(I was feeling a bit down, so I wrote this to cheer myself up :D It didn’t really work because I’m still not feeling great, but it is incredibly fluffy, so maybe it will cheer you up, hehe)
"December in London was a tricky business. It almost never snowed, but it was often so cold your toes almost fell off. And this particular December was no different.
Three weeks before Christmas, found Sherlock Holmes and John Watson chasing after criminals yet again. As they ran, their breath clouded the fronts of their noses, and as their feet stomped the ground, they almost slipped on the deicing salt that had been spread on the sidewalks and roads in spite of the lack of snow.
The case in itself was fairly simple in the end, merely a crime of passion, and oh how Sherlock hated crimes of passion. Always said they were inelegant and dull. But there was nothing to be done now, because they were mid-chase and their culprit was about to escape.
Of course, Mr William Hardy-Thompson never really expected to be tackled to the ground by a five foot six-and-a-half inches ex-army doctor who really only wanted to go back to his tea and telly as soon as possible. John and Thompson rolled on the ground, grappling for a few minutes, and Thompson really did put a good fight, but John eventually managed a calculated punch that knocked him out cold and that was it.
After what felt like an eternity waiting for and dealing with the police, Sherlock and John were sent back him, both slightly more sore than they had been that morning.
It had just gone five in the afternoon when they walked into 221B. The flat was pleasantly warm, for which John was grateful as he removed his damp jacket and soaked-through shoes. Sherlock seemed to be stuck in his post-case haze, when he catalogued the information absorbed during the case deciding what to keep and what to delete from his “hard drive”. Usually it took him about an hour to do that, so John busied himself with tea, absolutely fine with being ignored for a bit.
What John didn’t expect, though, were the arms that wrapped themselves around his waist as he poured water into the kettle. Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder and sighed.
‘I’m cold,’ he said. John chuckled.”