Characters: Basically everyone: John, Sherlock, Moriarty, Moran, Irene Adler, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, Anderson, Donovan
Word Count: approx. 550
Summary: Thermoception, n. The sense by which an organism perceives temperature. Thirteen little BBC Sherlock vignettes, all based around this theme.
A/N: Another fic from Sherlock Shindig on Tumblr! A bit of an non-traditional format for fic, but one I really enjoyed using. : )
ETA: These ficlets haven't been beta-ed by anyone besides yours truly, so if you catch any errors, as always, feel free to let me know!
Tea, courtesy of John, warms the heart of Sherlock's palms.
Heat from the keyboard of John's overworked laptop. John ought to shut it off, let the machine cool down. But he doesn't. He's only got five more words and then this blog entry will be done. John wonders what Sherlock will think.
Enjoyment might be the wrong word to describe how Molly feels about her job. But surrounded by cooling corpses, by people who have lost their own sources of heat, Molly Hooper feels at home.
Red dresses, red lipstick—she gets the most compliments on those. Men like to imagine Irene is a centre of warmth. She supposes she does provide warmth in the literal, practical sense. Still, she prefers wearing white tops, teal eyeliner. Let them think she's the ice queen.
Moran's surrounded by cold metal, and he prefers it that way. It makes Jim's touch along his skin—even just tapping him on the shoulder—feel like fire and brimstone in comparison.
Only a thin pair of latex gloves to protect Anderson's fingers from the chill of a London winter. How much longer until this bloody case is solved and he can go back to his heated flat, back to Donovan on her knees?
Cool of a microscope, stroking the eyepiece as new scientific epiphanies unfold before Sherlock's eyes.
The empty chill of the gun between Moriarty's lips, the chill and the imminent BANG!
Perhaps if he were normal, if his father had died in a perfectly normal way, Henry Knight wouldn't awake every morning feeling the chill of the moors all over again. It didn't matter how warm he kept his house, how many blankets he spread over his bed. There was nothing for it.
The wedding band around his fingers always warmed perfectly to his body temperature. When Lestrade finally takes it off, the spot doesn't seem warmer or colder. Nothing noticeable, in terms of the temperature. But his hands seem lighter, and it doesn't feel right at all.
Someone spread the icing onto the cake too quickly— it's melting into the warm, spongy surface layer. Mycroft eats it anyway.
Only in the deepest bit of winter does John miss the burning Afghan sun. It’s the same sun, logically, but it doesn’t feel the same. And it’s an odd sort of nostalgia, isn’t it, the way he misses the heat in spite of the bloodshed that always came with it?
Not the first time Mrs. Hudson's burned herself making biscuits. She really doesn't mind, it's just a tiny burn, and her boys—though she's not their housekeeper—will love the nibbles so.