'Greg is letting you in on these cases because he needs you and he respects your judgement, and God knows what you'd do without them. He is doing you a FAVOUR. Can't you see that? You do NOT have the right to muck about and deduce the hell out of his personal life in front of the Yard! You are his friend, and friends don't do that to each other.' John seethed with all the power and strength of the military captain that he used to be, but his voice was scarily quiet.

Sherlock briefly flicked his eyes up from his microscope, where he was analysing the types of grass found in different parks of London, to see John fuming in the doorway of the kitchen. He looked back towards the eyepiece. Despite all that high-functioning sociopath stuff, he had learnt some things from John. One of which was that a loud, angry John could be shouted down. Another one of which was that an angry John who had gone past the point of shouting was best left to cool down by himself. Sherlock huffed quietly.

'Are you even taking in what I'm saying? Greg asked for an apology – quite rightly too – and he is perfectly within his rights to ban you from cases until you give him one! He has enough problems at home, there's no need to exacerbate them by letting his colleagues know how many lovers his wif-'

'Yes, thank you John, you've made your point quite clear. I'm sure Lestrade will come round soon enough, when he can't solve any cases because his team is too idiotic to see what's staring them in the face.' Sherlock was beginning to lose his patience with John's diatribe.

'You-' John just stared at Sherlock, his mouth slightly open. He shut it again with a click of his teeth. 'You're actually not going to apologise, are you?'

'No, John. Well observed.' Sherlock sneered back at him. He really needed to concentrate on this cataloguing – many cases required up to date, seasonal knowledge of the precise origins of different organic matter in the city. 'Currently, I have several experiments I can do, and I estimate that it will only take four and a half days before Lestrade comes back to me, asking for help. Perhaps only four, if you invite him to the pub and talk him round a bit.'

'You do realise I'm NOT going to support you in this? You were completely wrong to say that to his face, let alone in front of his team, and you deserve all the grief you get for it. I've a right mind to invite him to the pub and explicitly tell him not to give you any cases for at least a month.'

At this Sherlock paused, holding a slide in one hand. 'You wouldn't. What would you do for a month? There are only so many snivelling children and cases of thrush a man can handle. You would get horrendously bor-'

'What!? This isn't about me! This is about you and your idiotic brain not thinking about what you say before it comes out of your bloody mouth! I'm quite capable of keeping myself occupied, because I have some sense of social skills and can KEEP SOME FRIENDS. Besides, I enjoy being a doctor and helping people. Because I am not a selfish, stubborn git like someone sitting in front me who apparently does not care that he has made a complete cock-up of things!'

Sherlock simply sighed. This was really getting tedious. If Lestrade had not been so rude about Sherlock stealing his IDs (it was his own fault – if a Detective Inspector couldn't tell when his pockets were being invaded then he shouldn't blame whoever took the opportunity to do so), and he hadn't been so inept that he'd taken days to get Sherlock all the evidence (during which time, obviously, Sherlock hadn't eaten or slept properly, too busy trying to work out the answer without all of the facts) then Sherlock wouldn't have snapped at him. He was quite proud of that deduction actually, when he realised that the creases in Lestrade's suit meant that he couldn't possibly have slept o-. He realised John had returned to his speech.

'-to go out before I do something I'll regret, and I expect you to have come up with an apology. I'm sure somewhere in that great big mind palace of yours you've got something which tells you how to do it.'

Sherlock just ignored him.

'Sod this.' John turned on his heel, and marched towards the door, not even bothering to pick up his coat, despite the brisk autumn chill. He knew Sherlock could be an annoying git, but this really took the biscuit. He'd truly thought Sherlock held some sort of respect for Greg, who risked his job to give Sherlock something to occupy his mind and to get criminals off the streets. Apparently not.

As John slammed the door to their Baker Street flat behind him, he shivered slightly, despite his raging anger. He couldn't go back in to get his coat though, so he'd just have to find somewhere warm to wait it out. Like a pub. Luckily he had his phone and wallet in his back pocket, so he started heading towards a nearby one to calm down a bit.

[5 hours later]

Sherlock emerged from his trance-like state on the couch (he had been filing away the results of his experiment into his mind palace, which now had an extra patch of lawn outside the living room window) to the sound of his phone ringing.

'John, my phone.' Sherlock thought he'd last seen it on the kitchen work surface, by the kettle. Much too far to bother getting up to fetch himself.

He heard no response from his flatmate. 'John, I need my phone!' he shouted, more forcefully than the first time, but there was still no movement from the rest of the flat, just the faint clinking of china from Mrs Hudson's flat downstairs as she made tea to go with her evening herbal soother.

As Sherlock listened, he realised that there was no noise at all to indicate that John was in the flat – so where was he? ….Oh. Right. He remembered now. John had gone out to try and get rid of some of his anger towards Sherlock. But he should have been back hours ago, shouldn't he? He hadn't had a coat after all, and even John wouldn't spend this long in the pub. He was interrupted from his musings by his phone ringing again. Thinking it could be John, Sherlock huffed in annoyance and swung his legs off the coach, his blue silk dressing gown floating out behind him. Stepping over the coffee table (why walk around it, when you could go over it!?), he made a beeline for the kitchen. Peering at his phone, which had shifted perilously close to the edge of the work surface with its vibrations, he saw the caller ID: Lestrade.

Sherlock smirked to himself. John must have done a splendid job apologising on Sherlock's behalf for him to contact him so soon. He picked up his phone, and said with mock irritation,

'Yes, Lestrade. What riveting case do you need my help on now?'

'No, Sherlock, I think we can do the case. It's John, I-' he paused, and Sherlock heard the rustle of cloth as he peered back over his shoulder. 'I think you really need to come and pick him up.'

'John? Is he alright? Do I need to call an ambulance? Or Mycroft, he could be there faster? Where are you?'

'Sherlock, calm down! He's not hurt, as such… look, can you just come down? I think you're the best person for this. He seems a bit… stressed.'

Sherlock had already got on his feet, slipping his shoes and Belstaff on, and was currently wrapping his scarf around his neck. On an impulse, he took John's coat off the coat hook too. He dashed down the stairs, getting the details from Lestrade as he went.