I was at home, comfortably seated in my armchair with a good book and a hot cocoa.

Sherlock is outdoors – somewhere. Prosecutes – someone. Sure I could go with him but I'm not interested. In addition it's half of February, hellish winter, and right now I don't feel like I want to see any London snow. But the thing I do want is cocoa.

I eagerly seized the cup and just when I was about to take a draught, the front door swung open. Holmes stood there – all snowy.

"John!" He cried enthusiastically. "I got it!"

"Yes?" I said absently since I was interested in some gripping passage in the book. "Who was it the?" I added because in his voice was some of a child exhilaration that no one likes to spoil.

"His sister."

"Oh. And what helped you to this exposure?"

Holmes – evidently pleased with question which focused on his powers of deduction skills – triumphantly replied: "A knitted glow."

I smiled and looked up. (...) "Sherlock!" I cried, horrified at the sight of my flatmate, "you've got completely purple lips! And you're trembling like a miniature pincher..." I stood up, walked over to him and brushed the snow from his hair, "Go to the bed. I'll make some tea for you."

Detective surprisingly did not protest and humbly walked into his bedroom.

"And take something warm to wear..." I called out to him from kitchen.

/Bedroom/

"Here," said I and handed the cup to Holmes, "your tea, Detective."

Sherlock pulled his hand from under the duvet; I stayed motionlessly stare at it.

"Eh – when I said," I began stiffly, "that you should put something warm on... I definitely didn't mean one of my sweatshirts!"

"But I do have nothing of that kind," he muttered grumpily.

I raised my eyebrow in disbelief "That's not possible..." and opened Sherlock's wardrobe. Carefully I examined all the shelves – one piece of clothes by one. Even stood on tiptoes to see the highest shelf... Really; I've found nothing. Not a single sign of knitting or anything warmth, just the same old shirts. Also one burner, two packs of cigarettes and a small paper bag of dried locusts.

"Okay," I admitted, "you can keep it – for now."

I went back to the bed and gently placed my hand on his forehead; "You're running a temperature but the sweater should fix it." I pronounced the diagnosis and before I left I added: "I'll come to check you after a while."

"Thank you, Doctor." He said gratefully and pulled the blanket over his head.

. . .

About half an hour passed. I read a chapter, drank coco, and was ready to go to look at the patient.

"Well? How are you doing?" I asked sloppily, assuming that I will hear a positive reply.

But I got only a fleeting tremble of the duvet. I went to bed and pulled back the corner of the blanket to see Holmes' face and made sure that he is still alive. He had a very unhealthy colour and was all in a quiver.

"No way. Take that sweater off."

My flatmate did not object again and slowly, clumsily with shaking fingers he began to undress.

At that moment – at the sight of him – I realized the absurdity and sheer unprofessionalism of my request. "Hold on," I said guiltily "I'll help you..."

"Well, the sweater is off. Now the shirt."

With this sentence the detective put up a slight resistance: "I thought," he said quietly for his today's outdoor events had an impact on the vocal cords, "that I should stay warm. How this is a medical procedure, John?"

"Yes you should, and you're going to," I replied and took off my t-shirt.

"I don't understand," he said aloofly.

"Well," I sighed, fully aware of what impression will my following words give: "I'm gonna lie next to you."

"Okay."

Simplicity and conservative tone of his response made me a little uneasy. I was not sure if he's trying to make a allusion, anyway, my answer was response to this possibility (because it didn't seem to me that the world "okay" uttered this way might indicated something else): "B-but do not take this as a... um... something like –"

"Like what?" Holmes suddenly interrupted my thoughts, "That's an absolutely correct procedure, John. Human warmth is the best if we need to warm up quickly to prevent disease from hypothermia."

"Well –" I started with the intention of clarifying the option of Sherlock's hint, but then it dawned on me, "of course!" he, Sherlock Holmes – virgin, he can't perceive it differently, so I nodded calmly: "Sure," pleased by the fact that I don't have to look for an excuse because of my upcoming action.

"Move a bit," I sat down on the bed, "so I can lie there."

Sherlock rolled over on his side. I got under the duvet and pressed my chest against his back.

"Damn – you're like an icicle," I said and embraced his icy waist.

"I strongly doubt it," Sherlock protested vigorously – excessively to his condition. "I don't think," he continued after a little pause to catch his breath (he was not really well but after all, it will not discourage him from lecturing), "that I am now in a phase of change from liquid state – water, although this fluid fills my body around 80 percent, to solid state – ice."

