Authors Note: This is just a pointless one shot. There is no plot or anything. I apologies if you hate it, but it was fun to write. Feedback would be appreciated. Written for the prompt Feathers. Seriously? I know, it's brilliant isn't it. On with the story.

John stood in the doorway staring into his flat in amazement. Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate, was sulking on the couch, still in his pajamas. There was a human skull, a real one, on the mantelpiece. On a table sat a jar of eyeballs with a post-it note stuck to it saying John, this is for an experiment. Do not touch. As strange as these things may seem, for John they were normal. No, what John was staring at were the feathers. White, fluffy feathers covered every surface of the flat. They floated in the air, making the room look as if it were in the middle of a light snow fall. Sherlock had feathers stuck in his hair; it might have been cute if John didn't know that, while Sherlock had made this monumental mess, he, John, was going to have to clean it up.

"Feathers?"

"You have eyes, you can see them."

"Feathers? Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

"Feathers?"

"I believe we've already covered that point, John?"

"But . . . but . . . how, Sherlock, how did you even do this?"

The long suffering doctor was greeted with a pointed silence. Sherlock stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his blogger's eyes. John gave up on extracting answers from the culprit for the moment, and decided to inspect the damage. He took a hesitant step into the flat. Where he stepped he stirred up the feathers on the ground, causing them to fly into the air. Feathers landed on his hair and shoulders. All attempts to brush them off were futile. Looking around, it became apparent that his original assumption was correct; there was no surface untouched by the feathers.

"I was only gone for fifteen minutes!" Still, Sherlock refused to look at him. John let out a sigh of exasperation. Going into the kitchen he discovered that there were feathers there too. He cursed under his breath, how on earth was he going to clean this one up? Suddenly, he was seized by a sneezing attack. He quickly turned back into the main room where the tissue box was, and nearly ran into his flatmate who was standing right inside the room, holding the tissue box out to John. His eyes were filled with guilt as he retreated back to the couch, and John became worried. What had Sherlock done?

"Seriously," John said after cleaning himself up with the tissues, "how did you do this?"

The response he got was almost too quiet to hear, "Feather comforter."

John's froze, "Feather comforter? What feather comforter? Not my feather comforter. My new one, the one I got yesterday! Not that feather comforter!"

"That's the one."

"I don't believe this! Not only have you trashed our flat, but you've ruined my brand new bedspread. That was expensive, Sherlock! We don't all have rich older brothers willing to replace any luxury item our flatmate happens to destroy!"

"John-," Sherlock began, but was cut off as John, once again, was sneezing. "John, I'm sure Mycroft would be more than happy to replace any luxury items I happen to break, but in this instance it is unnecessary seeing as I have already replaced the bedspread in question."

"I- what? In the last fifteen minutes?"

"No, I went out and bought you a new one last night.'

"Why?"

"The feathers, John, you're allergic to them. I was attempting to replace the comforter without you knowing, because I know you wouldn't have liked me telling you that it was you're brand new comforter that was making you sneeze." John didn't know what to say. Sherlock, self proclaimed sociopath, had been trying to do something nice for him. Before he could say anything, however, he was attacked by a bout of sneezing, even more violent than the last one.

Sherlock's face was an image of displeasure. "It's all gone wrong now hasn't it? Now, instead of curing you're allergies I've made them worse." He plopped down on the couch, sending a cloud of feathers to fly up into the air.

"So the feathers part was an accident, was it?"

"I was trying to get a sample of the feathers, so I would know exactly what it was that you were allergic-," he stopped, concerned, as the worst bout of sneezing yet took a hold of John. "John, I think that you should go up to your room, the feathers haven't gotten up there."

"I think," John said when he was able to speak, "You're right."

For once, Sherlock didn't make the usual I'm always right comment, but let John go up to his room in peace. There, he discovered the room exactly as he had left it. If it hadn't been for the feather incident John would have never known that Sherlock had switched the comforter. He wondered if Sherlock did this regularly. If he did selfless things all the time, just sneakily so no one else would know. He lay down to take a nap; it had been a tiring day even without the feathers. When he returned from his room all trace of the feathers had disappeared. Sherlock was reading a book. John decided it was best to act as if nothing had happened. He made tea and went about as he normally would have. He checked his blog, deleting several colorful comments his sister had made. He watched the telly for a while, with Sherlock spoiling the endings of all the shows. It wasn't until he was about to return to his room that he turned to his friend.

"Oh, and Sherlock," Sherlock actually glanced up from his microscope when John spoke, a rare occurrence, "Thank you." He left then, missing the smile that appeared on the detectives lips.