A Lesson in Time Management (Wholock)

Chapter 3: A Cold Game We Play

Set after Cold Blood and The Great Game

John sat in his armchair, newspaper folded across his lap and forgotten as he stared at his left hand closely. He had been kidnapped, held hostage and nearly blown up and shot by a madman, or a "consulting criminal" as Sherlock fancied, twice, yet there wasn't any shaking. Not even the slightest trimmer had passed through his hand during the entire fiasco. At first he had thought the adrenaline rush was what he had missed from the war, and it probably had been; but now, he was starting to suspect it was something else that calmed his nerves, something purely Sherlock.

He also contemplated why he was here, seated in this armchair across from a clearly preoccupied Sherlock, who possessed the look he always took on when deep in his pretentiously named Mind Palace, inside the main living space of 221B Baker Street. The aftermath of a traumatic experience was the perfect time to go to his current girlfriend's home and be coddled by and cuddling with a worried beauty. Yet, that was impossible as there was no current girlfriend. In fact, John hadn't accepted a single date since the night of the Yellow Dragon circus and his subsequent abrupt break-up with Sarah. She had been pretty, smart and funny, as had the rest of the girls who'd asked him out in the last month, but he hadn't been able to go out with any of them. The elusive answer as to why he couldn't say yes to any of them plagued him; not even the severed head still sitting in their fringe could take his mind off the problem.

"Brrr-ing, brrr-ing, brrr-ing". Sherlock elevated his eyelids an inch to briefly glance over at the ringing phone on the arm of the chair beside him before closing them and resting his forehead against his folded hands again.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" John asked, rubbing his temples as he felt the pressure of a headache steadily building.

"It is the British Government on the phone, and as I have no present inclinations to make a deal bartering with my soul, I think I'll just leave it be for now."

Oh no, he was not getting away with acting like that, like Sherlock- not after the day John had. "For God's sake Sherlock! We both almost just died, the cast of Stomp is rehearsing a number in my head, and you are going to answer the damn phone and talk to your brother right now, got it?"

The taller man raised his head, a biting retort prepared on his lips, but paused when he caught sight of John. Taking a few seconds to analyze his roommate, Sherlock finally nodded and quickly snatched his phone, raising it to his ear.

"Yes, brother dear, what do you require that you feel is so important as to interrupt me from my evening? I was busy waiting for John to come to a certain realization- yes, that one. It has been a long time coming and I hold high hopes that he will reach a breakthrough tonight. The wrinkles on his forehead and beside his mouth have been especially encouraging."

"Uh, what was that, Sherlock?"

"Quiet John, I'm on the phone. What are you talking about Mycroft; I have no friends. There are only arch-nemeses, annoyances, plebeians, Lestrades, Mrs. Hudsons, and Johns." Pause. "No, I don't know any doctors and John doesn't have any close co-workers at the clinic or- oh. Shit. Yes, I know him. Yes, yes, bring him here, we'll be ready." Sherlock rose after snapping the phone shut and hurried to the kitchen.

"Food, he will need food. John can get some from the market," he muttered, opening the bare cupboards in search of substance. "And... blankets. It is cool out, he is likely only in a suit- blankets are a necessity. John, are you getting all this down?"

"I'm sorry, but what the hell is going on?" John asked as he watched his usually unbelievably lazy friend flitter around the apartment, moving books from tall piles into slightly shorter stacks and stashing his long sword and prized harpoon behind the couch.