Second Law of Thermodynamics

school doodle :/

a scene from The Second Law of Thermodynamics by Libraryofsol on LJ [Sherlock/John pre-slash]
Sherlock forgets to fix the heating and John finds him half-hypothermic with his shirt-sleeves rolled up at the table downstairs in the middle of the night:[link]


He has to look out the window. Because there'd been a foot of snow outside at ten o'clock. It's more like two feet now. There's no such thing as a road anymore. There's just a huge mess of white and the vague smear that used to be London as far as the eye can see. He stumbles his way out of his room, trying to make his legs work well enough not to crash into anything. There has to be some form of heating for the place, since there are radiators, but he's buggered if he can find it.

He knows Mrs Hudson is away, and not likely to come back soon if the snow's going to keep piling up, but he doesn’t fancy going all the way downstairs and trying to find the heating in the dark. He's already roughly twenty degrees colder than when he struggled his way out of bed. He's vibrating with it.

He doesn't find the heating. He does find Sherlock though, hunched over the desk in his shirtsleeves frowning over a mess of papers that have clearly been carefully spread out from a Scotland Yard file.

John can see him breathing, there's a pale, frigid cloud on every exhale.

He swears and makes his way over to him.

"How long have you been sitting here without moving?"

Sherlock's teeth click, like he's been inhaling too much of that frozen air.

"Long enough to unravel the mysteries of at least five cold cases, all very pedestrian. Disappointing." He doesn't look up.

John eyes the stack of folders on the desk. "Have you been stealing files again?"

"Borrowing them, though there's some uncertainty as to whether it can even be called that, since Lestrade never notices."

Sherlock's pale fingers twitch and John can't help reaching out and catching them. They're ice cold, and there's a fine tremor running through his skin that John can feel now, fits and starts that are barely visible. John gets the feeling he's been ruthlessly clamping down on his body's natural defence against the cold for a while. The living room is like a crypt.

"You don't have a case, you're not in the middle of some sort of gruesome, time-sensitive experiment and you're freezing to death, you should go to bed."

"There's a dead owl in it," Sherlock provides, like that's a perfectly sensible answer to the question.

"A dead owl - " John shakes his head. "I don't think I want to know."

Sherlock's teeth click again.

"Sherlock if you get any colder your brain will slow down, and you won't even be able to remember what day it is," John offers. Because he figures that's some sort of fate worse than death approach that just might work.

Sherlock's brief twist of expression in reaction to that seems to suggest that his brain running at 50% is still more than a match for London and its long abandoned mysteries.

But, Sherlock freezing to death in a fit of stubbornness while John sleeps is not an option. Especially since the snow seems to be devouring the world every time he looks away.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," John says, helplessly, and physically drags Sherlock up from the chair.

He lists to one side and then winces, like his joints have forgotten how to work. Or more likely, like his blood's currently flowing like a slush puppy.

"Christ, Sherlock, do you have any idea how cold you are?"

"I'm becoming unpleasantly aware of that now, thank you."

"Do you even own a jumper? One you haven't spilled anything caustic on, or set on fire"

"Possibly," Sherlock provides.

"You could have at least put your coat on, or your gloves?"

"I meant to, I became distracted."

"Can you even feel your hands?"

Sherlock continues to protest his ignorance of his own body temperature all the way back to John's room.

John pushes him until he sits down on the bed.

"Left to your own devices you'll end up with hypothermia," he says sharply and steals Sherlock's shoes and socks before he can complain. His feet are so cold they almost burn the back of his hand. "And you felt the need to roll your sleeves up why exactly?"

"Expediency, freedom of movement." Sherlock's teeth are clicking regularly now, like he has a tick in his jaw.

"You're not supposed to resist the symptoms of cold you know, they're there for a reason."