Disclaimer: I don't own

Author's Note: Just a fic I wrote for my new fandom. For those of you who read Night to Forget, there's a new chapter that will be posted as soon as my beta and I finish our exams. So two weeks or so...

John is laughing at something Sherlock said as they enter 221B Baker St. Sherlock is hiding a smile and they're both content, after all the killer taxi driver is dead and Sherlock proved himself to be smarter. And he guessed all the fortune cookies.

'Sherlock? That you?' Mrs Hudson's voice catch them both as they start up the stairs.

'Yes, Mrs Hudson.' Sherlock turns to look at her as she pokes her head out of her flat.

'You tell your detective friend that if he wants to keep coming when you aren't here he needs to ask you for a key. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper. I won't keep letting him in.'

'What detective friend?' John asks.

'Lestrade.' Sherlock answers as he bounds up the stairs. John quickly follows.

When John reaches the room he sees Sherlock standing in the middle of the room examining the sofa.

Or more likely, examining the bright orange blanket folded neatly on the sofa, white note atop it contrasting nicely.

'Isn't that…' John starts.

'Yes, it's the blanket I had earlier. The one I put into Lestrade's car.'

'Why would he give it back to you?'

'To prove a point. Or more likely, as an excuse to give you a message.'

'Me? What message?'

Instead of answering Sherlock just hands the note to John. Bemused, he reads it.

Sherlock,

Just thought you might want this. For the next time you're (not) in shock. So you have a blanket. And so we can get photos. We missed out this time.

DI Lestrade

P.S Good luck with him, Dr Watson. By the way, I know in all the years I've known Sherlock he's never hidden drugs in his safe on the table. If there's anything you don't wish the police to see next time we're there, put it in there. Like certain souvenirs from your military service.

P.P.S Sherlock, I'm not as dumb as you think.

'He knows?' John asked, panic in his eyes.

'He suspects.' Sherlock double checked the note. And huffed, muttering under his breath about detectives and blankets he headed for the kitchen.

'What are you doing?'

'Seeing how long this takes to burn using the stove.'

Eyes wide John put the note down and went to rescue the blanket (and their flat).