John's feet were cold. How odd. Sherlock's feet were always cold in bed, but not John's. It had to be freezing out for that. He pulled them closer under the duvet. At least his shoulder didn't hurt this morning. That was nice. He'd take chilled toes over that ache any day.
Sherlock was already up, and John knew he must rise soon, too. He was expected at the clinic at 10:30. So, a little time to sleep in after last night's adventures at that mad renaissance carnival from hell. At least they'd caught the forger they were after.
He stretched and sat up, yawning hugely. Rising, he half stumbled to the loo, eyes still more closed than open.
He missed the light switch the first two times he reached for it. Why did it seem lower than usual?
Not until he stood at the sink and scrubbed his hands over his tired face did he open his eyes properly and see--
Sherlock stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, wearing not only John's bathrobe but also John's face, hair, and entire body.
John spun around to stare down at his own visage. "What the--?!"
Sherlock-as-John pulled John's face into a perfectly Sherlockian look of disdain. "Guess."
"Gah! I told you not to insult that old witch, you berk!"