The snow did make the streets bright, did capture the oddly coloured city sky of never-black and cast a glow around them. There was never complete darkness in snow.

John made sure to shut the door behind him to keep the heat in and huffed annoyance visibly into the air before he tried to follow Sherlock miserably and half fell into the snow. Soho was quite the walk from Baker Street and John tried to object instead. Couldn't they wanted up to Reagant Park? Surely there would be some nere do wells making a probably somewhere in the seclusion a of the park?

His words fell immediately on deaf ears, probably too far ahead now to pay attention to what it was John was spouting anyway. Everything to his shins felt frozen but he trucked along as best he could, pumping elbows while keeping his hands in his pockets.

At least Sherlock did slow over the corner. The burms were higher here from earlier traffic. A taxi slowly drifted down the street to avoid being stuck but the snow itself would be too much for it at the next light, with the grade of the hill increasing.

"There really might be a murder in soho," John complained. He'd murder Sherlock there!