Summary: The radiator of 221B is broken in the dead of winter. Body heat must be shared. (Johnlock)

"Jesus, it's cold in here," John said as he climbed the stairs to his flat one evening. Well, their flat. The one he had been sharing with the world's only consulting detective for a little over a month now. And also the one he had hoped would be warm, a sharp contrast from the icy street outside.

He shouted for said detective as he took his shoes off.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" The other man said from the kitchen, eyes glued to a microscope.

"Care to tell me why it's so bloody freezing?"

"Well, John, the last time I checked, it was the middle of winter—

"Oh, for god's sake." John muttered as made his way over to the radiator. What he saw made him stop cold, pun intended.

One of Sherlock's experiments was placed precariously atop the machine, well, what was left of it at least. John looked down the barrel of the empty beaker that sat innocently on the only heating device in the flat aside from the fireplace which hadn't been used in months and lacked a certain amount of firewood needed to run such a contraption. A gaping hole occupied the bottom of the glass.

The doctor carefully picked up the experiment, revealing that the hole continued down, through the radiator.

That would explain the chilly atmosphere.

"Erm, Sherlock?" John said again.

"Yes?"

"Are you aware that one of your experiments has burned a massive whole through our radiator?" He said calmly.

"Really? Oh, good! That narrows my ideas for the case down to about six!" The tall man sprang up from his seat and bounded over to where John was standing.

"You… what? You did this on purpose?" The shorter man crossed his arms.

"As you may recall, the oven is still broken and at the time I was using the microwave to determine if there was any difference in the time it takes for human and primate eyeballs to explode, there isn't, if you were wondering, and I needed another heat source to test a corrosive material that may or may not have been used in the murder case I am now on the brink of solving. Happy now?" Sherlock ended his rant with a twirl of his blue dressing gown as he picked up the now useless beaker and went back to his microscope.

John sighed. "Fine, I'm going to take a hot shower." He walked up to his bathroom, eager to feel the warmth of the water.

After shedding his clothes and getting into the shower, turning it all the way up, John had a shocking realization. Where would he sleep tonight?

The doctor absolutely hated sleeping cold, which was why his overhead fan was beginning to gather dust, and he knew that just a few extra blankets would not be enough to keep him warm. Plus, his room was the least insulated space in the flat because of some experiment Sherlock had conducted with the density of the walls before John had moved in. It was fine when the radiator was on, but now…

Okay, so his room was out. John began to explore his other options while massaging shampoo into his short hair.

The couch. That was the next potential sleeping arrangement. But with the way his shoulder had been acting up, and his back from when he slipped and fell on some ice while chasing a criminal a few days ago, the couch was deemed unfit for his current condition.

For the same reason, he couldn't sleep on the floor in front of the fireplace.

That left one option. Sherlock's bed.

It met the requirements for his shoulder and back, and the two men would provide enough body heat for each other to sleep comfortably, if they lie close enough—

No. John refused to think about that any further. But he couldn't deny the fact that he wouldn't mind sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock. He tried to convince himself it was because he hated the cold, but it was no use.

John wanted to be more than Sherlock's flatmate. More than his friend. More than his blogger. Come to think of it, no, John liked how Sherlock called him "his blogger." Especially the "his" part.

But Sherlock could never find out. It would ruin their friendship. And even if he did find out (which he probably at some point would, due to his uncanny ability to see into peoples' souls) nothing would come of it. John was saddened by the thought. Sherlock was asexual, married to his work. There was no chance in Hell they would ever be together.

Then, with a laugh to himself, John realized: he hadn't even proposed the idea of sleeping together to his flatmate yet. He had been fantasizing about him for the entire duration of his shower like a teenage girl. John was ashamed of himself.

He quickly finished washing himself and turned off the calming water, wrapping himself tightly in a towel and stepping out of the tub. He was instantly hit with a wave of freezing air, and he pulled the towel even tighter.

He dressed in striped pajama bottoms, a plain grey long-sleeve shirt, and his warmest jumper. Before leaving his room, he grabbed his pillow, not wanting to come all the way back up the stairs if he was going to be sleeping in Sherlock's bed. He could have borrowed one of the other man's, but he didn't completely trust that they were sanitary enough for sleeping.

John cautiously descended the steps to the living room as he tried to hide the chattering of his teeth. Luckily, the soft sound of Sherlock's violin drowned it out, floating through the flat like a feather caught in a breeze. He reached the bottom and spotted Sherlock, who was now standing with his back to him, gazing out the window as he played the slow song on his violin.

John leaned against the door frame, admiring the detective. The other man's back was clearly outlined by the blue dressing gown he so often wore. His shoulder blades moved smoothly as the bow danced across the strings.

Sherlock's head was tilted slightly, so that his chin rested on the instrument, and the porcelain skin of his neck peeked out from under his collar. John wondered what it would feel like to run his fingertips up Sherlock's neck, into the dark curls hanging down from the base of his skull, and draw him closer until—

"John, why are you standing there?" Sherlock said without turning around.

John tried to think of a better answer than "admiring the perfect skin of the back of your neck" but all he could manage was, "Well, I… erm… I was… I was going to…"

John sighed and Sherlock whipped around. He could see in the man's intriguing eyes that his powers of deduction were tingling.

"You came down the stairs slowly, either because you didn't want me to hear you, or your back is bothering you again. Judging by the fact you didn't quite keep up with me during my last case, I'm guessing it's your back. Also, you're wearing long-sleeved pajamas and a jumper, showing that, unlike me, you are bothered by the cold. You're holding a pillow, your pillow, so you weren't planning on sleeping in your room, most likely because you think it's too cold, so you were going to sleep somewhere down here. Your first choice would be the couch, but, as I said before, your back is hurting, so not the couch, and there is only one other option, obviously not counting the floor, which is my bed, and since I know you and your social niceties, and how it is 'polite' to ask someone before you use their things, I will save you the trouble of asking me yourself. Yes, you can sleep with me in my bed to conserve body heat because I broke the bloody radiator."

AN: Thanks for reading! There will be another chapter, possibly two if you like it :)