"I'm afraid that the weather didn't get the memo," John muttered as the first of the new snow fell from the sky in more of a shout than a whisper. John watched it swirl with the wind through the tunnel like street of homes and then turned back to Sherlock, honestly looking relieved that he hadn't up and vanished to go running out into the white.

It was ridiculous to say it, but he just wished that Sherlock would think this one through. Being obsessive about his cases tended to do him good, but most cases didn't have him face death as certainly as games with Moriarty.

John wasn't having it.

"What exactly is your plan? Rush out to get kidnapped again? Mighty fine plan, that. Worked quite well last time."