Sherlock advent drabbles :D (I know I'm a little late today. Shhh. I won't mention it if you don't.)
Today's word is: Psychrolute
In hindsight, John should have been more careful. Running full pelt along an icy towpath on the shortest day of the year is never a good idea.
One minute he's with Sherlock, chasing after their suspect; the next his foot slips and suddenly there's cold water rushing and Jesus Christ oh Jesus Christ.
By the time John's pulled himself out of the canal, both Sherlock and their suspect have gone, and John has to lie gasping on the towpath for a few moments before he really remembers where he is.
Luckily, Baker Street isn't too far away. John wanders back in a daze, dripping onto the pavements and freezing freezing cold.
Sherlock's already home when John arrives, sitting in an armchair, coat still on, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"Did you catch him?" asks John.
"No." Sherlock glances at John, then stops and looks again. "This isn't the time of year to be swimming, John."
John almost laughs in disbelief. "Swimming? It's not like I did it on purpose."
Sherlock's brow quirks into a frown. "But you're all wet."
"I fell." John stomps across the room, takes off his coat, and leaves it in a sodden heap on the floor. "I slipped and fell into the canal and you didn't even notice, did you?"
Sherlock shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise, already staring back down at the floor.
"Right," says John. He trudges across the floor, heading for the bathroom. "Thanks for your concern by the way. No, I'm fine.
"Don't," starts Sherlock.
"Don't use your towel. If you're having a shower, that is. It's been..." Sherlock looks up. "Actually, you probably won't want to know." He smiles pleasantly at John. "I have some clean ones; you can borrow one of mine."
"Good. Ok. Good." John grits his teeth and continues on his way.