Oneword: Jacket

John rose from his crouching position at the edge of the rooftop, his leg starting to ache a bit from the cold and his general sense of unease. Exhaling a thick fog into the frigid autumn air, he turned again to Sherlock with a sigh.

"Remind me again what we're doing up here?" His body let out a little shiver as the chill seeped into him. They'd already been up there for ten minutes, staring at the intersection below.

Sherlock adjusted his coat as it blew in the tailwind. "We're keeping watch for the murderer. He'll strike next at that inn across the street."

John stifled his protests about how they could have done this just as easily from the warm cafe below them, and instead shoved his hands into the pockets of his meager jacket. He wished he'd had a chance to check the weather report before they'd left, as the temperature seemed to be steadily dropping into the 10s. A sidelong glance at Sherlock, warm in his scarf and Belstaff beauty, (like all things) did not go unnoticed.

"If you're going to complain about being out in the cold," Sherlock muttered, (even though John had voiced no such complaints) "You might as well come here." He reached out and tugged firmly on John's sleeve, who stiffly and reluctantly took a few steps to close the distance between them. Sherlock pulled him in close and wrapped the front of his coat around John, shielding him from the winds and sharing his body heat with the soldier to keep his shoulder wound from getting too stiff.

After a minute or two, John leaned in gently against Sherlock to rest his tired head on the insomniac's shoulder. He had no idea how long it was before Sherlock gently and silently shook him awake, pointing across the street at a burly figure entering the inn.