John stamps most of the snow from his boots off onto the doormat and sheds his hat, scarf, gloves and heavy-duty overcoat reluctantly before dashing upstairs to get a fire going in the flat.

"I looked for milk but Sainsbury's are all out, looks like people've been panic buy…ing… Er. Sherlock?"

Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, still as a statue, fingertips steepled under his chin with an expression of Deep Thought on his face. He's clad in just a shirt and trousers and shows no sign of cold, despite the thermostat showing minus one degrees when John checks it in disbelief.

"Good God," John explodes in a mixture of frustration and concern, "It's below freezing in here! Get some bloody clothes on!"

"Not now, John," His flatmate says in a distant voice, "I'm thinking."

John notices three nicotine patches stuck on Sherlock's left arm. He also notices that Sherlock's fingers are very white. Losing circulation, the idiot, the doctor inside him notes.

"Right, come on."

Sherlock allows himself to be frogmarched into John's bedroom and forcibly clad in what must be every spare jumper John owns, thick walking socks jammed unceremoniously onto his feet and a horrible knitted scarf wrapped around his neck. The only item he takes offence to is the matching bobble hat, swatting it away and snapping that he can't think with all that wool blocking his head up.

John takes Sherlock's cold pale hands and begins to massage them between his own, rubbing them back and forth until a little colour begins to seep back into the fingertips.

And suddenly clarity dawns.

"I've got it!" Sherlock exclaims, snatching his hands back and patting feverishly at his pockets. "Blast, where's my phone gone? Send a text for me." And as John gets out his phone, "Why am I wearing three of your jumpers?"

"Because you- I-" The doctor sighs in resignation. "You looked cold."

"Oh." Sherlock says. "Now, send a text saying these words exactly to the number I'm about to dictate…"

John rolls his eyes privately. The day Sherlock thanks him for something other than saving his life will be the day that John Watson can die a happy man.

I seem to have done this for quite a few of my fics - but I was looking through an old notebook and found some Sherlock fics that I'd written. None of them are complete (well, I suppose you could call this one a very short story) but I quite like them. I'm never going to develop them so I'm just going to upload them into this little 'bits and pieces' fic, similar to what Atlin Merrick has done.

Characters belong to Conan Doyle/BBC Sherlock team, none of them belong to me! (*sob*)