Kleptomaniac (A Johnlock Fanfiction) [2015 Wattys Award Winner]

Chapter Seventeen

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake. Up.

Are you awake yet?

"Wake."

"Up."

John resurfaces with a gasp, because Sherlock is kissing all the air from his lungs and he spent his last breaths protesting.

"So," Sherlock murmurs, his smile pressed against John's cheeks. He can feel it after Sherlock pulls away. "Wake up," he says, clapping his hands.

John looks at the clock, still half-asleep. Through his muddy vision, the time "4:30" blinks persistently at him, and he turns to Sherlock for a few unhappy moments before burying his head underneath the covers somewhat defiantly.

"Go back to sleeeep," he moans, grabbing Sherlock by the hem of his pants and pulling him down.

"But - John."

"Rrrmpph," he mumbles back in annoyance, bending his head under the pillow to cancel out the noise.

"John, I want to show you something," Sherlock explains enthusiastically, "please."

"But it's four thirrttyy."

"Actually, 4:33."

"Where do you want to take me," John mumbles, even though he's not looking at Sherlock anymore. If he did, he'd see the look and Sherlock's eyes and he'd lose his resolve.

"Um," Sherlock pauses. Then, he snaps, "Get up."

"No," John yawns as he pushes himself up. Sherlock can see the muscles in his arms contract accordingly, and he holds the space below his armpit so he can feel it ripple against his palm; God, John is magnificent. "I don't wanna, Sherlock."

He snaps, a bit impatiently, "Put on your coat, John, there's a bit of a chill." Sherlock jumps to attention out of their bed, and John can see that he is dressed, head-to-toe, in winter attire.

John sighs languidly out of his nose.

"Haven't you anything else to do?" he grumbles as he rolls out of bed. Then he motions to his dresser. "Pass me things."

"What things?"

"Clothes things. As one would associate with, you know, a dresser."

***

It's brighter than he remembered. The stars contrast so loudly across the night sky, and the moon is cool and angular against their skin. He takes a sigh inward, taking out his lighter and clicking it a few times to ignite a small flame.

So cold, out here.

It's a cold that Sherlock wants to bathe in, a cold that is fresh and clean and lovely, that makes Sherlock want to throw snowballs and kick ice across snow-covered avenues. He wants a cigarette in his hands that he can smoke at, he wants a warmth beside him that lends tiny kisses.

There's a leftover of a campfire, which John tuts quietly at as he steps over and through piles of snowdrifts, and Sherlock shakes his head as he limps through the snow; trips and stumbles over the broken shards of glass that surround Sherlock's alcove.

The carnival isn't on, yet; no one is there, and the wind whistles softly into their ears as they tread down to the secret place that Sherlock holds close to his body. The lights are absent, and they can see an empty, eerily creaky merry-go-round wheeze rustily as it spins in circles from so far away. Foam froths as the sea calmly hits the shore, making a low "shhhh" sound that quiets the pounding of Sherlock's heart.