I do not own Sherlock.

Warnings: Not an English speaker, any mistake is mine and I apologize beforehand for them.

It wasn't Sarah's fault and the fact he had been working for more than ten hours non stop, no. It wasn't the new cashier's fault at Tesco for not accepting his credit card, no. It wasn't the fact that his favourite football team had lost, no. John Watson wasn't angry because of all those events, no. John Watson was angry because his blue duvet, his favourite blue duvet had disappeared.

And how on Earth a duvet can possibly disappear from his bed, from his room and more likely, from Baker Street?

Because after looking, searching, seeking and exploring 221A (Mrs Hudson's), 221B (his own flat) and 221C (the not habited room) John couldn't find his favourite blue duvet. The one who used to keep him warm and protected on winter nights and some lazy days.

The duvet was nowhere to be seen. And for some reason, John Watson knew his flatmate have had something to do with it.

"I haven't seen it"

"I'm not asking you if you have seen it, Sherlock. I'm asking you what have you done with it! It is my favourite duvet, you knew it!"

Far from worried, his flatmate, a six foot tall 'Consulting Detective I invented the job' named Sherlock Holmes, didn't show any concern to say the least about the missing duvet. And the situation was getting John's nerves.

"I'm telling you I haven't seen it, therefore I haven't done anything to your precious and beloved blue duvet"

"And what I'm supposed to use tonight, huh? We are on fucking winter and it's fucking cold!"

"Have you asked Mrs Hudson? I'm sure she has one or two she can lend you. Though I'm sure they are pink or lavender or yellow judging by-"

"Yes, I asked her. She doesn't have a spare one"

"Go and buy one"

John sighed and placed his hands under his tired legs. He really wanted to punch that man in the face. Really. For someone so clever, Sherlock could be such a fool sometimes.

Sherlock was reading a very fat book, sitting in his usual black armchair and John was fighting the impulse of hitting his head with his Union Jack pillow.

"You don't know the date, do you? I'm not getting paid for at least three more weeks"

And this is what John can't really erase from his memory.

"Sleep with me"

"What?"

"Oh, I forgot I was talking to you. I meant that you can sleep with me, in my bed. I'd lend you my own duvet, but I have to sleep and it's cold-"

"And since when do you sleep at nights?"

"John, you're a Doctor, you keep telling me I need to eat four to six time per day and sleep eight hours at night. Do keep up"

"I'm not going to share the same bed with you, Sherlock"

"Why? I'm not the type who, how's the word?"

"What word?"

"That word you use when your sexual partners glue their bodies to yours"

"Cuddle?"

"Ah yes, cuddle. I'm not that type. Well, I have to do some search on that since I always sleep alone-"

"I'm not going to be part of your experiments!"

"It's not an experiment"

"What is it then?"

"I'm simply offering you the other side of my bed until you get yourself a duvet. I think the term will be labeled under what you usually call 'that's what friends do', am I right? What am I saying, of course I'm right"

John closed his blue eyes. It was getting late, he needed to sleep, it was a cold night, he was feeling cold, and at the top of that, he still wanted to punch Sherlock on the face. He was his good friend, of course. But sometimes, he had that feeling that the detective was enjoying these situations.

Situations in which:

One. John depends on Sherlock for the most stupidest things in life such as 'Don't use all the hot water', 'I need you to pay the gas bill', 'Sherlock, I can't reach the top drawer'.

Two. John has to admit Sherlock is always right about his sexual frustrations, such as 'She wanted you to dress like a fireman', 'She was too young and stupid to keep a proper conversation', 'John, you though she was divorced' and so on.

Three. John never, never can't hide something from Sherlock, such as 'You have messed my socks index!'

To put it in a few words, Sherlock always enjoyed when John needed him, in any direct or indirect way. And that cold night wasn't different, no.

And when Sherlock decided it was time to get some rest, both men were together facing the king-sized bed, staring at it with their grey and blue eyes.

"Well, which side do you prefer, John?"

AN: Can't keep my hands away from a new story, can I? Feel free to suggest anything you'd like to read here. I don't really know yet where I'm taking this. Should I continue?