In this one, my John (TYRider) and I had to work together at the end. I think the result is rather good collaborating ^_^ As always, check out TYRider's companion piece by the same name!

All rights to BBC and whoever, yadda yadda.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the practically-destroyed flat and texted his blogger. He had spent an hour tossing the place over with no luck, and he was irritated now.

John, what have you done with my coat? - SH

The answer only served to make him more annoyed (somehow).

Hmm? Your coat? Nothing. Why do you ask? ~JW

Sherlock growled and sent another text message.

Because it's missing, and no one but you touches my things, now what have you done with it? - SH

He flopped onto the couch to wait, noting with frustration that his dressing gown didn't quite swish in the right way.

What makes you think I would touch your precious coat? ~JW

"Who else would touch it?" Sherlock asked the empty flat. He fired off another message, and the answer had an undertone of infuriating giggling. "Who laughs through a text?"

The fact that it isn't where I left it. - SH

Still don't see where I fit into this. Have you asked Mrs. H? ~JW

Sherlock snarled. "I thought I was supposed to be the astoundingly ignorant one," he snapped at the air.

Mrs. H hasn't touched by clothes since she found the Intravenous blood bag in my pocket. Where is it? - SH

Mrs. Hudson did overreact quite often. It wasn't as if the bag had opened or anything. And he wasn't just carrying it around for fun; it was part of a case.

Is that why she won't go near the laundry? She probably thinks you're a vampire. ... Are you? ~JW

"This is not a game, John!" Sherlock yelled. He paused, reminding himself that no one could hear him in the empty flat, and sent another message.

I'm not a sodding vampire. Where. Is. My. Coat? - SH

He was getting even angrier now. What was the phrase? Seeing red.

Language, Lock. You're coat? Well, it's not in the flat if that's what you were wondering. ~JW

"Ah, so you admit it!" Now it was starting to feel like a case, though it was still too personal to be really enjoyable. He laced his next message with a fatal amount of sarcasm.

Give it back, my dear Watson, or you will regret it. - SH

Sherlock smirked, thinking up very creative ways to make sure John did "regret it."

Ha. You wish. I was in the Army, remember? I killed people. Not much you could do to make me regret. Besides, I haven't got your bloody coat. ~JW

And now he was denying it? That didn't make any sense. Lock's anger was starting to drain away as he became more curious.

Then where is it? - SH

Not in the flat. Losing the deductive touch, eh, Sherlock? ~JW

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I've told you a thousand times…"

Not enough data, John. I can't make bricks without clay. - SH

He had a bit of smug satisfaction over that text. "Who's ignorant now?" But then the next reply came, and he remembered that John had hidden his coat and that this was personal and annoying.

Fine. I'll throw you a bone. It's in London. ~JW

Oh, that makes it so much easier. Are you going to make me guess? - SH

If sarcasm was chocolate, the doctor would have been dead at this point. As it was, he was just more annoying.

You can if you want or you could just wait for me to explain later like a normal person. No, actually, scratch that. Guess. ~JW

Oh. Blast! He hadn't actually been offering; didn't John know that? Sherlock Holmes never guessed. He had said as much on several occasions. Just tell me. - SH

Sorry, I can't do that. Well, I could, but I wont. Where's the fun in that? It'd ruin the surprise, don't you think? So, yeah, basically guess or do without. ~JW

"Do without my coat?!" Sherlock demanded of the empty space. "Why don't you do without your laptop or your gun?" A terrible thought struck him suddenly and, with it, a very nice insult.

You're not wearing it, are you? It's not meant for someone your... size. - SH

He smirked when he wrote it, knowing how touchy John could be about his stature.

You sure you want to be insulting the man holding your precious coat hostage? Just remember: I have a gun and a box of matches and a full bladder... anything could happen. ~JW

Sherlock's eyes grew wide. "You wouldn't dare!" he yelled, then looked at his skull the mantle. "He wouldn't dare!"

Don't be childish, John! That coat is very expensive. It also has... sentimental value. - SH

It does not you filthy liar. You bought yourself that coat with Mycroft's card. ~JW

"He didn't buy it," Sherlock stated, annoyed. It had been a long-shot, more a test of John's memory than anything. "Oh, but here's an idea." He sent another text, smirking at the ingenuity of it, then backed it up with another for good measure.

Fine. Just give it back or I'll cut snowflake patterns into all your sweaters. - SH

All of them, John. - SH

John's reply came quickly.

You wouldn't dare. ~JW

Every last one. - SH

Sherlock grinned and went to find himself a pair of scissors… just in case. When he got back to the couch, he had two messages waiting.

You would, wouldn't you? You know, you can be an awful git sometimes. I'll explain when I get home. ~JW

Don't touch the jumpers before I get home or I swear I will move out. ~JW

He fell onto the couch again, pleased with himself.

Bring my coat, and your jumpers will remain unharmed. - SH

The coat and I will be home in thirty minutes. ~JW

Sherlock smiled and settled down into his couch to wait.

Half an hour later, John trudged up the creaking stairs to the flat. Sherlock didn't move from his couch, listening as the good doctor dropped the groceries in the kitchen and marched into the living room.

"Here," John said harshly, tossing something onto Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock opened his mouth, set to tell John off, before realizing what was in the bag. "What-? Oh." He stopped as his brain raced ahead, filling in the blanks. "You had it cleaned. Why?"

John smiled, looking at Sherlock with a peculiar expression on his haggard face. "Cleaned and repaired, yeah. I noticed it was getting pretty raggedy after the last couple of weeks," he answered, a thoughtful look in his eyes. He didn't say why.

Sherlock frowned and pulled the coat from the bag, sitting up to study it better. It looked perfect, like it was brand new again. "You didn't answer the question," he said, suddenly unsure whether to feel guilty, annoyed, or happy that his coat was clean and repaired. "Why?"

John shifted under the detective's gaze before making eye contact. He held up his hands briefly as if reaching for the words before dropping them back to his sides and shrugging. "Because we're friends." He smiled.

Oh... Sherlock hesitated and then smiled slightly. "Then... thank you, John," he said haltingly. "That was... very kind... of you." He paused again, thinking quickly. "I'll make you some tea!" Friends do thinks like that, right?

John's smile grew wider. Then he frowned and followed Sherlock to the kitchen. "Thanks, that's really lovely of you and all, but…" he paused, seeming to struggle for the right words. "I think I'd better make the tea." He smiled again, and Lock knew what he was thinking. "You're rubbish at it. Why don't you grab the biscuits from the cupboard and turn on Doctor Who?"

Well, he is right, Sherlock thought as he did what he was told. I really better let him make the tea from now on.