A/N: This is an old story, edited to make it suck less.

It was a cold winter's night, and John and Sherlock were sitting in their living room, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain hitting the window outside. John shivered and moved closer to the roaring fire, pulling his jersey tighter around himself. Sherlock looked at John over the top of the newspaper he was reading. "I need your bedroom for about a week."

John turned around and stared at Sherlock, confused. "Why on earth would you want my room? Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"You room is higher up than mine is. I need it for an experiment. And you can use my room."

John shook his head. "No. I like my room, thank you."

"Mine is warmer; it's closer to the fireplace. And we can tell Sarah that we've switched."

John looked down guiltily. "I thought…"

"That I didn't notice she'd been sneaking into your room the past few nights?" Sherlock smirked. "Please John, give me some credit."

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Okay then, why not?"

Sherlock nodded and went back to his paper.

o0o0o

Two nights later, John stumbled into the flat much later than usual. He threw his coat onto the sofa, and hummed a tune to himself as he went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. The drink – or rather drinks - with Greg had lifted his spirits, and he felt on top of the world, as an intoxicated person is prone to do. He knew he would have a headache in the morning, but that didn't matter now, because he was dancing, spinning around and sipping his tea. He considered putting jam in his tea to sweeten it, but decided against it. He wasn't quite that drunk, thank you very much.

John carefully made his way to Sherlock's room, bumping into the couch and knocking the skull onto the floor on his way. Inside the room, he slipped off his shoes and put his pyjamas on, then went to get into bed. He saw a shape huddled under his duvet, and smiled to himself. Ah, Sarah must have come, then fallen asleep. He had forgotten to tell her that he was going out.

He carefully slid under the covers, then put his arm around the woman in the bed beside him. She moved sleepily and murmured, and he moved to kiss her neck under her dark hair – wait. Sarah didn't have dark hair!

He sat upright and turned on the light, to find the woman lying next to him in the bed. She shrieked and gathered the covers around herself, backing up to the pillow and staring at him. "What are you doing here? Where's Sherlock?" she demanded.

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?" he yelled back at her. "You're supposed to be dead!"

"And you're supposed to be upstairs!" she retorted.

"I think mine was better," John told her.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Sherlock was masquerading as the executor, he rescued me, I visit him sometimes as…as a thank you. Now, what are you doing here? Don't tell me you've finally become a couple."

John reddened. "We haven't. Sherlock wanted my room for a week, for some experiment." He frowned. "You don't think – you don't think he set this up, do you? Us surprising each other like this?"

Irene shrugged. "It would appeal to his sense of humour, I think. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll leave." She got up, pulling the duvet around herself, and stalked out of the room. John sat on his bare bed and shook his head in amazement. I must be drunk, he decided, and lay down on the mattress and went to sleep.

o0o0o

Upstairs, Sherlock sat in the bed, listening to the shrieking going on below . He smiled and lay back, pleased that his trick had worked.