Your childish laughter rings out startlingly loudly in the still December air as the streetlights lazily blink on to assist the Christmas lights that are strung from nearly everything. Once you notice how the sound cuts through the cold it dies off, possibly to reestablish the tranquility of a winter night, but more likely because the frigid air robbed you of your breath. Moments before, you had turned away the spectacle that had you in such a fit in the first place, but now you turn back, a grin so wide it cracks your lips - making them bleed a bit - spreading across your face. Your best friend still stands there, snow dripping from his dark curls and onto his sharp face, frowning not quite angrily. More in thought.
"Why did you do that?" Sherlock Holmes finally asks, wiping his face dry with his sleeve.
"It's called 'initiating a snowball fight', stupid," you tease, eyes sparkling happily.
He looks at you another long moment. "Stupid?"
"Yes! This is supposed to be fun!"
"And how, pray tell, is throwing balls of frozen water at each other in uncomfortably cold weather supposed to be fun?"
"Oh, I dunno… I think you'll have to try it and see…"
He smirks. "I'm not sure you can handle it, [y/n]."
"I suppose we won't know until you catch me," you taunt. And with that, you take off at a sprint. His footsteps start thmp-thmping after you, muted by the snow covered sidewalk. He's not running as fast as possible though, and you had a head start, so distance remains between you. You race down brightly lit streets and are growing tired by the time you reach the end of the row of cheerily decorated shops.
That's when Sherlock speeds up, wrapping his arms around you, digging his heels in to stop - but under the snow, they're greeted with slippery ice. You let out a yelp as gravity takes hold of you and starts dragging you down, but swiftly he twists his body around, saving you from hitting the ground and being smushed by his weight. You expect him to be cross and wait for him to tell you to get off, but you're instead left with [e/c] eyes widening when you feel his belly shaking against your back. Short barks of laughter come from his mouth, and you flip over over onto your stomach, jaw slack.
"Sherlock Holmes, are you laughing?"
"Why, I believe I am," he answers once he's done, mocking your sarcastic tone. You're about to finally roll off of the man, but as you go to do so, his arm once again curls around your waist, holding you in place. Curious, you lower your chest back down as well, your face inches from his.
"Sher, what're you doing?" You mumble, heart rate picking up as you study his multicolored blue eyes - you never noticed how much green and yellow they were speckled with, being as short compared to him as you are.
"I think you know what I'm doing…" he whispers back, the stillness once again returning. You flush deep red when he adjusts his hips slightly, and hesitantly lean forward - just a hair - but before he moves, something cold and wet explodes over your face and you let out a shout as Sherlock rolls you onto your back and jumps to his feet. You wipe the snow off of your face to be greeted by the sight of him slowly backing up, sneering playfully - playfully, Sherlock being playful!
"You were right, [y/n], it is fun."
You roll your eyes, grumbling, "You arse… alright, you got me. Now help me up." You reach up a hand and he pulls you to your feet. After you've brushed all snow off of yourself and are well on your way back home to 221B, side by side, you can't help but wish that hadn't just been a trick. You're hardly embarrassed that he knows you bought it though… the sociopathic genius detective has probably known your feelings for a while now. Besides, his hand is still wrapped around yours - what more could you ask for?