"It's just a phrase, Sherlock."

"Oh," he passed in surprise with that child expression of sudden awareness in his eyes (I could see his inner – completely mechanic – world collapsing), "I see."

We lay this way for about ten minutes when I felt cold fingers on my wrist.

"John," said Holmes' quite voice, "I... I feel better now."

"Good. Should I stop our..." I was glad that he was no longer shaking so I quipped; "totally heterosexual activity?" yet somehow hoped that we stay in this position a little bit longer.

"No..." he breathed out into the pillow and drew my hand tightly around his waist.

"We could send a photo to Mycroft," he added with a smirk which not only confirmed the constant need of mocking with his brother, but also was an evidence of improvement of Sherlock's state. I smiled, firstable for imagining the elder Holmes' facial expression if he would see such a photograph of me and his beloved brother, and secondable just for myself – great.

After eight minutes later the temperature of our bodies was perfectly balanced, so I could go. But that warmth made me feel really good and I didn't want to give it up. Contentedly I rested my forehead on Holmes' shoulder and listened to the slow rhythm of his breath – he fell asleep. And I joined him after a while...

/Morning/

When I woke up Sherlock's place on the bed was empty.

"Hm," I thought, "running somewhere again – stupid. This way he develops pneumonia. But Sherlock is Sherlock and he won't be stopped by such a puny trifle like death. I will not take care of him!"

I was halfway out of the bathroom when a voice came from the kitchen: "John, how long it will take? I've surpassed myself and made you a breakfast – yes you can hear well – toast with Rubus Chamaemorus."

Surprised, I stopped; I didn't notice that he is at home.

"That's some kind of poison?" I asked, anticipating another of detective's incredible experiments.

"I doubt," he started with his schoolmaster tone, "that the cloudberry is poisonous. Well, only if it's not the real reason why you've got a jam made of it in our fridge... Admit it, doctor, do you store arsenic in your jam jars?"

"Certainly not," said I and walked into the kitchen.

"Ubi virus, ibi virtus," greeted me my flatmate in sweater which I gave him yesterday, now considerably stretched, wielding a tray with one plate witch toasts and two cups of tea.

"Where is a poison, there is a virtue... You will not eat?"

"Oh, no John. After yesterday my stomach doesn't feel to receive visitors... but I'll have the tea."

"Hm," I sighted. "Your eating habits, Sherlock, frankly scares me – and not just as a doctor. You shouldn't go to extremes; to deny a meal just because you don't know how a black blob on the wall of a boarding school in I-do-not-know-where relates to a capital e on a stub of twenty years old letter is not good for you." I finished, took one toast of the plate and bit into it; "See," I swallowed, "it's not that hard."

The detective smiled a little and sipped from his cup.

/Living-room/

The bell rang; two short and one long ring.

"Mycroft," said Holmes (sitting in the chair opposite to me with his knees under his chin) dispassionately without any signs of movement suggesting that he'll maybe open the door.

These toasts were today's apparently maximal expression of his gratitude for the fact that I haven't let him freeze to death last night. I shrugged my shoulders, got up from my chair and walked to the door.

"Morning, Doctor Watson," said a tall man in an expensive suit.

"Morning."

"Is my brother at home?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, you are afraid completely unwarrantedly," he smiled. "I'm here just to give him a short message. Too... personal to be communicated only via texts which my brother so incomprehensibly indulges. His writing skills – as opposed to spoken word, even if what he says is not always what we want to hear – aren't exactly a source of enjoyment. But it must be recognized that he always expresses precisely –" older Holmes made a small pause (well, thank god Mycroft is above being dramatic), "everything. (...) So, can I come in?"

"Sure," I nodded and motioned to him to enter.

/Living-room/

Mycroft was taken aback for a moment when he saw his "little" brother in my sweater. Did not comment it on in any verbal way, merely raised his left eyebrow with a conspiratorial pout and tilted his head.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked curtly.

"I came to tell you: Caesar is dead," replied his brother coldly.

"It is very outdate and well-known information," Sherlock countered the same tone.

Elder Holmes rolled his eyes: "Your Caesar, Sherlock."

Detective cocked his head in sudden interest, however, saying: "It was time to."

"Well –" Mycroft sighed and straightened his cufflink in the left sleeve, "I've come to ask you about the funeral. Thought you'd be interested in the settlement of this matter. After all, you have been planning it since you two have met."

