“It is really just a bother,” Mycroft said.
Lestrade gave him an amused look.
“It snarls up all the traffic. I know Sherlock thinks I like to snarl up traffic, but I really don’t.”
“Do you stop in traffic? Don’t you just glide through it in your sleek black cars? Float above it?”
“The cars aren’t magic, you know.”
Lestrade grinned. “No, really?”
“The point is-” Mycroft tried to insist.
“The point is. It’s very romantic. Snow, that is.”
“In what way?”
“Snarls up the traffic, so we stay home and cuddle.”
“Well. I suppose I could be persuaded.”
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