"SHERLOCK!"
John stomped down the stairs from his bedroom, winding up in the living room. He stood there a moment, breathing loudly and angrily, glaring at his infuriating detective friend-who, just as he had suspected, was on the sofa, wrapped in not only his coat but every single blanket in the flat, including John's duvet and sheets.
"Yes?" he asked, looking up at the doctor innocently, as if he had not once again done something to get on his friend's nerves.
"Give me back my blankets!" John demanded, stomping towards him. The detective only flopped down, covering up the edges so John would have a harder time pulling them off.
"No; I'm cold."
"Wha-?! And you don't think I am too? Quit being selfish!" The central heating was being ineffective again, especially because the windows still had not been repaired from that explosion last week.
"I'm a high-functioning sociopath, it's part of my programming to be selfish," Sherlock muttered, his voice slightly muffled in the sofa cushions.
"You could just stay in your room where it's warm, instead of being out here and hogging all my things."
There was no answer to that; just a humming sound as Sherlock began to ignore him.
John stood there silently, fuming, for several seconds. Finally he asked, "Please?"
Sherlock only shook his head stubbornly, reminding John even more than usual of a petulant child, and pulled the blankets tighter around himself.
Right.
"Fine. You know what? Fine." He turned and stomped away into the kitchen, acting as though he'd given up trying to get warm again. He waited there for ten seconds, waiting until Sherlock finally sat up. Then he stomped into the living room, plunked himself down on the couch, and before the detective could speak, grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, and pulled him against his chest.
"John!" Sherlock squawked, "What-"
"You wouldn't give me a blanket, so you get to be a human blanket. It's your choice."
At that, John expected his friend to leap away in terror of physical contact, hopefully giving up one of his blankets in the process. Victory would be his. Instead, after a few thoughtful moments of contemplation, Sherlock sort of burrowed his way into John's shoulder, and murmured, "This is actually a much better way to ensure we both stay warm. Brilliant solution, thank you, John."
The doctor glared down at the top of his friend's head. "I hate you."
"No, you don't," Sherlock yawned. "If you did, you wouldn't have stuck around this long. You'd move out, go live with Anderson or something."
"Maybe I just started hating you. Or I'm secretly planning to kill you, to ensure that nobody else has to endure the torture of your existence, and am trying to figure out the best way to do it. Or-"
John's sarcasm was interrupted by a soft, breathy snore. Somehow, probably due to being so much warmer, Sherlock had fallen asleep in John's arms.
If Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft, or anyone else in the world saw this, John would never hear the end of it. He considered trying to get up, or unwind a blanket now that he had the chance. But it really was much warmer than if he'd been wrapped in a blanket by himself, and frankly, Sherlock slept so rarely that it seemed a shame to risk waking him now.
Ah, forget it. John nestled further against the sofa cushions, leaning his head back, moved the arm under Sherlock to a more comfortable position so it (hopefully) wouldn't fall asleep, and soon joined the detective's snores with an accompaniment.