"Hm..."

I was totally confused by the theme and the style of conversation – mostly as Sherlock is concerned. How can you be planning someone's funeral since your first meeting and now suddenly not have interest? But what am I even talking about?! This whole idea is completely weird! (...) So I asked: "Sorry, who... who is Caesar?"

"A parrot, John. Ara ararauna."

"Oh. Yeah. It makes sense to me now... So, your pirate companion?"

Sherlock, who always likes corrects my remarks or propositions or anything I said, disapprovingly opened his mouth, then banned he realized that my question as also absolutely correct answer to itself, and said only: "Yes."

"He forced that poor animal recite the entire periodic table of physical elements," Remarks detective's brother ironically.

"Taught."

"Of course."

Undisguised sarcasm in Mycroft's tone amused me, and I'd love to listen the rest of that talk between the two of them but I promised Sarah that I will help her move some wardrobe today.

"I hope," said I, "that you'll excuse me, gentlemen. My presence here is not necessary anyway..."

"The wardrobe?" Asked Sherlock when I was putting my jacket on.

"Uh huh."

"Okay. Come back for dinner – we go out."

"Out?"

"What I mean is I'm taking you to restaurant. As a thank you."

"Aren't you exaggerating it a bit? You thanked me after all – toasts. And now a dinner? Some food obsession? Or experiment: after how many of my thanks John puts on five pounds?"

"You've been saying that I don't eat enough," he abruptly raised his voice. Then he leaned his chin on his knees, offended, and added: "So you should be glad."

"Okay, okay," I shuttered out and give a uncomprehending look to older Holmes, searching for some explanation for the sudden change in his brother's behaviour in his eyes, but they said me nothing – he was looking at me quite as confused as I was looking at him, just with more grace. He was probably used to this Sherlock's manners better than I, but it doesn't mean he had a clarification.

"I'll be back at six," said I and walked out the door.

"So," Mycroft Holmes began a conversation which – as it was very, very clear to him – will be short and incomplete by the side of his brother, "why are you wearing your flatmate's sweater?"

"He gave it to me. After he founded out that I don't have anything warm to wear in my closet."

"Yes, that is true," said the older brother, but he still refused to give up his plane: get some information from Sherlock or at least make him let slip about the current state of his relationship with John.

Elder Holmes also had some of his brother's skills – as deduction is concerned – but he didn't use them so often, and when he did, he did it reluctantly. Nevertheless, today, here at Baker Street, in a flat of doctor and consulting detective, would even utter Anderson/thickhead noticed that something happened. Something – unusual. "And what were the toasts for?" he asked (with intent that I've mentioned).

"For the provision of body heat."

He was not expecting a stunner like this. This can't even count as a hint, can it?! Oh – but no. No. Do not forget that his brother doesn't practice sexual activity (well, so far as Mycroft knows) but right now it is not so certain.

On the face of older Holmes many expressions have taken turns, but eventually he chose the typical stiff features. "May I ask," he said with a direct view at his brother, full of expectations of what will be the answer, "in what context exactly doctor Watson was providing you the body heat?"

"In the bed," said the younger brother unimpressed.

Mycroft nearly choked on tea. Really bad idea: drink when waiting a response that – according to you – could be very delicate (apparently, Sherlock's brother wasn't even hoping for that).

"I was hypothermic," said the detective to completely clarify the context.

"Uh-" coughed elder Holmes, "I see. So... um... well, any progress?"

"I wouldn't say that," said Sherlock, "today we're going to dinner."
"Yes, but he takes it just as a thanks – do not forget on that, my brother."

"I have some plan, in a way."

Mycroft significantly raised an eyebrow: "Okay then. I will be very... pleased if you let me know about the results."

Younger Holmes nodded.

"Now please excuse me, I must go."

"Sure. But please: you know what you shouldn't do and when, don't you?"

"Hm – no wars or international conflicts when the two of you are out," said the man who occupies a minor position in the British Government. He walked to the front door of the apartment and with the intent to leave gripped the handle.

"And as for Caesar," call the detective (never leaving his armchair) after his brother, "burn him."

"Nothing more?" wondered the elder and walked back into the room. "Nothing like: the full moon, midnight, and with a salvo of cannon?"

Sherlock gave him a chilling look from under his frowning eyebrows; "Get me three tail feathers."

"...And I was beginning to worry that everything will be normal," sneered Mycroft, "See you soon."

"Goodbye!"