Hi there people who were following this fic! As you've probably noticed, this story is going to stay posted by itself. Refer to my profile page to read the sequel. But in the meantime, here's a 221B drabble for you :D

John stumbled home drunk after a night at the pub to find that all his blankets and bed sheets were missing. The thermostat was turned down to 20 degrees and the window was open. The frigid February air was blowing into the flat.

He walked back downstairs and checked the closet where they usually kept spare blankets, however there were none to be found.

Usually when things went missing, there was only one place to look for them. Sherlock had taken to holding some of John's more colorful jumpers hostage because—he couldn't think while looking at them.

John opened the door without knocking. Sherlock was snuggled angelically under his own blankets, eyes closed, breathing slowly.

No spare blankets in sight. John was too tired to look for them. He stepped across the floor as quietly as possible and grabbed the corner of the duvet. It hadn't slid more than a few centimeters before "sleeping" Sherlock grabbed for it.

Fine. John gave a mental shrug before kicking off his shoes and climbing into bed next to the lanky detective. It wasn't that odd. They'd had to share hotel rooms before. Besides, it was quite warm.

He woke up with a pair of lanky arms wrapped around him. Where was he?

"Good morning, John."

Something hard was pressed against his back.