe.

"Sh-Sherlock." John took a rattling breath as he ran a hand through Sherlock's curls.

A/N: I'm going to leave this here!

Until next time: